Love by the Letter (5 page)

“Did I hear Patsy say cookies earlier?” Rachel’s father poked his balding head through the door and smiled. “Good afternoon, Dex.”

Dex tried not to sigh with relief at the interruption. “I’m sorry, Mr. Oliver, but the snickerdoodles Rachel baked are gone.”

Rachel shook her head as if to clear it. “Sorry, Papa. Patricia ran off with them.”

“You made the cookies?” Mr. Oliver’s smile disappeared, and a bushy eyebrow popped up.

“Yes.” Why did she look so sheepish?

“But you never make cookies.” Rachel’s father put his hands behind his back and shifted his bulky weight to one foot. “You never bake for that matter.”

She shrugged. Her eyes followed her fingers playing with the lampshade fringe again. “Allen ate my lemon drops.”

“What happened to the horehound I gave you yesterday? Don’t tell me you ate all of them without sharing.”

“No, I just felt like . . . having something different.”

Mr. Oliver turned his way. “So she gave you snickerdoodles? Fresh baked?”

Dex cleared his throat and looked at Rachel, who’d turned several shades of pink. “Yes, sir.”

“I see.” And then he smiled. “You don’t happen to have any more in the kitchen?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, Neil grabbed two handfuls the moment they came out of the oven. It’s like he’d never eaten a cookie before.”

“Well, my women aren’t known for their baking skills.”

Rachel slunk lower in her chair.

“Unless they’ve got a special reason to turn on the oven.”

And she turned red again.

“No reason. I . . . uh . . . didn’t want to share my candy is all. Well, besides with you, Papa.” She clamped her lips tight and looked to the ceiling. “I’ll make another batch tonight.”

“Ah, no need. No need.” He scanned the table littered with closed books with a smile. “How are the lessons going?”

Dex clamped down on the inside of his cheek and stared at Rachel. What would her answer be? Any sane person would have given up on him already, but she’d defended his intelligence. Had he been wrong about her this whole time? Could he fail academically, yet still be competent in her eyes?

“As well as can be expected. I won’t be able to help him improve much before he leaves, but then . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “His life doesn’t depend on it either.”

Dex swept back the infernal lock of hair that always fell in his eyes. Maybe his life didn’t depend on him writing a decent letter, and maybe some woman could look past his spelling . . . but a woman who’d never met him?

“Huh.” Mr. Oliver peered at him over his spectacles. “So you’re still leaving?”

Dex frowned. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

Mr. Oliver gave a pointed look at Rachel, then at him, wrinkling his forehead by raising both eyebrows. “Oh, I don’t know.” He placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “I’m going up to your room for a handful of your horehound.”

“Sure, Papa.” Once he exited, Rachel leaned toward him, but didn’t meet his eyes. “We don’t bake sweets because Papa won’t stay out of them.”

Dex kept his gaze on her until she looked up. And when she did, her normally rosy cheeks colored a bit more.

Could a smart girl like her really have feelings for a man like him?

No, Mr. Oliver’s crazy questions and her blushes didn’t mean what his brain was trying to twist them to mean. Patricia had said Rachel didn’t intend to marry. But why? Didn’t all women want to? Of course, not many men wanted to marry someone smarter than the whole town put together. A woman like that would be rather independent, not to mention downright intimidating.

But what if Rachel had made him cookies for some reason other than hospitality?

When she glanced back at him, he loosed the slow smile he plied on little girls to make them giggle.

Rachel ducked her head and grabbed the book in front of her as if it was a life line. “Perhaps we should quit these lessons entirely. Neil would tutor you in Kansas, I’m sure.”

“No.” He let his tongue slide across his teeth. Maybe he couldn’t improve in a week, but he could see if Rachel fancied him. “I mean, I’d like to continue. To learn as much from you as I can. I really don’t know why this is so hard for me, but you’re my best chance at learning.” And spending time with her would help him decipher her feelings for him.

She didn’t say anything.

Maybe he was misreading this whole situation. “Since I’ve never had the nerve to admit my problems to anyone besides family, I think I should try to see how this goes. I’ll work hard every night.”

“If that would make you happy.” She didn’t look thrilled.

