Five Golden Rings

Judith O'Brien

One

"Miss Graham! Miss Graham!" The child raised her hind so high, with such ferocity, that Emma Graham had a mental image of her boring a hole into the ceiling.

"Yes, Jennifer K." Emma smiled. The half-dozen children who had not been called upon emitted the usual groan of disappointment.

Jennifer K., so labeled to distinguish her from the four other Jennifers in the first-grade class, preened the moment her name was called.

"I would like to be a Christmas angel," she announced, flipping her hand through her long blonde hair.

"Very nice, Jennifer K. I'll be sure to make a note of that should the need arise.

Emma had become an expert at judging the children in her classroom. Every class had a Jennifer K., the pretty girl all too aware of her own beauty.

This class was no exception. There was also the class clown, the smart kid, the tomboy with more skinned knees than all of the other kids combined, and so on.

Only one child didn't fit this year, the new boy, an enigma to her as well as to the other children. In her five years of teaching, she had never had a student like this one.

Today, as usual, he sat very still, with his hands folded on top of the desk. He was too quiet for a six-year-old, his eyes were too solemn.

According to the principal his mother had died when he was still an infant. Emma had made a half-dozen attempts to contact his father, but either the messages never reached him or he had not bothered to respond. The boy's nanny always brought him to school and picked him up. He never went home with another child, never had play dates or party invitations at the end of the day.

Although there were plenty of children of divorce in her class, the new boy was the only child who'd had a parent die. The children sensed this difference and had avoided him since his first day. This was an unspoken fear a feeling among the children that such misfortune just might be contagious.

Emma resumed speaking to the students. "I have divided the class into three groups. Some of you will be Hanukkah, some of you Kwanza, and the rest of you will be the Twelve Days of Christmas."

As if on cue, a universal moan and cheer swept the classroom like a stadium wave. The excitement was almost palpable. Christmas was a mere three weeks away. Toy catalogs had been making their way into the classroom, green and red construction paper was posted everywhere. Even the grumpy school custodian, with his ever-present push broom now decorated with wisps of tinsel was seen sporting a red Santa hat. By mid-January he would be complaining about the holiday glitter embedded in every carpet and corner, but for now he joined all the rest of the school in a frenzy of anticipation.

All except the new boy. It was hard enough to be new to a school, but to be new at this time of the year was very nearly unbearable. He was new, his mother was dead, and most unfortunate thing of all—his name was Asa.

There was no need to distinguish Asa from any other Asa in class—he was the only one. In fact, he was the only Asa in the entire school, perhaps in all of Brooklyn.

Emma tucked a strand of her coppery hair behind her ear as she bent over her desk.

"Miss Graham! Miss Graham!"

One of the Michaels was speaking. There were two Michaels, which was unusual. Usually she had at least three in each class.

"Yes, Michael R.?" She glanced at the clock. Fifteen more minutes until the final bell, and she had yet to pass out the final assignments.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

A silence fell over the room. Emma cleared her throat, accustomed to hearing that question at least once a week. During the holiday season, the question cropped up alarmingly more frequently. It was her own personal signal that the season had begun in earnest.

"No, Michael R., not at the moment. Okay, listen up, I have here a stack of letters to go home to your… Yes Bobby. What's your question?"

"Miss Graham? My parents wrestle at nights with their shirts off. I've seen them."

Emma bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Thank you for sharing that with us, Bobby. As I was saying the notes I'm passing out are to be signed by one of your parents. Each note is special, and …Yes, Sunbeam, do you have something to add?"

Sunbeam seemed surprised to have been called upon. No matter what, she always seemed surprised. Blinking she stood up next to her desk.

"My father smokes a funny-looking pipe at night."

Sunbeam's father, a former roadie for the Grateful Dead, now a Wall Street banker, also wore tie-dyed underwear, according to his daughter, and had been arrested in college. Sunbeam brought in his mug shots for show-and-tell.

"Smoking is not good for you," said Billy. "It gives you cancer and they have to cut you up and then you die."

Sunbeam's lower lip began to tremble. "But he only takes one or two little puffs. He says it makes him happy. Will my daddy die?"

"No Sunbeam. I'm sure your daddy will be just fine." Emma began passing out the notes. Asa did not move when she gave him the folded white paper.

"Asa," she said, "you get to do something very special. You get 'five golden rings.' Just bring in some old plastic curtain rings, and I'll help you paint them gold."

Slowly without looking down, he took the note and jammed it into his Power Rangers backpack.

"You have to write the note to his daddy, since his mommy is dead," chirped Jennifer K., again flicking her hair.

Emma wanted to wrap the silken hair around her little neck. Instead she ignored the comment. She had learned during her first year of teaching that sometimes the best reaction is no reaction at all.

"Okay—the bell's about to ring. The sooner you guys bring the items into class, the sooner we can begin. And remember tonight's homework—a full page of capital Js."

The bell blasted, and the children grabbed their backpacks and lunchboxes and lined up by the door. Everyone had a buddy. Except for Asa. He stood alone, the last in line.

He was always the last in line.

Emma had wanted to be a teacher ever since she herself had been in first grade. There was never any question, never any doubt. Others wanted to be teachers for the short hours and the long vacations, but for Emma, it was the teaching she adored.

On the wall of her Park Slope apartment, just three blocks from her school were class pictures of Emma and her kids. There were five photographs, neatly mounted in identical wood and acrylic frames chronicling her rise from student teacher to full teacher. It was a large, blank wall, with plenty of space for the scores of pictures that would eventually hang there.

Most of her friends from college were married now, with children of their own. Emma was content with her temporary charges and a closet full of pastel taffeta bridesmaid dresses and dyed-to-match pumps neatly lined up in  a row.

Emma collapsed onto the couch, exhausted, although it was only a little past five in the evening. She put everything she had into her job. There was nothing left at the end of the day.

It was good that she had no husband or boyfriend, she reflected. She couldn't possible gather the energy it would take to meet a guy, much less cultivate a relationship. Of course, there had been boyfriends, especially in college. Things just hadn't worked out. Nothing tragic or catastrophic. She just had never met the right guy.

Her lips curved into a small smile. Who would the right guy be? He would have to be tall, at least tall enough to balance her own five-foot-eight frame, and athletic enough to want to bicycle with her on one of her summer trips. Smart, perhaps even brilliant, with just enough idealism to soften the edges. It would be nice if he could also be handsome.

The smile became a giggle. "Yeah, right, Graham," she said to herself. "I'm sure there are tons of guys just like him, all waiting for you to make the first move."

She stood and stretched, casting her reflection in the hall mirror.

She was pretty, in an understated way, nothing flashy or showy. Perhaps that was her problem—she was too average. An average schoolteacher, in an average school, with an apartment that was functional and tidy, and average.

Suddenly her cat, a sociopathic tabby with the unoriginal name of Pumpkin, pounced on her feet.

"Okay, I'll get you dinner." She sighed and the cat immediately skittered across the floor and slid under the couch.

It crossed her mind to call up some friends and go over to Dapper Dan's, a neighborhood hangout. But it took too much effort, simply too much work to get dressed and see the same old gang over the happy hour steam table. The limp chicken wings and potato skins did not quite balance out the overpriced beer and strained conversation.

Instead, she'd spend an average evening with the cat and Peter Jennings on television. An evening like a thousand others, and a thousand more to come.

Most of the kids remembered not only their homework but their holiday projects as well. Even Asa, silent, his large eyes ever roaming, clutched a small paper bag filled with curtain rings. If he had been any other child, she would have teased him about being ready to change the words to "thirty-seven golden rings." But Asa was different. Emma simply smiled at him

It wasn't until after school was over, when the kids were gone and Emma was about to turn off the light switch, that she noticed Asa's paper bag was on the floor.

She picked up the bag and opened it. There were a few dozen old curtain rings. His father must have bought new ones when they moved. On top of the heap was a smaller hoop, already painted gold.

Curious, she pulled out the small hoop. It wasn't plastic. It was metal.

Emma brought it over the light on her desk. Not only was it metal, it seemed to be real gold. The ring was clearly an antique and had the burnished pink-gold of old jewelry. There was an inscription on the inside, but the engraved script was too worn to read.

"Funny," she muttered, placing the ring in her purse for safekeeping.

She needed to call Asa's father to let him know about the ring. Perhaps then she could find out more about the boy, ask the father if he had always been such a withdrawn child. Of course she would have to be gentle, diplomatic—a cautious path she had trod many times when speaking to parents.

Something flipped in her stomach at the thought. What was the little boy's father like? What kind of man must he be?

It was an unnerving thought.

In the end, the closest Emma came to speaking to Asa's father was leaving a message on his answering machine.

"You have reached eight three nine, seven five seven two," said a clipped impersonal voice. "Please leave a message, and I will return the call as soon as possible."

The voice wasn't unpleasant, Emma mused as she took a breath to answer. But just before she spoke, she inhaled the piece of gum she had been chewing.

"Ah, I … Hello," she choked. After a brief series of gagging sounds that resembled Pumpkin coughing up a fur ball, she was able to continue. "I'm your, ahem, ah. That's better. Hello. I'm Asa's teacher, Emma Graham, and I have…"

A beep interrupted her sentence. Was that the signal to begin speaking or end the message?

"Damn it," she snarled into the receiver.

"Hello?" it was his voice, the voice of Asa's father. "I just walked in the door, and …"

Emma did not hear anything else. She did the mature thing, had the adult reaction to being caught off guard: Emma slammed down the receiver.

"Why did I do that?" she moaned at the silent telephone.

Immediately her telephone rang. Could it be him? Oh, my God, she thought. Did he have caller identification? Had she left her number?

Hesitantly, she picked up the phone. "Hello." She used a different voice, the sultry, deep voice of someone who just woke up.

"Emma? Is that you? My goodness, you sound awful. Do you have a cold?"

Immediately she relaxed. "Oh, hi, Mom." Emma fell back against the sofa cushions. "No, I'm fine."

During the conversation with her mother, Emma kept on thinking of Asa's father and wondering what he could possibly think of her.

Emma yawned, gazing at the television as she sipped the last of her hot chocolate. Pumpkin was under th4e sofa, brutally shaking a felt mouse by its neck, bells jingling with every quiver.

Idly, she reached for her purse. The ring was there safely tucked into the zippered coin compartment.

It was a beautiful ring. Had it been Asa's mother's? No. That didn't seem right. The ring was too old and fragile to have been worn anytime recently. Whoever had worn this ring had done so for years, decades perhaps. Emma imagined an old woman refusing to part with her ring, refusing to take it off during chores and laundry and baking gingerbread for the grandchildren.

So soft, so gently worn, the ring was smooth as polished satin. Emma placed the ring on her own left hand, the vacant ring finger. So soft, so smooth.

Pumpkin emitted a high-pitched wail. Emma ignored the cat. The metal felt warm to the touch. It slid perfectly down her finger, as if it had been made for her. Her whole hand felt warm. A delicious drowsy feeling radiated up her arm and encompassed her entire body.

Emma's eyes closed. She would sleep right here on the couch, she thought to herself. She would sleep.

The mattress was lumpy.

Emma tried to fall back asleep. She was having a wonderful dream, although she couldn't recall any of the details.

An unfamiliar scent brought her back to consciousness. Something smelled of animals. Emma sat up.

"Pumpkin? Does your litter box need cleaning?"

The moment she opened her eyes, the words died on her lips.

She was in a small room. It had wide-plank floors, and there was a large wooden wardrobe in one corner. A ladder back chair with a woven cane seat stood on a rag rug.

It was a rustic bedroom, and she looked down at a handmade quilt. She could now smell straw and coffee and corn bread, the odors coming from beyond a calico curtain that hung in a doorway on a thick wood rug.

Just beyond the calico curtain she heard footsteps. They sounded thick and booted, clanking on the planks.

Embers glowed in the fireplace, but still the room was cold. Thick sheets of ice covered the window, on both the inside and the outside.

Before Emma could even react to her strange surroundings, a large hand divided the calico curtain. In stepped one of the most handsome men she had ever seen—tall superbly built, wearing a loose whit shirt and thick trousers held up by leather suspenders.

