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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Lena’s mother had always told her she’d been born with too much spirit for a vessel as small as hers, and she found she couldn’t disagree. If all the traits a person could have were arranged in a book by frequency of appearance, “speechless” would be on the last page of hers—somewhere between “empty-headed” and “timid.”

So why today of all days did she seem to encompass all three?

“Let’s try another approach, shall we? What do you hope to accomplish if you are admitted to Miss Falco’s Academy?” The woman folded her hands gently on the table in wait, her expression steadfast.

Lena understood the question but couldn’t formulate a response. Since they’d sat down for the interview, her years of English lessons had suddenly vanished like the crickets during winter. 

All she could think about was how much the enormous broach on the woman’s collar resembled a beetle. And how her steak still sat untouched, shiny fork and knife on either side of her plate. The only thing Lena had seen her eat was some salad and a bit of bread.

What was her name again? Miss Burns or something like that. She should have been paying attention during Natasha’s turn instead of poking at her potato and trying to sneak glances toward the main dining room.

Her stepfather had insisted they meet the woman at the finest restaurant in Thunder Mesa but Lena had hardly gotten to see much of town aside from the carriage ride and brief walk inside. Now they were in a private room in the back where Henry made all of his business dealings.  

Natasha gave a tight-lipped smile. “I think my sister means to say that she is grateful for your consideration. She would very much like to immerse herself in American culture and relishes the chance to interact with other young ladies.”

“Yes, I understand that, but I really would like to hear from Miss Lena. The curriculum is very rigorous, and we rarely make exceptions for girls younger than fourteen. We need to know she understands the expectations that will be placed upon her,” the woman said much too seriously for Lena’s liking.

As if she hadn’t been brought up with piano lessons and arithmetic and every other subject since she could walk. If this were Russia she might have started attending boarding school years ago.

Is that what she really wanted, though? When Natasha hinted they might not be at home much, Lena imagined trips into town, not being shipped off to Boston. 

Mama came to her defense. “We are more than happy to show you samples of her work. Her painting skills are impeccable, as is her penmanship. Rest assured, Lena is very accomplished.”

“I am certain that is the case, however, the young woman in question must speak for herself.”

Natasha grabbed her hand under the table and subtly inched toward her until their shoulders touched. “What’s wrong, Lenochka?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember how to say anything,” Lena whispered back in Russian.

Their stepfather dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Miss Burns, money is no object. I am willing to pay a handsome sum to ensure both girls can stay together.”

The woman almost looked offended. “It’s not a question of finances, I’m afraid. Our school is well funded thanks to a generous endowment from the Society of Explorers and Adventurers, of which Miss Camellia Falco was made a member in 1851—the first woman inducted, might I add.” 

“Yes, we are very aware of your school’s reputation. I myself value education above all else. That is why the Academy is our only choice for our daughters,” Mama replied, taking a sip from her wine glass. 

Henry lifted his chin. “The S.E.A.?” 

“That’s right.” Miss Burns smiled at the flicker of recognition. “Mr. Bullion is a member as well. His daughter Abigail is a current student of ours. I’m sure she and Miss Ravenswood will be great friends.”

Barnabas T. Bullion owned the Bullion Mining Company in Tumbleweed. While Henry was obviously the more successful of the two, he detested the man. They were competitors, after all. 

Lena’s mother steered the conversation back before it could derail. “Is there anything we can do to convince you to accept Lena? She is normally so talkative. I would hate for her to miss out because of one bad day.”

“From what I have seen, I believe that she is simply too young to attend. Our standard age is sixteen. Four years is too large a gap for most girls to bridge academically and socially.”

Frowning, deep in thought, Henry turned to Lena’s mother. “Melina, do you suppose we might try sending her to school with the other children in town? Just for a few years, until she matures more.” 

Children her own age. And she’d get to see the town. Yes, that sounded like a lovely idea.

Sensing no protest from Lena, her mother nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

“Maybe I should stay, too.” Natasha squeezed her hand. 

Lena shook her head emphatically. It wouldn’t be fair. She’d seen the restrained eagerness in Natasha’s eyes, how much she was dying to go. The town’s school wouldn’t be nearly challenging enough. And she needed friends her own age. 

