“Always,” she promised.
Barbara scrubbed the last of the egg from the plate, her hands moving with an efficiency of long practice.
“Harvey,” she began, drying her hands on the apron tied around her waist, “I need to be at the schoolhouse soon. I’ve only come out here in the dark, and I don’t know where town is from here.” They were several miles out, which wasn’t too far to walk, but it was if she didn’t know which direction she was going.
He nodded, a silent pact forming between them. “I’ll hitch up the wagon and take you. Can’t have you walking all that way.”
“I’ll walk most days,” she said. “But I will gladly accept a ride today. Thank you, Harvey.”
As Harvey readied the horses, Barbara took in the sight of the open fields that stretched out before them, dotted with the distant shapes of other homesteads.
“Ready?” Harvey called over to her, interrupting her thoughts.
“Ready,” she replied, climbing onto the wagon with a practiced grace.
As they rode towards the schoolhouse, the rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves against the dusty path mingled with the sounds of the waking wilderness. A hawk cried out overhead, circling in the limitless blue sky.
“Harvey,” she said after a while, “I appreciate you supporting me as I finish out my term at the school. Teaching the children is important to me.”
“I guess that’s why I married you, Barbara Bedwell. Your fire. Your spirit.” He reached over and squeezed her hand before turning his attention back to the road ahead.
The schoolhouse came into view, a beacon of learning amid the raw beauty of Clover Creek. After the wagon rolled to a stop, Harvey helped her down. She looked up at the building, its walls holding the promise of progress, and felt a surge of purpose. “I’m so glad we have a schoolhouse and a church now. I’m sure it was much harder to teach when everything was in one building.”
“I bet it was.” He kissed her quickly. “See you at four,” Harvey said, tipping his hat.
“See you then.” She watched as he turned the wagon around, heading back to tend to his work.
Barbara stepped into the schoolhouse and approached the chalkboard.
With a piece of white chalk pinched between her fingers, she hesitated for only a moment before she wrote in clear, bold letters. Mrs. Bedwell.
As the children began to filter in, their voices a blend of excitement and morning drowsiness, they took their seats with hardly a glance at the board. It was just another day for them, filled with reading, writing, and arithmetic. Only the Bedwell siblings, sitting together in the middle of the classroom noticed. Their whispers reached Barbara’s ears, carrying questions and curiosity.
At noon, the children went outside with their lunches, while Barbara waited for her mother, who arrived carrying a basket covered with a red-checkered cloth.
“Ma,” Barbara said, her voice barely above a whisper as she met her mother halfway to the schoolhouse. They settled beneath the shade of an old oak tree.
“Barbara,” her ma replied, “how are you doing?”
Barbara fiddled with the hem of her apron, the cotton worn thin from work and worry. “I don’t know, Ma. Did I do right by marrying Harvey so quickly? Sometimes it feels like it was the only thing I could do, and then others, I feel like I should have waited for Pa’s approval.”
Her ma set the basket down. “Remember, survival isn’t only about living—it’s about holding tight to what brings you joy. If that’s Harvey, if that’s teaching, then you’ve made the right decision.”
Barbara looked up, her gray eyes pools of confusion. “Thank you, Ma,” she said. “I needed to hear you say that.”
“Anytime.” Her ma patted her hand. “I brought some of the produce you and I grew together and put up together to get you started. And don’t worry, I’m working on your pa. He’s stubborn, but he’ll see what you did was right.”
Barbara felt her spirit bolstered by her ma’s reassurance.
After they’d eaten, Mrs. Williams led her to the wagon, which was laden with the bounty of the garden, baskets with fresh fruits and vegetables and jars of preserved fruits. It had to have been more than half of what they’d put up together, and Barbara couldn’t help but feel relieved. There would be food on the table, even if there was little money.
“Children,” Barbara called out to the pupils playing tag in the schoolyard, “come lend a hand!”
The youngsters rushed over with a helpful eagerness that only the very young seemed to possess. They formed a line, passing zucchini and tomatoes, beets and carrots with outstretched arms and giggles. Each jar of apple butter or beans was treated as treasure as it made its way from the wagon to the coat room, where it would wait until school was over.
“Careful with those,” Barbara warned as small hands gripped a jar of peaches. “They’re precious as gold out here.”
“More precious,” quipped Tommy, his grin wide as the horizon. “Gold don’t fill your belly.”