His hair was cold black, but sprinkled lightly with flecks of gray. Yet at that first, startling moment, it was his eyes that Emma noticed, brown eyes that had laughed and cried.

"The doctor says we can try again, Em." His voice had a strangely flat accent. "When the time is right we can try again."

With that he withdrew from the room as swiftly as he had entered.

One extra detail managed to filter into her mind. The man had also been wearing a ring. From a single glance she knew his matched the ring on her own left hand.

Two

Emma had no idea how long she sat in the bed, quilt tucked under her neck, eyes fixed numbly on the calico curtain.

She had heard of the term "clinical shock" before, and now she knew exactly what it meant. Time seemed suspended, and she was unable to move or speak or feel anything. Her mind numbly toiled to explain where she was. Perhaps she had been kidnapped and taken to an elaborate theme park, or she had gone overboard on this year's Pioneer Day celebration at school.

But this was real. Every detail was too perfect to be a museum or some sort of illusion. The smells were sharp and pungent, the sounds echoed. No airplanes roared overhead, no highway hummed in the distance. Somehow, Emma had traveled back in time.

Eventually she heard the man leave. He didn't say a word to her, no "good-bye" or "have a nice day" or "what the hell is a strange woman doing in my bed?" Nothing.

Little by little she took note of her surroundings. The mattress was lumpy and seemed to be filled with corn husks. The quilt she gripped in her hands was slightly faded. Every knot and stitch was visible, quaintly uneven.

There were animals outside. She could hear clucks and squawks, a vibrato  neigh. More than once she heard what sounded like a wagon rolling by. The wheels crunched snow and gravel. The drivers clicked a rein or spoke soothing words to the horse.

Finally Emma noticed a small hand mirror resting on a trunk. She jumped out of bed, slightly light-headed for a moment, and grabbed the mirror to see her reflections.

It was she, all right. Even in the dark and spotted mirror surface she recognized her own face. Her expression was one of confusion, her blue eyes reddened and a little swollen; her hair was braided and tied with strips of cloth. But it was unmistakably Emma Graham who stared back from the mirror.

A small triangle of cloth poked out from the closed trunk. Before Emma replaced the mirror, she opened the trunk to tuck it back in place.

A refreshing fragrance wafted up when she tilted the heavy lid back, a smell of flowers and springtime. On top of the neatly folded clothes were dried flowers, their stems tied with bright ribbons. Just below the ribbons was a small leather-bound book.

It was a diary. Emma knew that immediately. She began to close the trunk lid, then halted. For a moment she simply stood, barefoot in a loose cotton nightgown. Then she grabbed the diary, closed the trunk, and jumped back into the wadded warmth of the bed.

The red diary had no lock. Emma anticipated a musty smell when she opened the leaves, but the only odor she could detect was one of flowers.

The pages were clean and white. After a few blank pages, the entries began. Blue ink, crisp, precisely formed letters.

In Emma's own handwriting.

There was no mistaking it and no possible explanation. Emma had written the exact same way since junior high school, the same sharp angles, the same distinctive slant. The writer of the journal was Emma herself.

She rubbed her eyes, painful eyes that felt as if she had been crying. Then she began to read.

The writing was Emma's but these were the words of a complete stranger.

The entries began in March 1832, in Philadelphia. The writer did not identify herself, but spoke of her infant son and her husband and the journey west they were about to embark upon.

There was a strange tone to the entries, a self-conscious caution to every word. No names were mentioned. No specifics.

The baby will turn one year old on our journey. My husband hopes we will be in Indiana by then. He will begin working with Judge Isaiah Hawkins immediately. Those who have worked with my husband in Philadelphia express surprise and not a little dismay at his abrupt departure. As a lawyer, he is generally considered amongst the most promising in Philadelphia if not the entire East Coast. Yet his choice of clients is capricious as the March wind, and every bit as impoverished. He seems determined not to accept clients who can afford his worth. He longs to go west to face frontier law rather than city law. The baby frets.

The next entry was even briefer

The canals are frozen, so we wait. I know no one, nor do I wish to make anyone's acquaintance. Our fellow travelers are an appalling lot, rough and slovenly of both appearance and manner. I can only believe the further west we travel the further our surroundings will deteriorate.

A few lines described her husband's excitement. "He knows not how I feel. He will see naught beyond his own happy idealism. He wants to help others, but I fear it will be at his family's expense."

The next passage was dated Nay 1832. "The heat is fierce. I thought Overton Falls would be a town, but there are only a handful of houses. My baby would be a year old now had the Lord not called him to His side. Would he be taking his first steps?"

Emma put the journal down. There were no other entries. The other pages were fresh and blank.

"The baby died," she mumbled to herself.

Emma simply stared at the room, at the coarse furniture, the valiant attempts at comfort. Suddenly she had to get outside, to see where she was and if she could find her way home.

There were women's clothes in the wardrobe and she pulled out the warmest-looking dress she could find. There were stockings, all black and cotton and misshapen and a heavy petticoat. In the bottom of the wardrobe under scraps of cloth, were two pairs of shoes. Apparently they had both been worn for a while; both pairs were free of mud and dirt. She slipped on the sturdiest ones, black leather with thick buttons on the side and clunky soles.

Just below the clothing in the trunk were a brush and a tin box of hairpins. Theyw ere lethal-looking spiked things with a light crust of rust, as if they, too, had not been used in a long time. Emma did the best she could with her hair and was quite pleased when she shook her head and only a handful of pins tinkled to the floor.

Stepping through the doorway and into the next room, Emma was surprised at how tidy the husband had managed to keep the place.

The primitive room contained yet another fireplace—this one was cold—with a kettle on a large hook hanging from the chimney. There was a plank table and a stone sink.

Along one wall was a bench with folded bedding on the seat.

This was where he had been sleeping/

Next to the bench was a spindly pine table with a clay pipe, a pottery jar that read "tobacco," and a stack of heavy-looking books. She picked them up and examined the titles, The Columbian Orator and Blackstone's Commentaries. They seemed to be legal volumes. Although there was no paper, there was a small bottle of ink, corked and frozen and a bedraggled quill pen stained at the tip with indigo ink.

Clothing and hats hung from a peg by the door. Once she had taken her students to a period room at the Brooklyn Museum, and there had been a similar beg with carefully preserved clothes. She had explained to the children that people had no closets back then. The kids pressed their noses against the acrylic barrier, and someone pronounced it "weird." Standing now before the strange clothing, rough to the touch, she was inclined to agree with her student,

This was all very weird.

There did not seem to be any women's coats, but there was a weighty shawl. Emma assumed it was what she was supposed to wear and drew it around her shoulders.

"I'm hungry," she announced to herself, and stepped over to the sink. There was no food there. Dishes were soaking, a think layer of ice having formed over them. A red-levered hand pump was stationed over the sink. Emma gave it a few yanks but nothing happened. Using both hands she tried again. A drop of icy water sputtered out and nothing more.

Rewrapping her shawl, she was about to leave when something caught her eye,

Under the table was a wooden crib.

"Oh, no," she whispered. In the crib was a tiny quilt and a small infant's smock. Instinctively, she picked up the smock and held it to her face.

His smell was still there, the sweet fragrance of a baby. She knew it was the smell of her own child, a child she would never know. Her child, and the child of the man with the marvelous eyes.

Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground, the little shirt still pressed to her face. A feeling of loss encompassed her, such pain as to make living almost unimaginable. It came like a physical blow, as if she had been struck in the middle by a tree trunk.

A moan escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, savoring the fresh perfume of a baby.

Emma didn't hear the door open or feel the cold blast of air from outside.

"Em."

She looked up. Her husband stood on the threshold. He wore a wide-brimmed hat dusted with snow, a large dark brown overcoat that seemed to tailored and fine for their new life in Indiana.

"Em," he repeated. He took a step toward her and stopped. "You are out of bed."

She nodded and smiled., embarrassed, and refolded the smock and placed it back in the crib.

Her husband's expression remained blank as he closed the door and fastened the large wooden latch.

"Why are you wearing the horse blanket?"

She began to stand and he reached out a cold hand to assist her.

His hand, large and callused, was perfect. It wasn't the hand of a sedentary man. It was the hand of a man who would fight for what he believed in, fight for what he loved.

Part of her wanted to cry again; the other part wanted to laugh with sheer joy. This was him. This was who she had been waiting for.

Her own hand grasped his, and he looked at her with mild surprised. "You are wearing the horse blanket."

"I am?" She beamed, placing her other hand on top of his. She could feel the strength there, the warmth returning. There was a tracing of veins on the back of his hand, and she ran her thumb along the ridges.

She stopped and looked up at him.

Their faces were only a few inches apart. Although his face was unlined, he was lean, his cheekbones prominent beneath those astonishing eyes.

His skin was slightly dark, yet it was too late in the year for the color to be from the sun. In spite of his overwhelmingly masculine stance, his rugged build, his facial features were almost delicate. There was a fine patrician quality to him, a nobility she had never before seen in a man.

He was waiting for her to respond.

"I'm wearing a horse blanket because I was cold."

He did not blink. The snow on his hat remained white and fluffy. The room was cold enough for it to stay, unaltered on the brim forever.

Then he did something wondrous. He smiled. It was not an all-out guffaw grin, nor was it a flash of white teeth.

Instead, his mouth curved up slightly, and a luminous sparkle came briefly into his eyes. Then it was gone.

"Well, Em. That sure makes sense."

With that he took off the hat. Clumps of snow fell to the floor, and she stared at his hair. There was something fascinating about a man so young, perhaps in his early thirties, with so much gray in his hair. It wasn't just at the temples, where one would always imagine a young man with dark hair to gray. It was all over, silvery and thick and unrepentant.

"I'll fetch you something to eat." He shrugged off the coat and hung it on the peg. He was wearing the same white shirt and trousers he had worn earlier, only now he wore a dark slender tie, limply knotted into a bow, and a narrow lapelled coat.

She was about to comment on how nice he looked, when she realized two strange facts. One was that he, the husband, was making her a meal. Wasn't that the job of the wife?

The second fact was more disturbing. As he spoke she had been trying to place his peculiar accent. Bit it wasn't his speech, the way he formed the words, that was so odd. He seemed to have a typical eastern accent, a little more pronounced but not unusual. The odd thing was the way he spoke, the flat manner. He spoke every word without a shade of emotion. No passion, no warmth, no anger—just straightforward, methodical words.

And there was something similarly peculiar about his eyes. Other than the swift glint of humor she had seen a few moments before, they, too, were completely devoid of feeling.

There had to be a reason for his strained manner, the hesitant, precise formality. What on earth could have happened to him?

The meal passed in complete silence.

Emma was actually relieved. There was so much she wanted to ask, yet clearly she was supposed to know all the answers. There were everyday details she hadn't the faintest clue how to ascertain.

"Did you have a good day at the office?" Her voice sounded unnaturally cheerful. His head snapped up, eyes wary.

"I will most likely ride out the circuit come spring, Em. It will be the usual three-month tour, same as the one I would have ridden in autumn if… well if things had been different. Until then, we will continue to barter for all we need."

"Oh—that's not what I meant!" She swallowed the dry corn bread and took a sip of the tepid coffee. "No, I really want to know, Michael. Are you enjoying the work?"

Michael. She just called him Michael. Oh, God. Was that his name? Or had she just blurted out the most common name she could think of?

He had been about to take a bite of bread when those deep brown eyes of his leveled at hers. Slowly deliberately he placed the bread back on the pottery place.

"Why thank you kindly, Em, for your concern." There was no sarcasm in his voice, nothing at all. "I believe I will enjoy it once I start riding the circuit. Now I am beginning to prepare some small cases. Squabbles between neighbors, boundary disputes, that sort of thing."

He bent his head again and continued eating.

But was that his name?  She had to know.

"That sounds great." She cleared her throat. "Michael"

He did not react. Instead, he picked up his empty plate and mug and began to carry them to the sink.

"Oh, I'll get those. Michael."

He paused, his back stiff as he took a deep breath. Then he continued on to the sink and stacked them on to the side.

"Thank you." He then walked to the peg, where he had slipped his coat and hat. Snow was still on both.

"Good-bye. Michael." She waved uncertainly from the table.

At last he looked at her, and that strange almost-smile again played on his lips.

"Good-bye to you, Emma."