“It’s settled, then,” said their mother, looking at the two of them fondly. “You will both continue your schooling in your own ways.”

“Splendid,” replied Miss Burns. “The term begins in September. Now, there are some details I would like to iron out…” 

Lena’s eyes glazed over and her posture loosened as they continued speaking. If only she could see through the walls. She tracked the waiters’ movements in and out of the room, scooting her chair to get a better view. 

“Mama? Henry? Would it be alright if Lena got some air outside while we continued our conversation?” Her head jerked up as she heard Natasha’s voice. It was moments like this that she truly loved her sister. 

“Of course. Just wait by the steps,” said their mother. 

Grinning, Lena placed her napkin on the table and excused herself. 

It was bright outside. Bright, loud, and dusty. It took some time for her eyes to adjust after sitting so long inside in the windowless room of the restaurant. 

She’d almost forgotten what it was like to be among people. How many did she know by name only? 

There was the blacksmith, who she remembered had a son, though Anna may have been referring to the one in Tumbleweed. The bank was smaller than she imagined, run by Mr. Johnson, who ironically had a bit of gambling problem. Henry’s manservant Jasper knew a few men at the livery stable. She’d heard stories about runaway stagecoaches and spooked horses. 

She wandered to the other side of the street. So many places to see. The smell of hay and animals. Horses and people in carriages. Life being lived—and this, the center of it. There was nothing else around for miles. 

The bell above the dry goods store dinged as the door swung open and shut.

“Thanks, Tom. You have a good day!” 

A figure stepped out onto the boardwalk just as someone else walked by. Worn trousers, a checked shirt, and suspenders. Tall, but too slight to be a man. He paused for a second, looking at something past her that she couldn’t quite make out—or maybe not looking at anything at all—then swiftly removed his hat and lowered his head. 

It was a boy. Brown-haired and soft-cheeked. As his gaze traveled back up, his eyes locked with Lena’s. 

Staring was impolite, but it was even more impolite to stare and walk away. Lena waved and cracked a smile. 

The boy’s head swiveled left and right. There was no one else in the vicinity. Instead of smiling back, his brows knit together. 

Were ladies that rare a sight, or did she just look out of place compared to the others? The few she’d seen wore simple dresses in drab colors, nothing fashionable like in St. Petersburg. Her floral print dress and ankle boots were well made, though not as nice as the clothes she’d grown out of.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” the boy asked, jumping down and landing lightly on the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

Her mouth opened but nothing came out. That’s right. She still couldn’t talk. 

He drew closer, expecting an answer. Lips pressed tight, cheeks sticking out. His face was pleasant-looking, but there was something unusual about his mouth.

A wild thought popped in Lena’s head—no, it hopped—like the frog it looked like he might be hiding in there. Stifling a laugh, her face contorted, accidentally mimicking the way it looked. She burst into a fit of giggles. 

The boy’s face turned scarlet, his jaw working silently. He turned away.  

Oh, no. She’d upset him. She didn’t mean to upset him. Quickly, she moved to block his path. 

“Are you sick or something? Why don’t you talk?” He crossed his arms. 

Lena shook her head. There had to be something she could do. Sighing loudly so he could understand her frustration, she sat down on the boardwalk, not even bothering to dust off the rough, uneven planks, and stroked her chin. Mama would give her a scolding later, remind her that Henry’s good money was not to go to waste. 

Spotting a stick set on a nearby crate, she grabbed it and began writing in the dirt. Could he read? It was worth a try. 

Reading in Russian was more straightforward in that the letters were almost always pronounced the same. The English writing system had been tough to master, especially when it came to words like “strength” or “thought,” but she’d gotten the hang of it decently enough. 

S-O-R-R-Y

He squinted at the ground. The letters were upside down from his perspective, which he figured out, taking a seat next to her. “Alright, you’re sorry. But why were you laughing at me?” 

F-R-O-G

She pointed to his mouth. 

“You think I have a frog in my mouth?” he asked incredulously. “Well, I don’t. See for yourself.” His mouth opened wide for inspection. A pink tongue stuck out.