He glanced at the algebra book, then the letters and symbols scrawled on the papers poking out from underneath the heavy textbook. He’d interrupted her math studies earlier, though she claimed she was solving the equations for fun.
Fun.

If she did feel something for him, would it be right to hold such an intelligent woman captive on the prairie, keeping her from ever going to school?

Maybe Rachel would be willing to correspond with him while in college. If she could handle years of his atrocious spelling, then she
could handle anything. He could put off writing a mail-order bride again if she—

Mail-order bride
. He rubbed his hand down his face. Her tense posture and firm pout as she studied the bookshelf across from her made him grit his teeth.

If her father’s hinting and her fidgeting indicated she liked him, he’d ruined any chance he had by telling her the real reason he’d wanted these lessons.

How stupid could he be?

Rachel slid the last hot snickerdoodle onto a plate, then poured coffee in her father’s favorite mug. The fading beams of the setting sun lit her way to the parlor where her mother always played their favorite songs every evening.

Patricia tatted by the light of the brightest lantern, her shuttle racing with quick second-nature movements. Neil sat with his feet propped on the hassock, their tabby curled on his outstretched legs, and Papa rested his head against his chair, soaking in the familiar runs of Mozart.

The plunk of the plate on the side table stirred Papa from his reverie. He turned and smiled at the pile of fresh-baked dessert. “For me?”

Neil straightened in his chair, his eyes locking on the cookies.

“Yes, but you’re going to have to eat fast before Neil gets them.”

Her brother shoved the cat off his lap, hopped out of his chair, and grabbed a handful of cookies. “Night.”

Her father chuckled. “Night, son.”

Patricia sighed and put her work in a basket. “I can’t do any more, so I’ll turn in too. But I won’t steal any of your cookies, Papa.” She kissed his receding hairline, then shuffled out of the room with an exaggerated yawn. “Good night.”

Rachel picked up the cat and took Neil’s chair beside her father.

“Something must be wrong if you’ve made cookies a second time in twenty-four hours.”

She gave her father an obligatory grin. “I suppose it’s silly of me to wish to be a plain ol’ housewife when I’m averse to cooking.”

Papa leaned over the arm of his chair and twisted up the wick of the lamp glowing dull beside him. “Now hold on a minute. You’ve got too good a head on your shoulders to be a regular housewife.”

“But what if that’s all I want to do?”

The strain of Mozart abruptly stopped. “What did you say, honey?”

Rachel took in a deep breath. Momma wouldn’t want to hear this, but since Papa would inform her later, she might as well air every doubt now. “I’m not certain I want to go to school. If I want to marry, then—”

“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been studying languages, mathematics, and literature since you could read and write, and Elmira accepted you two years ago. We could have used the money we set aside for your tuition to buy a bigger printing press and probably earned enough by now to cover your expenses twice over.”

“Now, Ava. Don’t blame her. I could have bought some more property or expanded my inventories as well, but we decided together to save it for Rachel. We didn’t know how well my paper would grow then.”

Momma slid to the end of the piano bench, her ramrod spine held up by a corset cinched as tightly as Patricia could ratchet. “I haven’t insisted before, but it’s time for you to go. You can find someone to marry when you finish.”

“I’ll be an old maid in four years.”

“Do you have a beau, love?” Papa asked whisper-soft.

Rachel sniffed. “No, Papa.”

Momma crossed her arms. “You can find a beau in New York, a better man than any around here.”

“At a woman’s boarding school?” Rachel couldn’t look at Momma. “Just because a man lives in New York, it doesn’t mean he’s better than . . . anyone around here. Papa never lived in New York, and you married him before he had money.”

“Papa’s an exception. He’s a hard worker with a good head on his shoulders.”

“Exactly.” Rachel smirked, just a little. She wouldn’t point out the flaw in Momma’s argument. “But if I do go, I want to attend Mary Sharp’s in Tennessee.”

Momma’s mouth closed and opened. Then she shrugged. “We’ll think about it.”

“But I’m not sure I should go at all.” She turned to Papa. “You should buy your printing press.”

“I want what’s best for you, love. But what do you want? You’ve only ever talked about school.”