And with that he left.

She sat motionless, staring at the closed door.

Michael. Her husband's name was Michael.

Three

Her hands still stinging from the harsh soap and cold water she had used to wash the dishes, Emma decided to explore the town of Overton Falls.

She stepped from the cabin, fumbling with the large wooden latch, still wrapped in the horse blanket that Michael found so amusing. The brightness outside, the sun reflecting off the silvery snow, made her wince, as if she had not been out-of-doors for a very long time.

Instead of retreating back into the cottage, she straightened her spine and hugged the blanket closer.

"I live in Brooklyn," she muttered between clenched teeth. "I'm not afraid of Indiana."

With that, she was slammed into the ground by something large and strong that had walloped the back of her knees.

The wind was knocked fro her, as she gasped, she came face-to-face with the most horrible visage she had ever seen. Tiny piercing eyes rendered her motionless. Fetid breath engulfed her, pungent and hot.

"Jasper! You come on and join the rest!" A young man pulled the creature away from Emma.

It was a pig. Perhaps a hog. Whatever it was, it was something monstrous and unshaven from the porcine family.

"Sorry, ma'am. Jasper's just a little excited about his walk."

The boy could not have been more than twelve or thirteen. He helped her up with a bony, cold hand. Then he was gone—chasing Jasper and a half-dozen other pigs down the street.

She regained her limited composure while her eyes adjusted to the blinding white. The view before her caused her to take a step back,

It was a small village, with wagons and dogs wandering through the street, a bustle of activity within yards of the cabin. Apparently no one had noticed her run-in with Jasper the perambulating pig. Or if they had noticed it, no one seemed to think it out of the ordinary in this strange little town.

Each of the dozen or so buildings had smoke puffing from its chimneys. Some were clearly homes, and one, set back in suburban splendor was surrounded by a grand whit-washed fence. The other structures were close to the unpaved road. There were tradesmen's signs on a few, painted boards, squeaking as they dangled on their hinges. All seemed to have been rendered by the same hand—clear and neat, free of any artistic pretenses. On one sign a letter had been omitted. Instead of painting the entire sign over, the missing letter had been squeezed above the word, a tiny arrow pointing to the correction.

An open door just yards away revealed a blacksmith's shop; the constant clanking and pinging of the two workers was inescapable as it echoed through the streets. She walked slowly, trying not to draw attention to herself, yet mesmerized by all she saw.

A pair of children ran through the streets, laughing and pulling a smaller child on a sled. Why weren't they in school?

The wind whistled between the buildings, unhindered, as if on the open prairie. There were no tall buildings to buffer her from the cold, no smoky car exhausts of steaming manholes. The feeling of frigid, unheated air could not be forgotten. There was no escape from winter—not even a temporary reprieve—until spring.

She walked toward the center of the town, a fork in the road where horses were tethered and wagons were being loaded.

The other pedestrians were beginning to stare at her. The women huddled closer to each other, bonnet brims concealing their expressions as they spoke in hissing urgency, pausing only when they passed Emma. The men offered nods and hesitantly tipped their hats, fancy hats and plain, fur-trimmed and knit.

A clapboard building had a sign in golden lettering.

Zollers' Fine Dry Merchandise, and Emma entered. She felt warm inside, warmer than she had been since waking up in the cottage.

For a few moments she saw dancing spots, then gradually the interior of the store became clear.

It was a large single room. In the center was an iron stove, the source of the glorious heat. The walls were painted as a gently blue-gray, and every inch of space contained shelves or barrels or open burlap bags.

The shelves were packed with pottery and china. Although the blue and white china was lovely—delicate and translucent—the pottery was fantastic, rough but imaginative.  A glazed candlestick doubled as a ring holder, and a jug was covered with paintings of elves and wood creatures.

Emma reached out a finger to touch the jug.

"Ah-em," rasped a male voice.

She jumped. An older gentleman in a canvas apron gave her a courtly bow.

"Good morning, ma'am. I am so pleased to find you up and about at last."

Emma gave him what she realized must have been a blank stare, and he continued.

"I am Hans Zoller, proprietor of this establishment. I am well acquainted with your husband, ma'am, and I believe I can speak for all of Overton Falls when I say how proud we are to have a man of his ability among our citizens.

"Oh?" Emma smiled uncertainly. "He is quite a guy, isn't he?"

"Why, yes." Mr. Zoller nodded. "He has managed to stop an out-and-out war here, he has. I have not a doubt that had it not been for your husband, there would have been bloodshed on the fair streets of Overton Falls. You mark my words."

She wanted to know more, to ask for details, names, anything that might help her understand Michael. Perhaps then she could understand why she was there.

Instead, she turned her attention back to the shelf. "What lovely pottery." There. That seemed appropriate. No one in Overton Falls could fault her for being overly bold.

Mr. Zoller made a strange face, one of sympathy. Emma did not see it. When he spoke, she had no idea that anything was amiss.

"Yes, ma'am. That pottery was made right here in the Falls by the Larsons. They live just yonder past the Hungry Boar Tavern."

"How nice," she replied, staring at more objects. There was a shelf holding a hideous tea set in a gruesome shade of greenish silver. Mr. Zoller followed her gaze and pointed with pride.

"That is genuine lusterware, straight from St. Louis." He beamed. "It's pottery, but glazed to look like the finest silverware in the world. Fit for royalty, it is."

Emma again smiled. There was no reason for her to be in the store. Just as she was about to leave, she turned to ask him a question. This was important. She had to make it good.

"Thank you, Mr. Zoller. By the way, what is the easiest way to get to my husband's office? My sense of direction is terrible." She hoped the dazzling smile would make the question seem perfectly rational.

Mr. Zoller's face remained impassive. "Why I reckon just walk outside, up Main Street a house or two, and you will see the shingle with Judge Hawkins's and your husband's names."

"Thank you." She tightened the blanket around her. It was then that she spotted the blue spongeware bowl filled with old lemons. It was peculiar, a bowl of lemons that looked worse than anything she had ever discovered in her vegetable bin at home.

Again, the experienced shopkeeper saw her curiosity. "Have you ever seen those before, ma'am? Real oranges! They're special, of course. Only get them on the holiday."

"The holiday?"

"Yes, ma'am. Christmas is just shy of a fortnight away."

"Christmas," she repeated. "Oh, thank you."

The moment she left the store a gray-haired woman scurried into the room.

"Well, Hans! Tell me—tell me all about her! Did you see what she was wearing? Been here well on a half year and she hadn't ever been out of her bed. That poor man does it all, man's work and woman's work. What did she say?"

"Calm down, woman."

For thirty years he had stood by her side, ever patient with her gossipy ways. She was a good woman, just given to idle chatter.

His wife knew when to wait. She busied herself with rearranging the rock candy as Hans stared out the window. At last he spoke.

"Poor woman," he whispered. "Don't know as I've ever seen a young lady so distraught over the death of her young one."

"That's not all!" His wife fairly danced to his side, unable to keep her tidbit to herself for a moment longer. "They say the husband's a strange one as well. He's part savage—Delaware, I think. Did you know that? Old Emil Jenkins swears he heard him talking Delaware to a pack of Indians on their way to the reserved land."

Mr. Zoller wasn't surprised. There was an intensity to the young man that set him apart. Although the storekeeper was interested in his wife's information, he refused to admit it. Should he express an ounce of curiosity, he would never be able to keep her quiet.

"Hush, woman," he growled/ She paused, and he gave her an affectionate wink. "What do you say we sample some of that new cider?"

Emma wasn't feeling every well. Perhaps it was the cold, or the fact that she hadn't eaten since tat small bit of corn bread earlier in the day, or the unfortunate run-in with Jasper the pig.

She saw the shingle. On top, in bold letters, it said Judge Isaiah Hawkins. In smaller letters it read Michael Graham, Attorney at Law.

So her last name hadn't changed, She was Emma Graham in Brooklyn and she was Emma Graham in Overton Falls.

This was too much, all too fast and too strange. She was standing in the middle of a prairie town in 1832, sporting a horse blanket and uncomfortable shoes, married to a stranger.

"You all right, Mrs. Graham?" It was the voice of a young woman. Emma felt an arm reach around her shoulders, a strong arm. "Want me to take you over to Mr. Graham? He's just yonder."

"No. Please." Suddenly Emma did not want him to see her like this. She needed to think, to catch her breath.

"Come with me, then, I'll bets alls you're wanting some vittles. Come with me, Mrs. Graham."

Emma allowed the young woman to half-carry her to a cabin. They passed the waver's shop, then a place with a large wheel in front that Emma assumed was a wheel maker's and The Hungry Boar Tavern. Finally, they turned to a cottage even smaller than the one she shared with Michael.

If the other cabins were rustic, this one was downright primitive. There were two chairs in the single room, and the young woman shooed what appeared to be a small bear cub off one of the chairs before easing Emma into the seat. The room was musty, and a layer of dirty grime seemed to cling to every surface.

"There you go Mrs. Graham."

Emma got a clear look at the woman now, as clear as was possible in the dark cabin. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, and quite stout. There were very few stout people in Overton Falls, at least judging from what Emma had seen of the town. The business of day-to-day survival must have kept extra weight off most of the citizens.

Her dark hair was straight, parted in the middle and halfway down her back. Her dress was made from chamois, loose and stained.

"I'm Rebecca Larson, Mrs. Graham. My husband and me, we make all the pottery here in town."

"I've seen it." Emma sat up. "It's wonderful!"

Rebecca Larson shrugged her shoulders, a shy dismissive gesture. "We try, ma'am. He makes the pottery and I do all the painting. He's gone just now, tending to his brother in St. Louis. He'll be back in a piece. I'm here alone with our little boy."

Emma then noticed the little boy in the corner, sound asleep.

"He's all tuckered out, ma'am," Rebecca Larson explained, smiling fondly at her son. "Played all morning and now he'll sleep. Can I get you some of the stew in the kettle?"

The fragrance was marvelous, the smell of a luscious dish that had been simmering for hours.

"Oh, that would be great." Emma tried to keep the eagerness from her voice.

Rebecca Larson moved with surprising swiftness. After spooning some stew into a pottery bowl, she placed it on the small table, gestured for Emma to pull up her chair, and handed her a wooden spoon.

Emma was halfway through the dish before she realized that Rebecca had calmly seated herself on the floor, cross-legged as she watched her guest eat. No napkin had been offered.

She also could see the bowl itself better now, and was startled by the beauty of it. Although the shape was flat and unremarkable, the ornate designs were nothing short of fantastic. There were figures of dancers and animals and magnificent flowers, all twined around a star. Rebecca had used only one shade of paint, a subtle blue. Yet the dish seemed to explode with vibrant life.

"This dish"—Emma pointed with her wooden spoon—"it's beautiful. You painted it?"

Rebecca nodded. "Just the other day. It's my newest one."

Emma finished her meal in appreciative silence. The stew was delicious and Rebecca was clearly pleased when Emma mentioned it.

"Thank you, ma'am." It was difficult to tell, but she seemed to blush in the dim light of the cabin. The windows were shuttered, and the only illumination came from the glow of the fireplace.

After a second helping Emma was beginning to feel human.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Larson," she apologized. "But that was about the best stew I've ever had."

"The secret is to cook it a good long while." She took Emma's plate and motioned to the kettle.

"Oh, no thank you. I'm full." Emma took a deep, satisfying breath. "I really don't know what I would have done without your help."

"Aw. It ain't nothing." Rebecca Larson smiled, and Emma realized she was quite pretty. "I don't know what we would have done without your husband, Mrs. Graham."

"Really?" Emma leaned forward, wanting to hear more.

Rebecca thought she understood. "I don't suppose you know all that's been going on here, you being sick for so long and all."

"No. I'm afraid I have no idea."

For a few long moments, Rebecca did not speak. The sounds form the outside seemed distant, and Emma wrapped the blanket more firmly around her shoulders.

"You see, Mrs. Graham, me and Walter, we are plain people. We don't ask for nothing from nobody. We make pottery, good pottery. I can take you back yonder someday and see our work shed, if you want."

When Emma nodded in eagerness, Rebecca smiled a genuine smile. "You are a lot like him, Mrs. Graham."

"Like Walter?"