Lena was twelve, not a young child. Of course she knew he wasn’t really hiding anything in there. But his cheeks were big. Almost as round as hers. Her fingers went up to the sides of her face to squish them for comparison. 

At that, he huffed out a breath in disbelief. But then his expression softened into something more harmonious with his eyes, which she only now realized were dark blue and not brown. “What’s your name?” 

A quick swipe with her boot and the canvas before her was blank once more. 

L-E-N-A

“Lena,” he said with a nod. “Is something wrong? Why can’t you talk?”

S-I-C-K, she spelled out, coughing for good measure. It was easier than the truth. She was about to ask for his name when she remembered the shop keeper who must have been calling him. 

T-O-M

That one was easy. It would be spelled exactly the same in both languages. 

A thick boot, much larger than hers, swept out just his name, which she’d written above hers. Grabbing the stick from her hand, he drew an “R,” appeared to change his mind and erased it, then set the point on the ground again and dragged it down in a vertical line. 

For a while, he did nothing, merely stared at it. Maybe he could read better than he could write? Lena could listen better than she could speak, so she supposed it could work the same way. 

Not wanting to embarrass him, she waited. There was plenty more to see. A few horses were drinking from a trough, their ears wiggling. The double-swinging doors from the saloon fluttered open and closed several times.  

When she turned back, he’d rewritten T-O-M. It was underlined twice. 

“I live in Tumbleweed,” he said, circling the “o” over and over until it made a little island of dirt in the middle. A foot or so above that, he made a similar island, bigger, and connected the two with a line. “Just over a mile down the road. Lots of us come and go in between. I’ve never seen you before. Are you visiting?” 

A head shake. 

“Do you live here?” 

A nod. She raised up two fingers.

“Weeks? Months?” 

It felt wrong to erase the writing he’d taken so long to do, so she only swiped at her own. Taking the stick from his hand, she wrote, Y-E-A-R-S.

“Huh. You don’t get out much, do you?”

A bashful shrug was her response. If only he knew the half of it. 

“Well, let me be the first to welcome you here.” Tom wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it out. 

He might as well have been speaking a different language. In Russia, an introduction was a choreographed waltz—bows, nods, curtsies. Young ladies of her breeding would never do anything as vulgar as touch the hand of a stranger—a stranger who was a boy. 

Tom’s hand hovered for a few seconds before it curled in on itself and dropped to his side, the openness of his posture replaced by a polite distance. Fingers curling around the edge of the wood plank beneath him, he made a move to stand.

What was wrong with her? This was the second time she’d offended him and he’d been nothing but kind to her. The rules were different here, and it wasn’t like Lena cared much for propriety anyway. 

Her hand flew up to tug at his before he could walk away. There was the briefest contact between their fingers before his arm jerked back, and he looked at her like she was crazy, eyes startled and wide. 

Digging into her pockets, Lena pulled out a few lemon drops she’d been given by a waiter at the restaurant. She extended out her palm as a peace offering. When he didn’t react, she took one, untwisted the sides of the wax wrapper, and popped it in her mouth. Then she unwrapped another and lightly tapped the back of his hand.

“Oh, for me?” Tom’s fingers closed around the lemon drop and he held it up between his thumb and index finger. In the light it looked like a little golden gem. He smiled faintly before rewrapping it and tucking it in his shirt. “I’ll save it for later,” he said as Lena began to write in the dirt again. 

S-O-R-R-Y

“Thanks. Um, apology accepted.”

F-A-M-I-L-Y-?

A brief hesitation before he responded. “Just my ma and pa and me that live here, no siblings. But I grew up in Tucsón where my aunt and cousins still are. What about you? Any brothers?” 

He was getting very good at reading her face. 

“No? What about sisters?” 

One finger, then a cupped hand raised above her head to indicate she was older. She pointed to the restaurant across the street. 

N-A-T-A-S-H-A

“I’ve never heard that name before. Come to think of it, Lena was new for me, too. Is it short for Elena? Some of the Mexican girls I knew were called Elena.” 

She nodded. It was a common name in various countries, pronounced slightly differently depending on the language, like “Hélène” in French. Her family never called her Yelena, preferring to use the diminutive instead like they did with Natalia.

