His Prairie Sweetheart by Erica Vetsch

Author:Erica Vetsch
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2016-05-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

“You want to cook for us?” Elias asked.

Savannah tamped together a stack of papers, butting them against her desk. “Yes, well, mostly for your mother. As a thank-you for her help over the skunk incident.”

The windows rattled, and she shivered as the November wind struck the side of the schoolhouse. “It’s been doing that all day. We had a hard fight to keep it warm in here. If I kept the damper open too much, the wind sucked the heat right out, but if I closed it, the fire went out.”

“It’s a fine line sometimes, depending on which way the wind is blowing.”

She studied him, trying not to be obvious, trying not to admit that she’d missed seeing him. After a month of being together every Saturday, visiting all her students’ homes, she hadn’t talked to Elias in weeks. Today he had a scarf around his throat and the stubble of a couple days’ growth of whiskers on his cheeks.

“How’s your coal holding up? It’s one of the things I came by to check on.” He used his teeth to pull his gloves off, and held his hands out to the stove.

“We’ve made a dent in the coal store, but there’s still quite a bit left. Mr. Rosedahl stopped in earlier this week to check on it. He thought it would last through Christmas at least.” Savannah tucked the papers into her grade book and put the book into her satchel. She’d read and review them tonight after supper.

“How’s the teaching going?” Elias turned from the stove and unbuttoned his coat. He reached inside and pulled out a crinkled yellow paper.

“Good, better than I imagined it would when I started.” She chuckled. “Though the children’s English is coming along much faster than my Norwegian. The singing helps. Somehow I can remember the words better when they’re put to music.”

He surveyed the room. “Where’s your harp?”

“I had to take it back to the Halvorsons’. There’s no heat here at night, and the fluctuations in temperature aren’t good for it. If you just look at a harp wrong it falls out of tune.” She tipped her head. “What’s bothering you? Is it that paper?”

He shrugged and nodded. “It’s from Tyler. Bad news. Mr. Birk, the teacher for the parochial term, can’t make it to Snowflake this term. His horse bolted on him up near Big Stone Lake and flipped him out of his buggy. He’s got a broken leg and some broken ribs.”

“Oh, the poor man.”

“Yeah, poor him and poor me. Tyler says I need to teach the parochial term.” Rubbing his hand down his jaw, Elias handed her the telegram. “He says to work out the time with you, but the last two weeks before Christmas break might be best.”

He sounded so grim a chill that had nothing to do with the weather raced across Savannah’s skin. “That’s as good a time as any. Are you worried about teaching?”

“No. I can handle that.” He picked up one of the new readers off a desk and thumbed through it, set it down and moved to the globe, giving it a spin.

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