"No, ma'am. Like your husband."

"I am?"

"Yes, ma'am. It don’t' bother your husband none to be in here with us, or to let us walk into his workplace just like anyone else. Other people in town ain't like you. They want us to leave, They are happy enough to use our potter, because it's good and it's cheap and when Mr. Zoller sells it to them, they can almost forget where it came from."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Larson. I'm a little confused here. Why on earth wouldn't they want you to live in Overton Falls?"

"Your husband hasn't told you?"

Emma shook her head.

"Mrs. Graham, my Walter and me and our boy, Well, we're part Indian." Rebecca lowered her eyes.

It took a moment for Emma to realize that was it, the reason the good citizens of Overton Falls wanted them to leave.

"Why, I think that's just fine, Mrs. Lawson," Emma said softly. "You should be very proud of your heritage. It's noble and magnificent, and nothing to hide from the world."

Rebecca remained silent for a long while, and when she looked up at Emma, there were tears in her eyes. "You are a lot like him. He's trying to make it against the law for us to be driven out of town. The whole reason we had to move here in the first place is because of something called the Removal Act. Mr. Graham says that's why all these people from out east were allowed to take our reserve land. We had no place else to go. You are a whole lot like him, Mrs. Graham."

A strange warmth spread thorough Emma's midsection, a sense of wonder at what Michael was doing, a sense of pride at what he was attempting to do.

Another emotion began to rise, every bit as unfamiliar to her. She realized that after a few short hours he was beginning to fall in love with Michael.

"Mrs. Larson," Emma said. She suddenly felt breathless and giddy—she wanted to see Michael. She wanted to do something for him. "Mrs. Larson," she repeated, her voice a little more even. "May I have that stew recipe? I would love to make it for Michael."

Rebecca Larson stood up, her face a ray of happiness. "Of course you can, Mrs. Graham! It's simple enough. I can't write none, but I'll tell you it. Now the most important thing to remember is to cook it a long time."

Emma nodded.

"Add whatever vegetables you got in the house. But with possum meat, you got to cook it good and long so the gristle don't stick in your teeth."

"Possum?" Emma's voice cracked.

"Yes, ma'am. Sometimes I throw in a little squirrel just for the flavor. You can make the stew with just about any critter you got. Stick it in a big pot, skin and all and cover it with some water. Now when the broth begins to bubble…"

The cabin door flew open, bringing a thankfully clean gust of air.

"Em?" Michael stepped toward her. "Mrs. Zoller told me you were out, Em, and that she saw Mrs. Larson bring you over here."

His voice had a new tone to it, gentle and soft. He reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Let me take you home, Em. You look tired." His large arm wrapped about her shoulders as he pulled her to her feet. Yet she was still under his arm, in his embrace.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Larson, for taking care of my wife."

"It pleasured me, Mr. Graham. Oh—would you like to take some of my stew home? Mrs. Graham took a real shine to my possum stew."

Emma felt Michael start, then recover. "She ate the… well. Why, thank you, Mrs. Larson. I'd be much obliged."

The sound of the stew being sloshed into a bucket was almost Emma's undoing. Michael sensed it and whisked her out of the door.

Now the people in the streets did not bother to hide their stares. The sight of Michael, a steaming wooden bucket in one hand and his pale wife in a horse blanket under the other arm, leaving the half-breed Larson's cabin was enough to cause a minor riot.

Emma snuggled closer to Michael. She glanced up at him. He wore a strange expression on his handsome face, rigid and set, his jaw so tight she could see a muscle working. His eyes were focused straight ahead.

"Are you angry?" It hurt to ask, but she had to know.

He maneuvered her around a cart, stopped her from stepping right into the path of a pair of horses, not answering until they were safely across the street.

"Angry?" She saw him swallow. "Nah, Em. I'm not angry." Michael seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "You just ate possum in the cabin of a half-breed. You took their hospitality when no one else will even acknowledge their existence."

Then he looked down at her. His eyes had a strange sheen, an inner glow, and Emma stopped breathing.

Suddenly he pressed his lips to her forehead, warm, dry lips that seemed to touch her very soul.

"Oh, Em," he whispered. "I'm so very proud of you."

And he smiled.

Four

She couldn't wait for him to return from his office.

After Michael made sure Emma was safely home, he went back to work, promising to be back well before supper.

"I hope you don't get tangled in rush-hour traffic," she called just as he opened the door to leave.

He gave her an enigmatic smile, adjusting the brim of his hat over his eyes. "Thank you, Em."

The smile faded as he turned, shaking his head in confusion.

Four hours later, Emma sat on the bench by the fire, standing up to peer through the window whenever she heard a noise outside. The brilliant afternoon faded to dusk, a brief gentle glow before darkness forced her to light an oil lamp.

The snow had begun to fall in earnest now, muffling some sounds, amplifying others.

At last the door opened. Michael's face was reddened from the biting cold and he blinked when he saw her rise to her feet and help him with his coat.

"You're still out of bed?"

She had missed him. In the short time he had been gone, she had missed him with an ache that was almost tangible. He had been mere yards from their house, but just seeing him again made her breathless.

"I tried to make some corn bread while you were gone." She placed his coat and hat on the peg.

"You did?"

Emma nodded. "I burned it, Michael." She pointed forlornly to the table, where a plate of blackened bread was still smoking.

His gaze followed, while she focused on his face. A corner of his mouth quirked, and she saw two indentations—dimples as he suppressed his laughter.

Dimples. She never would have expected him to have dimples. But for some reason the sight of them elated her. She knew, instinctively, that the dimples had not appeared in a very long time.

"Why, Em. It looks delicious."

Without meeting her eyes, he reached over and took a piece. It crumbled to ash. He was not deterred and placed it swiftly into his mouth. Emma had the distinct feeling had he thought for any length of time on the matter, he would have lost his fortitude.

His expression remained blank as he chewed.

"Mmmm." He nodded, making a valiant effort to swallow. She ran to the sink and poured him a mug of water. It had taken her a half hour to pump the water into a pottery pitcher. Already a sheet of ice had formed.

"Here, Michael."

He took the water gratefully.

"Well, how is it?"

After drinking the entire glass, he faced her, his countenance again, serious. The corners of his mouth were blackened from the crumbs.

"I believe it needs a pinch of salt," he said somberly.

Emma clapped her hands together and began to laugh, her eyes watering as she tried to catch her breath.

"Oh, Michael! IT was awful—I thought I had set the whole place on fire the way it filled with smoke!"

Instead of joining her hilarity, or even smiling, he simply stared. Slowly he reached out, his gesture tentative, and wiped a tear from her cheek.

"Em"—his voice was a rich caress—"I haven't heard you laugh for so long, for so very long."

The smile faded from her face. A feeling of regret washed over her as she watched his expression, so wary and guarded, yet so full of tenderness. She raised a hesitant hand and touched his shoulder, feeling the strength and warmth just beneath the fabric.

For a brief moment, he remained motionless, arms slightly raised by his sides.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. He stood so still he dud bit seem to be breathing. But he swallowed, and a shadowy darkness flickered in his eyes.

She kept his hand on his shoulder, savoring the muscles with her fingertips even as she watched his face. "Please forgive me."

At once he clamped his arms about her, his lips brushing against her temple. He held her with such feral need, his body enveloping hers with its size and strength, that she felt her feet lift from the floorboards. Michael alone supported her full weight.

She had never felt such shelter, such fierce protection.

"I'm home," she whispered to her own wonderment. "My God, Michael, I've come home."

He put her down and pulled back so he could see her, focusing on her face, reading her emotions. Then his mouth descended upon hers, his forearm bracing the back of her head as she tilted to meet him.

Yet something was wrong, something was terribly out of place.

She was suddenly afraid, not of Michael, but of her own emotions that threatened to engulf her. Would she be yanked from his arms as swiftly as she had arrived? Would this man who had so suddenly become the center of her world just disappear?

Gasping, she pulled back, her gaze unfocused.

"Em?" There was such fragile concern in his voice that she tried to stop trembling, but could not.

"I'm sorry, Michael," she explained. "I can't. I mean I'm not ready for this. I just can't."

She backed away, her arms crossed to prevent them from shaking, to hold on to something, anything.

At first he simply watched her. Then he glanced down and took a deep breath. "I understand, Em."

A thatch of hair tumbled over his forehead. Instinctively, she stepped forward to brush it from his eyes, but his own hand raked through the thick hair first. She again folded her arms, more tightly this time, closer to her body.

The fire crackled. He glanced briefly at the charred remains on the table.

"I'll go fetch some dinner," he said. Then he smiled gently, as if resigned. The dimples reappeared.

"Where can you get dinner?"

"The same place as usual." He looked away from her and the tension eased. The painful ache that seemed to resonate between them finally abated.

He pulled his coat and hat back on. "Mrs. Hawkins always makes enough to feed an army. I'll step on over to the judge's house and fetch us some supper."

"Doesn't she mind?"

"Nah. She's sort of adopted me. I'm about the age their son would have been if he'd lived."

The brittle smile fell from his face, and his faze rested on the crib beneath the table. A look of interminable bleakness passed through his eyes. So swiftly did it disappear that she knew no on else would have even noticed it.

"I'll be back in a few moments." He then ducked outside.

"Michael." Her voice was a small plea. "Oh, Michael."

The judge's wife was a fabulous cook. They dined on roast chicken, sage stuffing, mashed turnips, and apple currant pie. Emma noticed the chicken had a more pronounced flavor than what she was used to and there was very little white meat.

As she wrapped the leftover pie with a cloth, a thought suddenly struck her.

"Michael, something's been bothering me."

He paused at the fireplace, where he was adding more wood, his expression urging her to continue.

"I saw a lot of children on the street today. Why aren't they in school?"

"Ah. The school." He passed his hand through his hair, and again Emma couldn't help but admire the unusual; blend of gray and black. "Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?"

"No, please," she said automatically, wondering if it was anything like the funny pipe Sunbeam's father was so fond of.

It was a long, thin clay pipe, the one she had noticed earlier by his law books. He dipped his fingers into the tobacco jar and placed a pinch into the bowl of the pipe, then lit it with a long stick of wood from the fire, pulling on it until the bowl burned amber.

"The school has been closed since late summer," he said, his words emerging with a puff of smoke.

"Why? Because of the weather?"

He shook his head. "No, Em. This is usually the only time of year the blab school has a full roster of students. The rest of the year most children are needed in the farms."

"Blab school," she repeated. One of her Pioneer Day lessons had been about the old-fashioned schools. He smiled.

"It's a one-room schoolhouse. They call it 'blab' school because children of all ages are there at the same time, talking and chattering their lessons."

"I've heard about them. But why is it closed?"

Michael raised his eyebrows which remained dark and free of gray, making his face seem impossibly youthful when he smiled. "It's gossip, Em. If you want the full details, I suggest you ask Mrs. Zoller over at the dry goods store. She'll be more than happy to give you a full story."

"Oh, tell me!"

Michael settled onto the bench and grinned, the pipe clamped between his white teeth. "It's not the sort of story a woman should hear."

"Then why does Mrs. Zoller know it?"

A bark of a laugh escaped his throat. It was the first time she had heard him laugh. She'd seen him smile, now she had heard him laugh.

"Point taken." He took a long pull on the pipe, his eyes fixed just beyond Emma in thought.

There was something terribly impressive about him, the concentration on his face. A fact came into her mind, a bit of information that she must have already known on some level.

He's a brilliant lawyer, she said to herself. The moment the idea formed, she knew it was true. He possessed a remarkable legal mind mingled with something else, a native intuitive intelligence that would make him a formidable opponent in a court of law. And a spectacular champion.

"Very well, Em," he said at last. "The school is closed because the schoolmaster ran off."

Emma understood. As much as she loved her job there were many days that she, too felt like running away. Such as the annual lice outbreak, where she was forced to examine every child's head each morning, or when the stomach flu made its round-robin appearance, always right after lunch, and always near her desk

"So why don't they just hire another schoolmaster?"

Michael shook his head. "That's exactly what I suggested. I was defeated." His eyes met hers, and there was a sense of understanding between them. Their minds somehow worked in the same way, followed a similar thought process.

He continued. "Too many of the townspeople felt that to bring in another schoolmaster would be to bring in another corrupting influence."