“But you’re not Mexican. And you’re not Spanish either,” Tom said assuredly.

She shook her head. 

“Then where are you from?” If their situations were reversed, Lena would have quit trying a long time ago. With his level of patience, she would have been certain he had an irksome little sister waiting for him at home. 

R-U-S-S-I-A

Off to the side, she drew what she hoped looked like a globe, then added a rounded line from one end to the other to form an arrow. For emphasis, she traced the arrow a few times. Lena scratched her head. What else could she do? 

“I know where Russia is.” Tom grabbed the edge of the stick to stop her from drawing more. “My teacher did a whole lesson on Europe.”

Too bad Tumbleweed had a separate school. It would have been nice to have a friend before she started. 

“How do you say ‘hello’ in Russian?”

That was also hard to explain. Zdravstvuy would probably be most appropriate in this situation since he was older and still a stranger. Privet worked, too, though it was more casual and familiar. 

Zdravstvuy or privet? Zdravstvuy or privet?

“Privet,” Lena spouted, loud and clear. She clapped a hand over her mouth. 

A slow smile enveloped his round face. “That’s alright. Sometimes I don’t feel like talking, either. English must be hard to learn.” 

Resting her elbows on her legs, Lena hummed in agreement. With so many thoughts swimming in her head, it was difficult to retrieve the words to express what she was thinking. 

“If you still don’t want to talk, we could play a game. How about charades? Pick something you see and act it out. I’ll try to guess what it is.”

Lena scanned the street for ideas, then gathered her skirt to stand up. With an exaggerated look of concentration, she wiped her forehead with one hand and made a fist with the other. Starting at her hip, her arm swung up and down in an arc. After a few pumps, she crouched down to lift an imaginary bucket. 

“That’s easy! It’s the water pump. Here, let me do one.” Tom rolled up his sleeves and hopped to his feet. One hand curved to mimic a wide crescent shape while the other hovered over it making small back and forth movements in a steady tempo.

Point or write? Pointing was faster. She gestured towards the blacksmith. 

“Good job, Lena!” he exclaimed. “Okay, I’ve got another one.” 

She leaned forward in encouragement.

With his elbows sharply bent out and neck extended, Tom began to walk around in a slow loop, gaze fixed intently at the ground. After a few turns he paused, waiting for her to take a guess, but she shook her head. So he continued, flapping his arms as he leaned down, his head stretching forward in sharp juts to peck at the ground.

His eyes met Lena’s in question and this time she nodded, laughing as she grabbed the stick. Tom laughed, too—a silent, joyous thing that shook his shoulders and made his teeth sparkle from the way his head tilted back.  

Two passersby sneered, and his face flattened, though the warmth in his eyes didn’t fully extinguish. He was back in his seat like he’d been scolded.

“Uh, let’s play a different game. Do you know how to play noughts and crosses?” He erased their writing and drew a grid of boxes, three down and three across. Then he drew an x in the top right square and handed her the stick.

She knew this one, too. The children at home called it “little crosses.”

They took turns marking the ground with x’s and circles, wiping the board clean with their boots after each round. Tom let her win at first (maybe he was trying to be considerate of her age), but began playing competitively once he knew Lena could hold her own. Around the fifth or six round, some commotion drew them both out of the game enough to look up.

“I ain’t ever seen you around before. Where have they been keeping you locked up, darlin’?” The sound was coming from across the street, but they couldn’t quite make out exactly where. Some horses had blocked their view. “Come over here and give me a kiss.” 

The street cleared to reveal a man outside the restaurant. Barely managing to keep himself upright, he staggered toward a retreating woman wearing a light blue dress. 

Was that…Natasha? Lena’s heart spiraled down into her stomach. 

Tom stiffened and was on his feet in an instant, dropping the stick. Not bothering to check for oncoming traffic, he bolted across to reach them, Lena at his heels. The stench of body odor and alcohol hit her nose as they approached. 

“Leave her alone!” Tom extended an arm and placed his hand on the man’s chest to create some distance between him and Natasha, who’d backed up against the wall in fear. 

“She’s mine. I saw her first,” slurred the man, shoving Tom aside. Half a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier, he overtook him easily. 

