“I thought you were planning to go back to Minnesota in March.”
“I am, but I can do something for the children before I leave.” Emma’s parents had hoped she’d stay in Texas, but already she was homesick for her work with the Ojibwe Indians. She would fulfill her teaching contract in Hartville and go home at the end of the winter term. “Surely I can make a difference in that amount of time.”
Connie offered an encouraging smile and then lifted her Bible.
“I’ll leave you to your prayers.” Emma walked to the back of the church and let herself out quietly.
Hartville teemed with activity on this second morning of 1874. The dusty streets and dry land around the town were nothing like the countryside of her beloved Minnesota. Back home, the lakes and rivers would be frozen over, the land would be covered under a blanket of snow, and the branches of large elm, oak, and maple would be bare against the pale winter sky. Ice-skating, sledding, cross-country skiing, and hot cocoa around a fireplace were but some of the things she missed.
Emma walked across the road toward the blacksmith’s shop, where Mr. Cochrane, the school superintendent, had entered every day at this time.
The history books were a bit cumbersome in her arms, but she didn’t want to take the time to carry them to the parsonage, which sat just behind the church. Instead, she walked through the open doors of the smithy and inspected the interior.
The ringing of hammer against anvil met her ears, and she was surprised to find several men in the building. It appeared to be a popular meeting place. Many of them doffed their caps at her and she nodded a cordial greeting.
Mr. Cochrane turned and smiled, his large mustache touching the bottom of his nose. “Miss Longley, it’s nice to see you again. Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Yes, I just came from the church—school.” She stood awkwardly. “I actually came to speak to you about the school.”
“Oh? Can’t it wait until the school board meetin’ next month?”
“I’m afraid not.” She had very little time in Hartville, so she must make the most of every moment.
Mr. Cochrane glanced at his fellow companions. Many of them gave him good-natured grins. “I’m about to start a game of cribbage with these men. Make it quick.”
She cleared her throat. The heat and smoke from the blacksmith’s fire made her eyes water. “I’d like to discuss building a new schoolhouse.”
“A what?” Mr. Cochrane’s bushy eyebrows came together in a V.
“A schoolhouse—one separate from the church. It’s extremely inconvenient to share the school with the church.”
“You haven’t even started teaching yet, and you’re inconvenienced?” Mr. Cochrane looked to his companions, who nodded agreement. “The church has served us quite well until now.”
“I haven’t taught—yet—but I’ve been there every day this week, and I can already surmise the complications that will ensue.”
“Big words for such a purdy lady,” a man with white whiskers said. He turned his head and a stream of brown tobacco juice flew from his mouth into a spittoon.
Emma tried not to gag.
“We have one of them highfalutin women on our hands again, Jake,” said another who was tall and spindly. “Nothing’s good enough for them.”
“That’s not true,” Emma said quickly, her cheeks warming at the accusation. “I simply want what’s best for—”
“Miss Longley, this is a modest town,” Mr. Cochrane said with a deep drawl. “We don’t take much, and we don’t ask for much. We make do with what we have.”
“But a schoolhouse is necessary for the advancement of civilization.”
“There she goes again, talkin’ all fancy-like,” the man with white whiskers said, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“A schoolhouse would cost a lot of money to build,” Mr. Cochrane added. “Money we don’t have.”
“The only people in town with money are the Harts,” said a younger cowboy who leaned against a dirty worktable. “Why don’t you go ask GW?”
“Mr. Hart?” If he was anything like his son, she’d rather not make his acquaintance—besides, the town needed to raise their own money and take ownership of the school. It was everyone’s responsibility. “I’d prefer not ask him.”
“I can’t help you,” Mr. Cochrane said. “There’s not enough money for a new school building.”
“What if I raise the money myself?”
The white-whiskered man whistled under his breath. “Fancy and rich? Where were you when I was younger?”
“Hush up, Willie.” Mr. Cochrane turned back to Emma. “You’re telling me you’ve got enough money to spare?”
“No. I thought we could hold a fund-raiser.”
Mr. Cochrane snorted. “If you think you can raise enough money for a school in this town, be my guest.”
The other men laughed.
Emma repositioned the books. “Then I have your permission?”
Mr. Cochrane spread out his arms. “Permission granted.”