"Now you have me completely confused."

"Ah. Well here's the main point of their argument. You see, the schoolmaster did not just run off. He ran off with one of his pupils."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope."

"How old was the student?"

Michael took another pull on the pipe. "I suppose the pupil was about seventeen."

"Well, I guess that's old enough. I mean, she probably knew what she was doing and all. How old was the school master?"

"Henry? I reckon Henry was twenty-five or twenty-six."

"Well that's not so bad, Michael. It's a shame they couldn't just live here in Overton Falls. Did her parents object to the match?"

He nodded.

"I think it's sort of romantic, don't you?" She sighed. Michael stood up and grasped her hand, and she immediately folded her fingers over his. Again she was struck by how very right it felt.

"Em, there was more than just a problem with her age." She looked at him, her eyes questioning. "The real problem was that she was engaged to be married to the Zollers' oldest boy. The wedding was planned, everyone in town had already purchased gifts—from the Zollers' store, of course. So when the bride ran off with the schoolmaster, all of Overton Falls was in an uproar."

Dawning understanding lit her face. "Oh," she said quietly, then, more emphatically, "So the Zollers not only lost a daughter-in-law. They were stuck with gifts no one needed or paid for."

"Exactly."

"But that's no reason to keep the school closed, Michael. The children need an education, no matter who gets married to whom."

"Ah, but the Zollers don't see it that way. They are powerful in this small town, and their views are taken seriously. Not only did the schoolmaster take their future daughter-in-law, but it made their son, Ebenezer a laughingstock."

"With a name like Ebenezer, he was probably already a laughingstock," she muttered.

Again Michael laughed. This time, it was an easy, natural sound, and Emma smiled back. Their hands were still clasped together.

"That is the truth. Still the Zollers control the store. Until we can establish a bank, their store is also the center o finance here. If they decide to deny credit to someone, it could make life very difficult. No one will go against the Zollers." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "So that's why the school is likely to remain closed."

Another idea came into her head. Her expression changed to a knowing smile. Michael lowered his pope.

"Tell me now, Em. Tell me now so I can talk you out of it."

"I just had a brilliant idea."

"Oh, no."

"Why don't I become the new schoolmaster… or mistress?" Her voice became an excited rush. "I'm qualified, Michael. And since I live here, I wouldn't be a corrupting influence."

"Emma…"

"No, listen! I wouldn't ask to be paid. I'm a good school teacher. Please, Michael. Whom do I ask? Who's in charge of the school?"

He did not say anything for a while, his face betraying reluctance at shattering her enthusiasm. "You would be wonderful, Em. You were quite a teacher in Philadelphia." Small lines formed at the corner of his eye as he smiled in remembrance. "Miss Hamilton wept at our wedding not because of any romantic sentiments, but because she was losing the best teacher her school had ever had."

Emma paused, not surprised that she had been a teacher in Philadelphia. "Whom do I speak to about the position?"

"This isn't a good idea, Em?"

"Why not?"

He began to open his mouth to speak, then stopped. "All right, I'll be blunt. You are a woman, and for that I am most earnestly delighted, but as far as I know there has never been a female schoolmaster in this state."

"I could be the first!"

"Emma, you taught at a small girls school where the students were prim little ladies. This is the frontier. The children are rough, and you'd have boys as well as girls."

"I think I could handle it."

"Another problem is that many of the citizens of Overton Falls are beginning to despise me. Unfortunately that feeling may touch you as well, through no fault of your own."

"How could anyone despise you?" her voice was full of such sincere confusion that he paused.

"The same reason as in Philadelphia. It's me, Em. And the choices I've made. You know that I tend to represent the most unpopular defendants."

"So?"

"The wealthy ones, the ones with connections and well-placed friends, don't need a lawyer like me. The others do. They have already been condemned by circumstance, birth and usually poverty. I try to even things out for them, which makes me less than socially favored. The notable lack if invitations in Philadelphia made that clear."

"I'm glad you choose the clients you do. I truly am. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be a schoolteacher."

"Em"—he rested his hands on her shoulders—"Overton Falls is also like Philadelphia in other ways. It matters here about my background."

When she gave him a perplexed frown, he continued. "My grandmother. It doesn't matter where I was raised, where I was educated. What matters here is that my grandmother was a Delaware."

"Why should that matter?"

"Amusing, Emma. Quite funny." He at last let go of her hand and tapped the contents of the pipe into the fire. "The truth remains that I have Indian blood in my veins. We're only a half step away from joining the Larsons in being driven out of this town. If Judge Hawkins hadn't accepted us, and the Zollers, as well…"

Now it made sense. His compassion for others, the grace of his movements, the strange light in his eyes. All were from growing up under what must have been appalling circumstances.

Yet she knew she was meant to run that school, to teach the children. Somehow, she'd find a way.

Emma put on the nightgown as quickly as possible. It was freezing in the cabin.

She waited for Michael to come into the bedroom, but he didn't. Shifting under the quilt she tried to get warm and watched the calico curtain for any movement. Still he did not enter the bedroom.

She combed and braided her hair; still he remained in the other room. Finally, she peeked through the curtain covering the doorway.

"Michael? Are you coming in?"

He had been reading by the fireplace, forehead resting on his palm. He jumped when she called his name.

"But…well. Are you sure?"

Of course. They hadn't been sleeping together. He had been banished to the bench.

"Please, Michael."

Slowly he closed the book and checked the fire to make sure it wouldn't flare during the night. He seemed nervous.

Once he entered the bedroom, he methodically removed his trousers. The shirt was oversized, and wearing that alone, he silently climbed into bed.

"So," she whispered, her voice husky. "The doctor says we can try again."

He nodded. In the dim light she could see his profile, so beautifully sculpted. "That is what he said."

"When the time is right?" She moved closer, her hand on his chest.

He frowned. "Yes, Em. When the time is right."

"Well, how about no?" She couldn’t believe what she was saying, but she needed him. Badly.

"Now?" His voice was uncertain. "It's snowing out."

"What difference does that make?"

"Well, because the ground is frozen." He yawned. "How can we plant rosebushes when the ground is frozen?"

"Rosebushes?"

"Mmmm." Then he reached for her, pulling her close.

After the initial shock wore off, she smiled in the darkness. She was about tot ell him what she meant, when she looked at his face.

He was asleep.

She pulled the quilt over his arm, and he held her close to his body. His leg shifted over hers, and she bit her lip.

In slumber his face was sublime, his chiseled features those of a story book hero. His muscles relaxed, huge muscles hinted at enormous physical strength. Unlike the selectively buffed physique of someone who worked out in a gym, Michael's limbs were large all over, his chest and back knotted and hard.

As she drifted to sleep, she thought how odd, how very strange that she couldn't tell where his body left off and hers began. They had such different bodies, yet as they held each together, there was no distinction between the two. It was almost as if she could feel his physical exhaustion, as if she, too, had been lost all day in the intricacies of law.

She took a breath and realized that in his sleep, he did the same. His heart drummed next to hears and the beats were indistinguishable, in perfect unison.

How very odd.

Five

A pattern was beginning to establish itself for Emma, strange in all its smells and sounds and movements. In a place her world had left behind, where long-ago people struggled for survival, she slipped out of the warmth of bed to get breakfast. Everything was different. The drawing light was fresh when shining through the thick glass. Corners remained dark without electric lights to switch on. No radio announced the weather on time; there was only the rustling of chickens and horses and pigs somewhere nearby.

It was utterly unfamiliar to Emma. At the same time it was comfortable, a morning routine that had nothing to do with her life before.

Unlike the previous morning, then Michael had left her still dazed in bed, she awoke before he did. Cloaked in a haze of sleep, she was halfway through preparing breakfast before she realized what she had been doing.

"How did I know this?" Emma wondered aloud as she put the coffee pot on a hook over the fire. There was leftover corn bread—edible, made by the judge's wife. But how had Emma figured to make coffee? Even in Brooklyn she used instant, intimidated by the European names of most coffee machines.

She sat on the bench for a moment, her chin resting on her palm, trying to figure out why this did not feel as strange as it should. Instead of being paralyzed by fear and confusion, she was adjusting. And it was stunningly easy. Why wasn't she completely freaked-out?

At that moment, the reason walked in. Even wearing only a shirt, scratching his sleep-tousled head in confusion, he was breathtakingly handsome.

"You've made coffee," he said behind a yawn.

"I sure have. Don't ask me how, but I did."

For a moment he stood still, just looking at her.

"Don't worry"—she straightened on the bench, raising her chin off her hand—"I didn't attempt anything more ambitious than coffee. The corn bread is left over from Mrs. Hawkins."

His smile was startling, more potent than the sun's rays, more welcoming than a summer breeze.

As he turned around to get dressed, he paused. "I sure could use some of that possum stew this morning."

"No problem. Just fetch me a critter and let me cook it nice and slow, so the gristle doesn't stick in our teeth."

He halted and faced her, his eyes shining, the smile now lighting his entire face. "Em," he breathed. "How I've missed you."

Then he was gone, behind the calico curtain. He dressed in the bedroom, and as he pulled on trousers and suspenders and boots, he whistled a tuneless song. Emma hugged herself staring out the window at the cold morning in Overton Falls, wondering what new miracles this day would bring.

Emma dressed with extra care, pinning her hair in a style similar to one she had seen the mother wear in the television series Little House on the Prairie. Of course, the actress on the show had hairdressers and makeup artists to give her that authentic look. Emma was forced to rely on her own inexpert hands and a spotted mirror.

At the bottom of the bedroom trunk she found a  woman's coat, which wouldn't be nearly as warm as the horse blanket, but would probably be more appropriate in the prying eyes of Overton Falls. Again the read leather diary had been on top of the clothes. Before she closed the lid she reached for it.

She had to make an entry. The last words were so sad, so hopeless, that Emma felt she needed to change the tone. She retrieved the pen and ink bottle by Michael's books. The ink was no longer frozen, having been warmed by the heat of the morning fire.

"My new life here is a challenge," she wrote, dipping the quill back in the bottle. "I feel with Michael by my side, anything is possible. Today I will do my best to get the school open—the children need it. Christmas is coming. Anything is possible."

She read over her words with satisfaction, blowing on the page to hasten the ink's drying. Then she slipped on the coat, a dark green, closely fitted, ankle-length garment with a velvet collar, and stepped outside.

The first place she want was Mrs. Larson's cottage, to return the wooden bucket and thank her for the stew. She knocked once, and just as she was about to knock again, the door opened.

A small boy, perhaps five or six, answered the door.

"Hello." She smiled.

He immediately stuck his middle two fingers in his mouth. Emma handed him a bucket. "I saw you yesterday while you were taking a nap. I believe this belongs to your mother."

Rebecca Larson then appeared at his side, wearing the same loose-fitting dress as the day before. The boy grabbed his mother's leg, still sucking his fingers and staring at Emma.

"Oh, good morning, Mrs. Graham!" Rebecca stroked her son's head with comfortable affection.

"Good morning to you, Mrs. Larson. Is this handsome young man your son?"

The mother laughed. "He sure is ma'am. This is George Washington Larson. George, this pretty lady is Mrs. Graham."

At the mention of her name the boy pulled his finger from his mouth. "Are you Mr. Graham's mother?"

Emma laughed. "No, George. I'm his wife," she answered. It still felt odd to be someone's wife, strange yet wonderful.

"Oh, where are my manners," Mrs. Larson stammered, backing into the cottage. "Would you like to come in?"

Emma shook her head. "I just wanted to return the bucket and thank you again for the stew. Also"—Emma leaned closer—"I wanted to ask you a question."

Rebecca Larson's eyes widened as she accepted the bucket. "What is the question?" Her voice was low.

"You and your husband do business with the Zollers. How on earth can I get on her good side? I wanted to reopen the school, and without their support, it will be all but impossible."

Rebecca stared at Emma for a moment. Only the slow dropping of her jaw gave any indication that she had heard the words.

"Mrs. Graham, you'd best come in here," she said at last. "This may take a while."

Emma cringed. "That bad?"

"Let's put it this way"—Rebecca held the door wide—"little George here might be sprouting whiskers by the time I'm finished telling you all."