“She doesn’t belong to anyone. You’re drunk!” Tom said desperately, grabbing at him again, tugging on his sleeve. 

Lena took her chance to run over to her sister. Natasha’s hands had gone cold, her fingers shaky. Still she pulled Lena behind her protectively. 

“Mama asked me to come looking for you,” she gasped. “We were just finishing lunch. She and Henry are taking care of the bill and Miss—Miss Burns returned to the inn.” 

The man whistled over Tom’s shoulder. “Whoo, they’re popping up like wildflowers today! Ain’t no need to quarrel. One for you, one for me.”

“Pa, please stop! Leave them alone.”   

Pa? What was going on? Was that his father? 

The man was bearing his weight on Tom so hard Lena thought he would collapse, but Tom hung on, determined to keep him in his grasp. “Bet that red hair of hers means she’s fiery. I like ’em fiery. It’s more fun when they put up a fight.” The man laughed a hard, mocking sound. 

By now a group of onlookers had formed. Natasha and Lena made their way toward some women as the altercation continued between Tom and his father. Lena couldn’t understand why no one would intervene. 

“Please, pa, please don’t say those things!”

“Let me at her.”

”Stop! Let’s go home.” 

“Not before I claim my prize.”

“We’re making a scene. Come on, let me take you home. Ma’s been real worried about—” Tom’s voice was suddenly cut off as the man grabbed him by the collar and struck him across his face. He stumbled to the ground on his knees, cheek blooming bright red against his pale skin. 

“Now mind your goddamn business like your ma and quit being a milksop,” the man spat. Without a second look, he tottered toward the street, the crowd parting for him like the waters of the Red Sea. 

“Tom?” Tears shimmered in Lena’s eyes.

Alone now, dirt all over his trousers, he turned away, head hung low, shoulders trembling. Wanting to make sure he was alright, Lena tried to get closer but Natasha gave her a sharp look and steered her toward their arriving carriage instead. 

Once inside, she caught her breath, mind trying to catch up with what she’d seen. The man—Tom’s father—wanted to kiss Natasha. He wanted to do awful things, things she didn’t fully understand. But Tom had saved them both. 

The air was stifling in the closed carriage and Lena’s dress felt itchy, but she couldn’t bring herself to roll down the window. Her sister was sitting across from her, looking out the window in dignified stoicism. She offered no explanation for what had happened. 

After a few minutes, mama and Henry exited the restaurant. The driver motioned for Henry and they pulled off to the side to exchange a few words, their mother joining them in the carriage. 

Lena pressed her forehead to the window. 

The driver spoke first. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t able to see it for myself, but something happened with Miss Ravenswood. I have it on good authority from a witness who saw the whole thing.” 

“Well?” Henry demanded. “Is she injured?”

“I don’t believe so. They didn’t harm her, didn’t lay a finger. She’s spooked, though, her and Miss Lena. It seems a drunk man made some lewd remarks, caused a ruckus big enough to draw attention. I came in right as people were leaving.”

“How long ago did this happen?” 

“Just a few minutes ago.” 

“And the man responsible? He must be held accountable. No one disrespects my family and gets away with it.”  

The driver hesitated, his hands twisting in front of him. “Reynolds, sir. Bill Reynolds.”  

Henry’s face hardened in quiet rage.

The carriage ride back was the bleakest Lena could remember, all the anticipation left behind, trampled in the dirt along with the boy with the kind eyes and cruel father—not Tom like she’d thought, but Robert. With a capital “R.” 

Even though Henry forbade speaking of the incident, word traveled lightning fast through the servants. By the time Lena overheard two cooks discussing it a few days later, the story had been twisted so thoroughly it was a wonder her sister had managed to survive. Only a few renditions mentioned Robert Reynolds. None of them were good. 

Natasha remained in her room as she usually did, which only fueled the rumors. Gradually things returned to normal. Preparations began for her departure. Her smile returned, and she brushed Lena’s hair for much longer than needed, as if to make up for future time lost.

She didn’t ask Lena about how she knew the boy who had come to their defense, and Lena said nothing about it—not even to Anna. Her voice had dried up like a well. 