“Of course school would be stimulating, but I didn’t realize how many men would dislike me for going. I’m too smart for some of them already. If I add a degree declared to be equivalent to any male’s . . .”

“Degree or not, love, you’ll have to find a man who recognizes your intelligence and believes it’s an asset. Like that Dex Stanton fellow, he’s—”

“I’m sorry, Papa, but I haven’t found a man who thinks my mind’s an asset.” Especially not Dex, who’d rather marry a stranger over her. But she couldn’t think about that without tearing up. She could cry later, after Patricia fell asleep. “And if you had that press, you could put out more weeklies—”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t use the press but that I love you more than a brand-spanking new typeset.”

“You must go, Rachel.” Momma strode over and sat on the arm of her chair. “When I was your age, I would have given my left foot to go to college instead of a finishing school. Then maybe I could have been your literature professor. But the only true foundation for the social elevation of women is honorable employment and an independent livelihood. If no women earn degrees, they’ll stop offering them. If you don’t attend school for yourself, then do it for the women who wished they could.”

Momma smiled over at Papa. “Most fathers would be pushing you to marry, obliging someone else to support you, but we want you to find pure affection, not a marriage of pity or necessity.”

Momma pushed away the cat that insisted on a petting from the one person in the house who didn’t like her. She pierced Papa with a glare. “Right, Marion?”

Her father, who’d taken a cookie to nibble during the lecture, quickly brushed crumbs off his chest. He’d clearly not anticipated the sermon running short. “There are pros and cons to both choices, my dear. If Rachel wants to hide her intelligence from potential suitors, a college degree will not help.”

“No, Papa. I don’t want to do that.” She took her mother’s hand and gazed up into her glinting eyes. “I won’t play dumb to catch a beau. If I wanted to do that, I could have married Jedidiah Langston.
He said he’d marry me if I stopped reading books that crowded my brain, blathering on about how a wife couldn’t properly take care of a house and children if she read too much.”

Rachel couldn’t help but snort. Jedidiah hadn’t ever realized he’d insulted her mother. Besides the library, mother’s literature collection was the best in town. “But just because I don’t attend school doesn’t mean my intellect will disappear. I can still study whatever I get my hands on.”

“It’s not the same, Rachel.” Momma extracted her hands and placed them on her hips. “But I don’t understand why we’re arguing this. Are you seeing someone in secret?”

“No.”

“Has a man of good breeding and wealth caught your fancy?”

Rachel swallowed and tried not to envision Dex’s rakish smile and thick ash-brown hair. He wouldn’t pass any of Momma’s criteria. “No.”

“Then what will attending school hurt?”

“But what will it help? I’d be taking money from father’s dream to pay for your dream.” Rachel scooted against the opposite edge of the chair, putting space between them. “It’s been your dream, Momma, not mine.”

Momma’s eyebrows descended as she glared. “Of course it’s your dream. What have you been studying for?”

Rachel shrugged. “I like studying.”

“Who likes studying and doesn’t want to go to school?” Her mother scratched her head, messing up her coiffure, though she didn’t seem to notice. “Help me, Marion.”

“Well, we’re letting Neil and Patsy go off to the wilderness though I have my doubts it’s the best thing for them. Why can’t we accommodate Rachel even if it’s not our preference? She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

Momma angled her chin at Papa. “You’re not helping.”

Rachel smiled. “Thank you, Papa.”

“But love,” Papa grabbed her hand between both of his. “A man who won’t offer his hand because you have a degree isn’t worth remaining degree-less for.”

“Absolutely.” Momma slapped the back of the chair with her open palm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, but you’ve got me so flustered.” She re-situated the doily neatly across the headrest. “You
could accomplish so much more for yourself and women everywhere if you embrace the intellect, finances, and college acceptance God’s given you. How can you ignore the doors He’s opened?”

Rachel sighed. She had no marriage prospects, and she would enjoy school. This whole business with Dex was wreaking havoc with her decision-making. “You’re right, Momma. If God has a man out there for me, it doesn’t matter where I am or what I do. I’ll pray about it some more.”

With a paper bag in one hand and a book in the other, Dex stood in front of the Olivers’ front door. He closed his eyes and took in a few cleansing breaths. But the longer he stood there, the more his insides quaked.