Only little George smiled at the thought.

Michael's workday passed in a haze of activity. He seemed to work nonstop, paging through the judge's battered law texts, speaking with an elderly couple from Germany who wanted to purchase more land, trying to calm a farmer who was certain his neighbor had been poisoning his well water.

Mrs. Hawkins, her incongruously girlish gray curls bobbing with every step, brought him the usual delightful midday meal. He ate without much thought, simultaneously going over the papers filed for an upcoming suit.

Emma. Warmth spread through his body as he thought of her, his wife. For so long now she had retreated into her own world, inhabited by her alone. He had feared she would never return to him, that she would live only in her mind, a sanctuary where death and pain could not enter.

Would they ever be able to speak of their little son? To remember him together, the shared memories of his short life. He was just beginning to walk when he died. This would have been but his second Christmas.

Michael shook his head. "Think of something else." He said to himself, clenching his fist, watching as his knuckles turned white.

At least Em was better. Perhaps by this time next year, they would have another baby. Perhaps.

The moment he stepped into the cabin, he knew something was very wrong.

Everything was just as it had been when he left that morning. There was no indication that anyone had been there all day. The fireplace was cold. He checked the larder, and last night's chicken was still there. She said she would have it for lunch, yet it remained untouched.

Without taking off his hat and coat, he charged into the bedroom.

"Em?" He swallowed hard. Had she retreated again? If she left him now, she would never return.

But the room was empty, the bed neatly made,

It had been hours since he had last seen her. Where could she be?

He ran out the front door, leaving it open and winging in the winter wind. "Emma?" he called.

There was no answer.

He started to run towards the center of town, his mind creating horrible images of what could have happened. Anything was possible in this untamed country. Tales abounded of people who were killed by wild beasts or were drowned by fierce waters or simply vanished, never to be seen again.

Perhaps she had run away, unable to face all that had happened, unable to face her own husband. On some level, she must still blame him for their loss, for everything that had occurred since they came west, She had to blame him. God knows, he blamed himself. There were days he felt he could no longer live with the guilt weighing him down, tearing him apart.

He should never have left her alone. He should have let Mrs. Hawkins look after her. No. That wouldn't have been right. He should have stayed with her himself. He should have been brave enough to face the accusing hurt that was bound to cross her features, her exquisite features.

From somewhere he heard her laughter, distinctive, musical. HE had almost forgotten the sound until the evening before, she had laughed again, the glorious notes bringing warmth and beauty back into his life.

He listened, hoping to hear it again. Had he imagined it? Had he so wished to hear her voice that eh conjured the cherished tones?

Again he heard her laugh, this time joined by an unfamiliar cackle. He turned in the direction of the sounds, and stopped, sure he must be imagining the sight before him.

Two figures were silhouetted in the dusk, lit from behind, by the oil lamps of Zollers' Fine Dry Merchandise. They were so close they were all but touching. Moving closer, he realized one of the figures was his wife, radiant in her Philadelphia city cloak. The other was Mrs. Zoller. His wife had just said something, and Mrs. Zoller barked a dry laugh before turning towards him.

"Why, Mr. Graham!" Mrs. Zoller was smiling, her voice rich with coquettish delight. The effect was unsettling. "Your charming wife has come up with clever ideas for our store. Such ideas! Why we're bound to make… well!" Lowering her voice, she touched Emma's shoulder. "Mr. Graham, I've been thinking about something. Your wife would make such a wonderful teacher for our children. I understand she was quite the schoolmarm back in Philadelphia. That is just what this town needs, some city polish to take the coarse edge off some of our children. Not every boy is as accomplished as my Ebenezer. As a favor to all of us, would you allow her to reopen the Overton Falls School?

Emma looked at him with such an expression of hope, of tenderness, that he felt something tighten in his chest. All he could do was nod. All he could do was get her back home as soon as possible to find out how she had tamed Mrs. Zoller in a single day.

Six

"You did what?" Michael asked again, convinced that he must have heard her wrong.

Emma looked up at him, rubbing her cold hands over the new fire. The heat of the flames caused the long strands of hair surrounding her face to lift and float. He reached forward to fasten a long curl behind her ear, not wishing it to catch a spark,

"I simply appealed to Mrs. Zoller's only two weak spots: her love of money and her innate snobbishness."

"And that bought you her support in the reopening the school?"

"Sort of." She grinned, and he watched her face as he pulled up a chair by the fire. She was full of a gentle confidence he had not seen for a very long time. He wanted simply to watch her, to see her sit calmly without the darkness that had been there before.

Emma felt the pull of his stare, knowing he was observing her every move. She longed to touch him, to be physically near him. Without warning she stood up and promptly sat on his lap.

After his initial grunt of surprise, he adjusted her, pulling her closer, wrapping his arm around her back. It felt so natural, so complete.

For a moment she leaned against his chest, her eyes closed in contentment.

"You're not sleeping a wink until you tell me everything, Em," he whispered.

"Mmmm," she sighed, longing to stay forever in his embrace. Her arm went around his shoulder.

"I'm going to stand up now. I'm giving you fair warning. You're going to fall onto the cold, hard floor unless you satisfy my curiosity."

"You're beginning to sound like Mrs. Zoller." She refused to open her eyes.

"That does it." With startling swiftness he stood. Emma, who had, indeed, relaxed into a drowsy tranquility, gasped and clutched frantically to avoid falling.

But his hold on her had never loosened. Instead, he cradled her tightly against his own body.

"Oh, Em. Don't you know I'd never let you fall?"

She reached up and touched his face, rubbing her thumb lightly along his cheekbone. "I know."

For a moment he simply looked at her, his remarkable eyes drinking every detail of her face. She returned the gaze, bold, unblinking, savoring the features she could never grow weary of, never forget.

Slowly, his mouth touched hers, tentatively at first. His lips were warm, molding with ethereal perfection to her own.

Her hand slipped down and cupped the back of his neck, and she felt as if she were floating on a cloud. The other hand stroked his upper arm, the knotted muscles now beginning to tremble.

With her still ensconced in his powerful hold, he carried her into the other room, through the calico-draped doorway and to the bed. He lowered her to the mattress carefully, not giving up his possession, remaining so close she could feel the ehat of his body.

He trailed soft kisses from the corners of her mouth, along the line of her jaw, down her throat.

"Emma." His voice caressed her name. A magical, honeyed warmth seemed to course through her veins at that tone.

Her fingers began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt, clumsy in their haste. It was as if her fingers moved on their own, with no thought on her part. With every button she found it harder to stop trembling. She had to feel him, to experience his skin against her own. It was necessary to her now as breathing.

He worked at releasing her, too, from her clothing. Finally her shoulder emerged, then the other shoulder was free.

She gasped at the cold of the room, a room where the fire had not yet been lit.

In an instant, though, the chill had vanished, replaced by the fevered touch of his skin against hers.

His mouth descended on its fragile path, across her collarbone, then slowly, deliciously, covering her breasts. Her hands gripped his back, as if to pull him ever closer, as if to never let him go.

More clothes fell away, and they both ignored the sound of tearing cloth. Nothing else mattered. Only to get closer, ever closer.

She opened her eyes to take in the sight of him, just for a moment. He was perfect, in every way perfect. Skin glistening in the dark, the sculpted beauty of his form held suspended for her to see. His eyes were open too, and he held his breath as his gaze encompassed her. And they were again touching, stroking, becoming one.

As it was always meant to be. As it would always be.

They key entangled under the quilt. He smoothed her hair in a slow, rhythmic motion. She felt his mouth curve into a smile.

"Well?" she prodded, nudging him gently, pausing to enjoy the solid feel of him.

"I was just thinking." His voice was low and deep. "You have quite a way of changing the topic."

"I do?"

"You do, Em. You have yet to explain how you managed to get Mrs. Zoller eating from your hand."

"Ah, that

"Yes, that." His words mingled with a chuckle. The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silenced. She traced small circles idly on his chest, wondering how one person could have made such a difference in her life.

"Em?"

She stopped tracing the circles.

"I think we should get you a warmer coat." She shifted her gaze to look at his face, and he gave her a small smile. "That old schoolhouse is drafty."

For a moment she could say nothing. Her throat constricted, and he pulled the quilt over her bare arm.

"Oh, Michael." She swallowed hard against the urge to cry. "Thank You."

He did not reply. He simply smiled.

The next morning was unexpectedly glorious, the brilliant sunlight warming the cabin. Emma had breakfast on the table by the time Michael had finished shaving and dressing.

He took a sip of coffee and leaned forward. The light caught his eyes, but he didn't blink. His full attention was on Emma. "So, will you finally tell me how you changed Mrs. Zoller's mind about the school?"

Her hand cupped the side of his face, still damp from shaving. "I went to Rebecca Larson's yesterday. We had a chat about Mrs. Zoller."

Michael nodded.

"Well she told me that the Zollers are civil to the Larsons, not out of any kindness, but because the Larsons' pottery sells. The Zollers tried to sell some less expensive factory-made pottery, but it fell apart and everyone demanded their money back. So they keep stocking in the Larsons' pottery."

"That makes sense."

"I also learned that Mrs. Zoller is something of an elitist. She feels she alone represents society in these parts. She went to a finishing school in St. Louis, you know."

"She should have stayed longer." Michael placed the mug on the table. "They let her out before she was finished.

Emma laughed, "I'm not sure that would have helped. Anyway, I suppose she found out that back east, my family has some vague social connections."

"Even though you married a half-breed?"

His voice had been matter-of-fact, a simple question rather than a stinging comment. Yet she felt the weight of his words, the importance of what he had said.

"I wouldn't have married anyone else." She tried to keep her tone light, but she realized it was the truth. "You're the only one."

"Em."

She glanced back down and struggled to recall what she had been talking about.

"So I went over the store and found Mrs. Zoller." He remained silent, so she continued. "I told her it crossed my mind that what this town needs is Christmas decorations. Everyone, simply everyone, back east decorates a tree in their house now. It's all the rage."

"I never noticed."

"Well, anyway, it will be all the rage one day. So I gave Mrs. Zoller the opportunity to be ahead of the times, to become a genuine trendsetter. It worked—she was suddenly all ears."

"That must have been an attractive sight."

Emma ignored him. "Then she began to panic. 'Why Mrs. Graham,' she practically cried, 'where on earth can we get Christmas decorations when it's already mid-December?' Well I told her that it just so happens that Rebecca Larson has made a dozen ornaments. Next thing I knew, Mrs. Zoller was out the door and on her way to the Larsons'."

"You must be joking." He leaned back, his face incredulous. "Mrs. Zoller actually went over to the Larson's home?"

Emma nodded eagerly. "And that's not all. We ate lunch with Rebecca and her son at the cottage."

"I don't believe it." He shook his head. "No, Em. I just can't see Mrs. Zoller over there."

"She seemed to think it was all right. I suppose she thinks I may have been crazy these past few months, but I was brought up well. Insane, maybe, but always the lady."

"You were never crazy." His voice was low, and he reached across the table, folding his large warm hand over hers.

"Never mind. The important thing is that over lunch, I mentioned the school. At first Mrs. Zoller wouldn't even discuss it. But little by little, we wore her down. Every time she would get that scowl on her face, Rebecca would chime in with something along the lines of 'how about some cherubs—you could sell them for ten cents apiece, I'd give them to you for five?' And Mrs. Zoller would smile. Did you know those are artificial teeth she ahs? Made from cow teeth, she says. I wouldn't admit that, would you?"

"You were never crazy."

Emma leaned over and kissed him. "I love you, Michael," she said softly.

His hand gripped hers more tightly. "Em, I love you."

Outside a cart rumbled by, and the early morning voices reminded her that the workday was about to begin.

"I guess you had better go to your office." She reluctantly looked away.

Instead of answering, he rose to his feet, never releasing her hand, and pulled her close.

"In a while, Em." His mouth was next to her ear, his lips lightly touched her, causing a shiver to run through her. Then his mouth bent into a knowing grin. "In a while."

Seven

The schoolhouse was in appalling shape.

Emma stepped carefully over the threshold, amazed that a room could be both frigid and musty at the same time. There was dust and filth in every corner, and only by brushing the sole of her boot against the floorboards could she discover the floor was made of wide wooden planks.