Chapter Text

Fall 1854

The first day of school was always bittersweet. Mothers and fathers walking with the younger children, nervous to part for the first time. Friends laughing and shouting in reunion after a long summer. Siblings nudging each other and whispering secrets.

Robert had always wanted a sibling—a partner to play in the creek with or fight with or tell scary stories to in the dark. A built-in friend. The day he’d met Lena, she’d been curious and funny without saying a word, and for a second it almost felt like he had a sister—a sweet, mischievous younger sister who teased him. 

Then the illusion had been ruined. A false name couldn’t cover up the truth about his family. She’d found out all she ever needed to know. Shame compressed his stomach at the memory of the hurt and confusion in her big green eyes. No, it was better that Robert had no siblings at all. 

He walked past the chatter of students and stepped inside the schoolhouse. Arriving early to help always made him feel important. Needed. It was a nice way to start the day. 

His teacher was writing on the chalkboard.

“Morning, Miss Barlow.” 

She turned to him and smiled. “Good morning, Robert. How was your summer?”

“Same as always,” he said, placing his satchel by his usual seat—the second row next to the window. “And yours?” 

“Very busy. I spent most of my summer in Santa Fe with the family I used to stay with when I taught there. They own a bakery now and gave me a recipe for pinyon nut cookies. I made a batch to share at lunch.” 

“That’s real nice of you, ma’am.” The smells coming from the bakery always made his mouth water, and having fresh cookies would be a treat. Robert’s jitters calmed by a fraction, but he still stood by his desk, unsure of what to do. His fingers tapped an erratic beat at his side. 

Miss Barlow nodded toward a bundle on her desk. “Those pencils could use some sharpening.” 

He got to work instantly, pulling his switchblade from his pocket, and lined himself up over the dustbin. With his thumb an inch from the edge of the pencil, he pushed the blade until a sliver of wood fell down. The process was repeated several times, each pencil rotated until it formed a point. 

Line up, swipe, rotate. Line up, swipe, rotate. 

“Did you get a chance to read the book I gave you?” 

He kept his eyes down. “A little. Not as much as I’d hoped. Ma and pa kept me busy around the cabin.” 

“Well, it wasn’t homework, so you needn’t worry. A gift is a gift, whatever you choose to do with it,” Miss Barlow said gently. 

She probably thought he’d already sold it. The truth was almost worse; it was just sitting there. Unopened and untouched. 

Robert kept the few items he’d been gifted over the years in a latched wooden box next to his bed tick. Besides the book Miss Barlow had given him, there was a medio real silver Mexican coin, some marbles, a slingshot, and various other small items. 

He opened the box every now and then to inspect the objects but never use them. If he used them, they’d eventually spoil, acquiring dirt and dust, and then it would be impossible to get them clean again. One day when he was old enough to get far away from this place, he’d bring everything out for good. 

After finishing the stack of pencils, Miss Barlow had the next task lined up. Together they unfurled a cheerful-looking “Welcome” sign with little flowers drawn on and hung it on the wall. 

Then there was sweeping—always sweeping. So much dust. Organizing the new materials she’d brought in. Little chores to fill the hour until at last the only thing left to do was pass out slates, chalk, and a cloth at each desk. Row by row Robert left the items, the familiar routine ingrained like muscle memory. 

“There is one more favor I have to ask.” Miss Barlow said somewhat hesitantly.

“Gather the firewood? I already got it.” 

She chuckled. “No, that’s not it, but I appreciate your forethought. It’s about a new student.” 

Robert let out a breath. “Oh, sure.” 

Children moved in and out all the time. The first few days were always a little awkward for them—not knowing anyone or how things worked. For many it was their first time at school. Miss Barlow liked to pair the new student with someone of a similar age so they could have a partner. 

“Would you be willing to help out? It is awfully hard being new, especially when you’ve never been around other students.” 

There was no way he was hearing her correctly. “I get to be someone’s partner?” 

“Yes, if that’s alright with you.”  

He straightened his shoulders. “What’s his name? Did he just move into town?” 

She smiled cryptically as she walked to the door. “You’ll get to meet her soon enough.” 

Her? 