He quit trying to gather the nerve to knock and turned to pace. If his plan failed, he’d only have to suffer one day in the same town with a woman who’d rejected his court.

But if he went through with this, he had to do it well. Not slapdash or tripping-over-himself nervous.

The creak of the front door spun him around.

Neil eyed him from head to toe. “You going in?”

He tried to make his voice work, but nothing came out, so he blinked his acknowledgment.

“Good luck.” And then Neil tromped down the stairs and walked toward town.

Dex swallowed, his necktie suddenly tight about his neck. He needed more than luck. Looking at his hands full of stuff, he could hide the items under the bench and endure his fifth lesson—trying hard to read, trying hard not to stare at his teacher like a lovesick schoolboy—or he could storm the castle with his weapons of choice. The damsel may not be in distress, but it’d sure feel nice to carry her away in his arms.

He rubbed the cover of Lily’s book. His sister-in-law had helped him riffle through her shelves yesterday looking for just the right one. She’d thought his plan would work. Now all he needed was courage on the eve of battle. He’d been brave enough to write a mail-order bride company in anticipation of pledging himself to a stranger, so showing Rachel a little of what he felt shouldn’t be making him sweat.

He dragged a sleeve across his perspiring forehead. How could he not try? Did Jesus not say one should seek in order to find, knock so the door would be opened? He’d pined after Rachel from afar, as if she were a palace door unworthy of being knocked upon by a lowly beggar. But isn’t that what God asked everyone to do? Knock, and knock constantly on the Creator and Ruler of the World’s door, though man was sinful and unworthy to touch it?

And those who delighted themselves in the Lord got the desire of their heart.

He would be happy with however God blessed him, and he had been content in the past, but he shouldn’t just wait for things to fall in his lap, right? Not if being ashamed of how God made him caused his hesitation.

God, I’ve never asked, because I’ve been afraid You’d give me that snake instead of a fish when the Bible clearly states You’re a Good Father and would never do that. But even if You don’t help me win Rachel, I know it’s not that You’re giving me a snake, You’re just . . . Well, I don’t know what, but You obviously can’t give me anything if I don’t hold out my hand.

All right then. He cleared his throat and strode toward the door Neil hadn’t quite shut. He wasn’t doing anything drastic, not really, only letting Rachel know he cared and asking if she’d write to him from school. He wouldn’t even demand she think of him as often as he would her—since that would be thirty times an hour. Or more.

Without knocking, Dex let himself in. He took a look around the foyer and glanced into the sitting room. No one. He let out his breath, shuffled to the parlor, leaned against the door jamb, and took his fill of her. The weight of those dark brown curls piled upon her head didn’t bend her creamy, long neck a fraction. Her tongue moved about her lips as they formed half-spoken words as she read, the pages turning faster than should be humanly possible.

At the turn of her sixth page, she stretched and startled. “Dex!” She folded the book in her lap. “How long have you been there?”

“A bit.”

“Spying’s not very gentlemanlike.”

“No, but I’m all right with that.”

Her forehead scrunched, and she glanced at the things in his hands. “What do you have?” Her eyes roamed, taking in the length of him. “And what are you wearing?”

“I’m dressed for the Founder’s Day activities this evening. And I’ve got candy and a book.” He took a glass bowl with a bit of ribbon candy left in the bottom off the shelf and dumped his assortment on top, then shrugged. “I didn’t know what kind you liked though.”

“So you bought several pieces of everything?” She pulled the bowl toward her and sifted through the candy with her fingers.

“Yep.” He twirled a chair across the floor and parked next to her. Sitting astride, he set down the book, crossed his arms atop the chair’s back, and gave her the smile that’d made her blush yesterday.

She dropped her eyes from his and flipped the book to look at the spine. “
Sonnets from the Portuguese
?”

“I like number six. Let’s read that one.”

“If you thought
Robinson Crusoe
was difficult, why would you attempt poetry?”

“Well, Lily said they’d be good.” And she’d read countless poems to him until number six caught his attention. But he wasn’t going to admit his sister-in-law read to him like a boy unless he had to.