The walls had been whitewashed, but the paint had started to peel away. The teacher's desk at the front of the room was speckled with ink stains, but the inkwell and quill holder were empty. There were rugged benches with slightly higher benches to serve as tables. Most were broken and splintered. The fireplace was jammed with rubbish and when she took a few steps closer, she realized that an animal had made a nest there.

With all of the work Emma had accomplished in the past week, between helping the Zollers set up a proper "Philadelphia-style" Christmas display—which owed more to the windows at Macy's than to anything in Philadelphia—and watching little George Larson so that Rebecca could fill the Zoller's order, it had never crossed her mind that the log cabin schoolhouse would be in such a disastrous state. After all, it had only been empty for just under a year.

The school was to open in two days. Mrs. Zoller, while merrily selling her stock to excited customers had indeed managed to convince most of the town's citizens to give the new schoolteacher a try. The previous teacher, Emma learned, charged up to five cents per pupil a week to attend school. Emma's fee would be a few sticks of kindling for fireplace. Everyone was pleased, yet slightly suspicious, of the rates.

Meanwhile, Rebecca had come up with some unusual designs for ornaments. Emma explained some basic ideas to her, the tried-and-true Norman Rockwell images Emma had grown up with. Rebecca nodded and began to work.

The results were surprising. Her St. Nicholas sported a blue and green suit trimmed in plaid, with a bushy red moustache on his youthful face. The angels all wore broad smiles and top hats. And the manger scene was set in a tepee, surrounded by sturdy-looking buffalo, the baby Jesus holding an ear of corn. Yet the stuff sold like mad to the folks of Overton Falls, who had no preconceived notions and even fewer inhibitions about where to place the ornaments.

Emma Graham had single-handedly introduced commercialism to the celebration of Christmas. Although she felt more than a twinge of guilt and was given a stern lecture by the minister of a nearby Presbyterian church—where all giddy activities were frowned upon—it was hard to deny the joy everyone seemed to derived from the decorations. Especially the children.

As the day of the school's opening drew near, she met some of her new students. And a sense of panic began to knot in her stomach. It was a strange concept—one room, one teacher, all ages from five to sixteen. She had no idea what they knew, how to teach them, where to begin. As long as she was busy helping Rebecca, she could avoid dwelling on the reality of the job she had undertaken.

But standing in a filthy, frozen room, furnished with broken benches, tipped-over tables, her breath puffing in the cold as she began to panic, she realized that she was simply not up to the job.

"Oh, my God," she whispered to herself, swatting a frozen cobweb as she stepped toward the blackboard. There she saw the elegant tracings of a forgotten lesson. The handwriting was beautiful. The lesson contained four- and five-syllable words, old words, poetic words, the meanings of which she could not recall.

"I can't." She shook her head. What had she been thinking? This was not a well-run school, with a principal and a secretary or even a  grumpy janitor. There were no books. There were no slickly bound guides or examples to follow or older teachers to consult in a crisis. Emma would have to be everything, provide the children—some of whom were on the cusp of adulthood—with all they needed. It was impossible.

She backed away from the blackboard. Her knees bumped into a rickety chair, and slowly she sat down.

Perhaps they could leave town. Michael could live anywhere, she reasoned, They could just slip away during the night, leaving a little note to Mrs. Zoller explaining that a relative in a  distant state was ill, and they would be gone for a few weeks.

But Michael wouldn't do that to Judge Hawkins or his clients. HE would never slip away, shirk his responsibilities. How disappointed he would be at her failure.

Tears began to blur her vision, to soften the horror of the room. In gentle focus the room looked inviting, rustic but warm. Perhaps one day someone could make the school as homey as it seemed with her eyes brimming with tears, but Emma could never be that person. She would have to tell Michael as soon as possible.

That morning while he shaved, he had whistled. It was such a light sound, so hopeful. HE had no idea she was not up to the task she had set about with such impressive vigor. She was a fraud.

She wasn't even his real wife. She was a fake, an impostor. Michael deserved a real wife, not this shabby imitation who wasn't even capable of running a log cabin school or making him a decent meal.

Slumping forward, she sniffled once, just as she was about to stand up and go tell everyone it had all been a mistake, the chair creaked, then splintered into a half-dozen pieces. In an instant she was sprawled on the squalid floor.

That did it. Her small hold on composure vanished, and she burst into tears. It felt good to cry, to sob like a child, with sloppy abandon. The fear that had been building up in her was gone. In its place was the hollow realization that she was virtually good for nothing.

"Em."

His voice came from the doorway. She hadn't heard him enter, but suddenly he was there, at her side, gently pulling her to her feet.

"Go away, please," she said behind her hands, attempting to shield her face from his extraordinary eyes. "Please leave me alone."

"No."

Tenderly, he pried her hands from her face.

"Please go, Michael. I don't want to you see me like this."

She tried to full away, but he drew her into his solid embrace.

It wasn't until then that she realized he was breathing hard, as if he had just run a great distance.

"Michael?" Her tears seemed to vanish as she looked up at him. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks were reddened from the sharp December wind. "What's happened? Are you all right?"

She had  been so busy wallowing in self-pity, and all the while he needed her.

He nodded once, then took a deep breath. "I went home to see if you were there, Em. There are some new folks in town, and they have a baby. It's colder than they expected here, so I thought I would lend them our baby's blanket. I didn't think about it much. I went into the trunk."

The grasp he had on her shoulders was almost painful, but she didn't care. "What happened?"

"Your diary fell out. I started to put it back in, Em. It fell open to your latest entry. I didn't mean to read it but my eyes seemed to take in the words even as I closed the book. I tried not to read it. But I did. And then I had to find you."

"Michael?"

He rubbed a hand over his eyes before he spoke again. "You don't know what your words mean to me," he said softly.

For a moment she tried to remember what she had written. Then it came back to her—that with Michael by her side, anything was possible. Had he seen the other entries as well? No. He had only seen the last one, the one she had made a few days earlier.

"Michael." She reached up just to touch his face, and grasped her hand and kissed her palm.

Then, without warning, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, She was about to speak, when she realized his shoulders were shaking, his bread, strong shoulders. Perplexed, she returned his hug, stroking his back, wondering what was happening.

He was crying.

Her own knees began to tremble, and she squeezed her eyes shut and held him, comforted him.

"I miss him, Em." His voice was broken. "I miss him so much, And all this time I thought you blamed me."

"No. Of course not."

It came like a splash of cold water, as she realized what he must have been going through. How could she not have seen it before? How he must have tortured himself, how he must have suffered alone, the double agony of loss and guilt.

For a long time they stood in the mess of a cold schoolhouse, holding each other, gently rocking back and forth in silent understanding. His breathing became even, no longer ragged and harsh, and she  could not recall what had seemed so important before he came into the schoolhouse.

At last she spoke. "Did you give them the blanket?"

"I did." He hesitated. "It still smells of him, Em. I had almost forgotten that sweet smell, but it's there in all of his clothing and blankets.

"I know." Her own voice wavered, then she spoke more firmly. "I know.

An image came to her mind, of a toddler with curly dark hair and eyes brown and deep, just like his father's. And of a dark smile, with new teeth just emerging, and a small soft hand patting her cheek.

"Do you remember the way he used to pat your face? Remember that, Em?"

She smiled and nodded. "I do." Another picture unfurled in her memory. "He had a rabbit that I knitted for him. The ears were so long. He used to put the bunny over his eyes, an ear covering each eye when he'd sleep."

"The bunny is still in the trunk. I just saw it, but I couldn't pick it up. Not today, Em. But maybe someday I will."

Again they remained silent for a timeless spell. It was like viewing an old home-movie in her mind and Michael laughing, holding the squealing form over his head in play, the child gleefully gurgling.

He took a deep breath and kissed her temple. "Emma?"

"Yes?"

"The school is a mess."

She was about to agree. She was about to confess that it was an impossible task, one she would never in the world be capable of, and to suggest they slink away in the darkness of the night and never return.

But now those thoughts seemed absurd, even ridiculous. She glanced up at him, and he looked so handsome and hopeful and young, far younger than he had seemed before. It was his eyes. The shadow was gone, the furtive shading she would catch like a forgotten nightmare. Then he smiled, an open, generous smile of love and strength and vigor.

"Oh, Michael," she whispered, "with you by my side, anything is possible."

Eight

The students filed one by one, some nodding at Emma, others making a pointed effort to avoid eye contact.

She turned her back to class and wrote her name on the blackboard, oversized letters proclaiming "Mrs. Graham." Puausing for a moment, she took a deep breath and hoped her heart would stop pounding.

It was the ultimate first day. This would be completely unlike any teaching experience she had ever had. She was to be alone with children who were raised without television, without playgrounds, or even books. Most had only heard music when the traveling dancemaster came through with his fiddle. Newspapers were rare and, when they reached the town, months out of date. There were no such things as hamburgers or pizza, no Toys "R" Us or Superman.

The truth was that she had absolutely nothing in common with these rural children from another century. She would be unable to draw upon her own childhood with these kids. It would be like teaching a room full of aliens from another planet.

With Michael's help, and the unexpected help of Mrs. Zoller—who had adopted the school as her own pet project—the school was now warm and welcoming. The fireplace was stoked, all signs of dirt and dust had vanished. Emma had put some of Rebecca Larson's ornaments—the ones that had chipped or cracked in the groundhog kiln—on the walls, and studied some of Michael's old schoolbooks for ideas on how to teach these children.

They hadn't helped much, but at least she now knew the meaning of some archaic words with too many syllables to count.

"Good morning," she said in a voice full of false confidence.

"Good morning, Mrs. Graham," they answered back.

Emma blinked. Somehow she hadn't been expecting a response, anticipating instead sullen silence. She looked at the rows of students, all still wearing their coats and boots,  all shifting at their newly repaired desks. Michael had fixed the desks with astonishing speed and skill.

Every desk held a slate and two pieces of slate chalk for the students to write on. No paper in this school, only boards and chalk.

The students were all sizes, all ages. Her degree had been in early childhood education. How could she ever teach a fourteen-year-old boy?

A girl in the front row raised her hand. Emma smiled at her. "Yes. Please introduce yourself."

The girl pulled off her faded pink bonnet to reveal a magnificent head of blonde hair. "My name is Hannah." She flipped her hair and glanced at the other girls, as if daring them to speak.

Emma noticed another girl, with short brown hair, was staring straight ahead. She went to her desk and leaned over. "I'm Mrs. Graham," she said softly. "What's your name?"

At first the girl said nothing, then her lower lip began to tremble. "My name is Hannah, too," she said in a stricken voice.

"Why that's a beautiful name."

The first Hanna flipped her hair back. "Thank you, Mrs. Graham," she replied.

Emma stayed with the dark-haired girl. "What's your last name, Hannah?"

A slight hesitation, she said, "Robinson. My last name is Robinson."

"Then you will be Hannah R.," Emma said, bringing a small smile to the girl's face.

"My last name is Van Wyk," announced the long-haired Hannah.

"Then you shall be Hannah V."

Emma went around the room, asking each child to state his or her name and tell a little about themselves.

"My name is Asa Blake." The fourteen-year-old boy's voice cracked as he spoke. "I live just outside of town and I'm real good at checkers. I ain't good at ciphering none, so my pa sent me here for a spell."

"I'm Elmer Jenkins," said the next boy. "I have hogs, and my favorite is named Jasper."

"Ah." Emma folded her hands. "How is Mr. Jasper? I haven't seen him lately, Elmer."

"Well, he gets a little scared this time of year, on account of this being butchering season, and all. I believe the smell of smoking ham makes poor Jasper somewhat melancholy, Mrs. Graham."

Emma managed to hide her smile at the thought of a melancholy hog and went on to the next child. He was a little boy of about eight.

"My name is also Asa." He giggled. "I mean, not 'also Asa,' just Asa. My last name is Zimmerman, so I reckon I'm going to be Asa Z." Then he straightened. "My parents were making funny sounds the other evening. I sear, I couldn't sleep none with all the shouting and hollering they were doing."

"Were they fighting?" Elmer Jenkins asked.

"I thought so at first," Asa Z. said thoughtfully.

"Mrs. Graham?" Hanna V. waved her hand in the air. "I once heard a story about a fellow named Mr. Bluebeard who had all these wives and killed them. He hung them up in his barn, one by one, all in a row. I wonder if Aza Z.'s father was killing his wife?"

"No!" Asa Z. stood up. "That ain't so! I thought someone was being hurt, so I went in there, and they were just changing their clothes."

"Changing their clothes?" another child asked.

"Yep. They said it was time to put on some warm clothes, and the sounds I heard was them trying to get the new clothes on. It was dark. I don't know why they didn't light a lamp, but it was dark, so they were having some trouble with buttons and all. That's why they were hollering."

The fourteen-year-old guffawed, then became quiet when Emma glared at him. "Very well. Now, I'm going to put some words on the board, and I want all of you to write the words on your slates."

A moan when through the room, a familiar sounds, the sound of reluctant students. Emma stopped. There was a smell now, too. It hadn't been there before, when the room was empty. But now it was unmistakable, the sticky-child smell she knew so well from Brooklyn. It was here in 1832 Indiana.

She had begun to write, when the door opened. It was George Washington Larson, sucking his middle fingers, clutching a bucket containing his lunch.

"Good morning, George." She took his hand. The leather shoelace on his shoe was untied, so she bent down to fasten it into a bow. Two other children asked to have their shoes tied, and Emma silently longed for the speedy invention of Velcro.

Finally she was able to return her attention to George, who was looking very alone and frightened and sucking vigorously on his fingers. She bent close to him to speak. "Where would you like to sit?"

There were several empty seats, and just as Emma was leading him to one, Elmer Jenkins stood up.

"Mrs. Graham, ma'am? George Larson, here is an Indian, and I ain't supposed to be around none of them, on the account of my Uncle Henry being killed by Indians. My mama says that if any Indians come to school, I have to go home. She gets worried about me."

Emma stood, momentarily stunned. George's face was expressionless. He simply stared straight ahead.

"I'm very sorry about your uncle, Elmer," she began. "George?" The little boy looked up, and Emma squeezed his hand. "Do you promise not to kill anyone at school today?"

There was a brief silence, and the children exchanged perplexed looks. George pulled his wet fingers from his mouth. "I promise, ma'am."

Elmer Jenkins turned red, and some of the children giggled, a bit  uncomfortably at first. Then as little George had to be helped to his chair, even Elmer Jenkins began to smile.

Emma paused by Elmer's desk. "I'll speak to your mother, Elmer. Maybe we can change her mind a bit."

She returned to the blackboard and began to write.

Somehow, the day passed, slowly at first, then with surprise, she realized that the day was over. The children lined up to leave, some shoving each other. Aza Z. pulling Hanna V.'s hair, then pretending another child had done the deed.

And then they were gone.

She sat in the strange silence of the room, the children's voices fading as they chattered outside. The board was covered with numbers and letters and phrases.

The schoolroom door opened, and Michael went to her side. "How was it?"

She sighed. "The same. I can't believe it, Michael. There was the stuck-up girl, the tomboy, the class clown. I think I even have a few difficult parents."

Her last words were cut off by a kiss. "I'm so proud of you, Em," he whispered. "So very proud.

Emma and Michael were exhausted by the time they returned to their own home. He had been silent during their walk from the schoolhouse, staring straight ahead as they trudged through the snow.

"Michael?"

"Hum?"

"How about if I plan a Christmas party at the schoolhouse. We could invite the whole town. It's already decorated with ornaments, and I saw some evergreens in the back. Perhaps I could make little gifts for the children."

"Gifts? Emma, no one celebrates Christmas like that, not out here." Then he stopped. "At least, they didn't before you came."

"But I'll bet the kids would love it," she sighed as they entered their cabin and hung their cloaks on the peg. "How about if I have them do a play to the 'Twelve Days of Christmas'? It would be a good way to combine numbers and words, and I could get an idea of their academic level without having to embarrass anyone. I think school should be fun for the children, don't you?"

"Maybe." Michael stacked the wood in the fireplace and lit the fire, blowing on it until the flame caught.

She watched him as he moved, the strong hands, the striking face in profile. As if he knew she was watching him, he stood slowly and faced her.

"Em," His voice was low.

She stepped into his embrace, her eyes closed as he rocked her in his arms, gently, tenderly.

"The doctor says we can try again," he whispered.

"I know. But the ground is frozen and it's snowing."

His lips pressed against her temple, then at her throat. "I'm not talking about the rosebushes."

Later, in the orange glow of their bedroom, the embers in the fireplace crackling, Emma watched him sleep.

This was so right, being here with him. What extraordinary, magical force had sent her here? Or sent him to her. It must be magic. Pure Christmas magic.

Michael took a deep breath and pulled her closer, yet she could not sleep. Her thoughts traveled back, far away, to another time and place that seemed as distant as a long-ago memory.

The ring. She held up her left hand and touched the ring. It was so soft, so smooth.

Before, she had not been able to read the inscription. The script had been faded and worn. What wondrous words had Michael inscribed? She slipped the ring slowly off her finger to read the etched letters. Just as it passed her fingertip, she felt him reach for her.

"No, Em! Don't!"

And then she was asleep.

Nine

The warmth tickled her nose. Half-asleep, she reached out. "Michael," she sighed.

And rolled onto the floor.

Gasping she rubbed her eyes. The warmth that had tickled her nose let out a plaintive cry.

"Pumpkin." Emma stared as the cat arched against her hip. Outside a car alarm shrieked.

"No." Her hand flailed, and she knocked over the much that had held her hot chocolate, now cold and empty. For a moment all she could do was stare at her furniture, at the television set that hummed with the morning news. "Oh, God, no."

The fold ring. She looked down at her hand. The ring was gone. "Michael?" It hurt to say his name, knowing there would be no answer.

It had all been a dream. The town, the life.

And Michael.

It had all been a glorious, terrible dream.

A weatherman on television announced a sever snowstorm watch, hazardous driving conditions, and ice on the roads. The time, he added, was seven-thirty.

She was late—she had to get to school. A feeling of nausea gripped her; shock and pain and a horribly sick hum seemed to vibrate through her body. Everything was ff, everything was wrong.

She went through the motions of getting showered and dressed, feeding the cat, watering the plants. As if in trance she felt nothing, would not allow herself to think.

The ring was nowhere to be found. Even after she crawled on her hands and knees and peeked under every table and chair, she could not find the ring. The synthetic fibers of the carpet burned her palms, but it didn't matter.

Emma needed to cry, She felt the urge to sob rise in the back of her throat; the desire to simply crumple up and scream was almost overwhelming.

But she couldn't. A class full of first graders was waiting. And she knew that once she started to cry, she wouldn't be able to stop. Not for a very long time.

Perhaps in the evening she could cry to her heart's content, shake her fist in the air and ask why she had such a dream. Because she knew that, after this dream of Michael, her life was ruined. Never again could she wrap herself in false contentment, never again could she convince herself that she was perfectly happy.

From now on, every small joy would be tarnished. Now she knew real joy, and it could never again be hers.

She followed the path she had so often followed, stopping at the muffin shop for coffee, checking her mailbox in the school's main office. The routine of her normal day was shallow and meaningless—every motioned seemed to be a cruel mockery.

The secretary said hello, and Emma supposed she returned the greeting. Someone's mother handed her a bag full of junk. Emma realized it was for some sort of Christmas project.

The classroom was exactly the same—the slightly messy desks, the fragrance of paste and construction paper, and a faraway aroma of something sticky. How could the classroom be the same when her whole world had been turned upside down?

The children arrived as usual, trickling in, shoelaces untied, hair askew and spiked by static. When she spoke, she heard the words echo, as if another Emma Graham stood beside her and uttered the same old words.

"Okay—who needs their shoes tied?"

A cluster of children shuffled to her, giggling and pushing each other. She tied a pair of Beauty and the Beast sneakers, Ninja Turtle boots, Aladdin sneakers, and two sets of Pocahontas moccasins. She paused at the moccasins, a terrible feeling in her stomach.

A small hand tapped her shoulder. She glanced up and for a moment her breath caught in her throat. It was the new boy, Asa. There was something about him.

"Miss Graham? My daddy's here, and he wants to talk to you about the ring."

"Great," she muttered, as another foot was placed in front of her. This is all I need, she thought, to explain to a complete stranger exactly how his antique ring was lost. She had automatically tied the new sneakers into a sturdy double knot, when she realized these shoes were large and free of any cartoon characters.

She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to rub away the pounding in her temples. Trying to compose herself, she stood, wishing the day were over. Wishing she were still asleep. Wishing she were anyplace but where she was.

"Em?" His voice was so soft she thought she had imagined it.

Her eyes opened, and there he was. Michael—her Michael.

Now he was wearing two sweatshirts, one over the other and jogging pants. But it was unmistakably Michael. He seemed larger than life, strong and sure in a world of child-size furniture. Yet it was him, his lustrous hair, the beautifully sculpted face, and those eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, squaring his shoulders, his voice flat. There were circles under his eyes. "You like someone I know—someone I knew. I'm Asa's father."

He extended his hand, and she automatically took it. A warmth radiated from his grasp, a large hand. She knew.

"Michael." Her voice was shaking.

"Yes, Miss Graham?" One of the two Michaels in her class tugged at her skirt.

"No, not you. I'm talking to…" Her knees began to tremble, yet she held on to his hand.

"Em." Asa's father reached toward her with his other hand and tucked a strand behind her ear.

"The gold ring," she said, "I can't find it."

He nodded. He, too, seemed stunned. "Asa told me he took it to school. They're a set of wedding bands, they've been in my family. I checked the box last night, Em. They were both there." He swallowed. "They can't be separated. As far as I know, the rings have been welded together, liked, for over a hundred years." He glanced around the classroom before he spoke again. "I held them last night and had a dream."

"Indiana?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes. A prairie town in 1832."

"Overton Falls." This couldn't be happening. "The Larsons and Judge Hawkins."

"This is impossible." As he spoke his other hand rested on her shoulder. "Are you all right, Em? I mean, how do you feel."

"Fine," she said automatically. Then she shook her head. "Now I'm fine. This morning, when I woke up, I wanted to die."

He didn't smile. "So did I. I didn't know what to do, how to get through the day." He stepped back, his gaze again caressing her. "You got your schoolroom."

"Miss Graham has a boyfriend! Miss Graham has a boyfriend!" Emma couldn't identify the voice. She didn't care.

Finally he smiled, a smile that reached up and lit his eyes from within.

When she could speak again, her voice was a low rasp. "And you? What do you do?"

He looked down at his sweats and laughed, the rich laugh she thought would come to her again only in her dreams. Now it echoed in her classroom, mingling joyfully with the rest of the voices of the children.

"I was just about to jog in Prospect Park. I thought it might clear my mind." His entire body seemed to relax.

"It's snowing, Michael. The ground is frozen and it's snowing."

"I know. I was hoping to find a snowplow to run behind. I guess I didn't think about it too carefully." Pushing a hand through his hair, he continued. "I'm a public defender, Em. I was a partner with a large firm for a while but realized that's not why I went into law."

Asa had been watching them. Emma suddenly realized that the little boy had been staring at their entwined hands.

"We're planting rosebushes in our front yard in the spring, Miss Graham. It was my idea." He straightened his small spine. "All my idea."

With an enigmatic smile that made him seem much older than six, he strutted back to his desk.

"What do you think happened?" Michael also looked down at their hands. "How could we possibly have had the same dream? And why doesn't it feel like a dream?"

As she looked into his eyes, the eyes she knew so very well, she could only swallow an urge to cry, this time with happiness.

"Maybe," she said softly, "maybe it's just Christmas magic."

JUDITH O'BRIEN's first book, Little Lulu Goes to the Store, was self-published when the author was in the third grade. Although the print run was a disappointing single edition, the illustrations won praise from the author's parents. Over two decades later a second novel, Rhapsody in Time, was published. Ms. O'Brien is a graduate of the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee and a former writer for Self magazine. Her work has also appeared in Woman's Day, Reader's Digest, YM, and Health. Her other novels include Ashton's Bride, Once Upon a Rose,  and her latest, Maiden Voyage, soon to be published by Pocket Books. She now lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she is working on her next wonderful romance.