“I thought I’d try something different. You know how fickle girls can be. One moment they’re best friends and the next they don’t even want to be in the same room together.” She sighed, opening the floodgates as Robert returned to his seat. A horde of students rushed inside, still chattering excitedly. 

The last first day of school ended with a lot of hair-pulling and one student running away in tears. Girls were frustratingly loud and shrieky in groups, but with all their arguing about silly things he could be sure he was never the subject of their conversation. Well, he hoped not anyway. 

Once everyone had settled in, Miss Barlow introduced the new students, starting with the youngest. Two fresh faces, just six years-old, sat at the front and shyly waved to the class.

She caught his eye. “And finally, we have a very special student joining us this year. She has been working hard learning English and comes to us all the way from Russia. Class, please welcome Lena.” 

Robert’s breath stuttered. Slowly he turned his head around, and there she was sitting two rows behind him. Freckle-nosed with her blonde hair pulled up tight. The same smile she’d worn when they met three months before now directed at the other students. 

“Lena is Mr. Ravenswood’s daughter. As you know, his generosity is the reason this school exists. Everything we have here is thanks to him.”  

A Ravenswood? This whole time that was who he’d been talking to—talking at? He didn’t even know Mr. Ravenswood had a family. 

Now it made sense why she and her sister didn’t look like they belonged. Their dresses had been too nice, their faces all clean and elegant. Miss Barlow was too polite to say, but they must be his stepdaughters. Not blood related, but blue bloods all the same. 

The portrait of Henry Ravenswood that hung next to the chalkboard felt very ominous now. His arms were crossed in front of him, a stern look in his dark eyes. No facial hair, the permanent frown on his face unconcealed. Robert could practically feel the disapproval oozing through. 

What a joke that he’d been chosen to be Lena’s partner. His father caused so much trouble in Thunder Mesa it was a wonder Mr. Ravenswood never had him arrested. Maybe mine owners didn’t concern themselves with the lives of lowly, regular folk. 

“Robert.” His teacher tapped his desk lightly. 

“Hmm?” He looked up. Such rotten timing to go into a fog, not even half an hour into the school day. 

“We’re breaking up into groups of three to discuss and write about our summer. Please go sit with Lena and Ava. Then when you return, I want you and Lena to be desk mates.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  

Miss Barlow never talked down to him or made him feel dumb. She also didn’t make a scene of things, always speaking to him quietly. 

He grabbed his slate and chalk and found the two of them sitting on the floor near the coat hooks, Ava smiling and talking animatedly to a cautiously interested Lena, whose gaze traveled from his feet all the way up to his face as he approached. Was she still angry at him for what had happened? She had every right to be. 

Wanting to be anywhere but in the present moment, he forced himself to sit next to her, taking care not to step on her dress. But he couldn’t look her in the eye. Not yet. 

Ava was immune to the tension. “Lena, this is Robert. He’s one of the older boys now that a few left to work in the mines over the summer.”

“Hi,” he said, staring at a spot on Lena’s forehead. “I’ve been assigned to be your school partner. That means I’ll help you if you have any trouble.” 

She nodded in response. 

“She’s shy,” explained Ava like she’d known Lena for years instead of minutes. At fifteen, she was the “mother hen” of the school. 

This was almost worse than if it was just the two of them—pretending that they hadn’t met before, that she hadn’t seen him embarrass himself in front of everyone. 

“Uh, so we’re supposed to be talking about our summer, right? What did you do?” he asked Ava. 

“Laundry. Piles and piles of it. My mother is a laundress.” She turned to Lena. Robert knew the story so it was fine. “It sounds like it’d be easy if you’ve never done it, but it takes all day. Soaking and scrubbing and then hanging things up to dry. The worst part is the ironing. They’re really heavy and hot. But the good thing is I got a lot of practice. In a few years I’ll get to join her and my older sister.” She grabbed her slate to write and directed her attention at Robert. “Well, what about you?” 

He cleared his throat, hoping to sound convincing. “I read Gulliver’s Travels. Miss Barlow gave it to me before we left for the break.” 

That was a safe answer, right? Avoiding any talk of family. 

Ava shot him a look of disbelief. 

“I did,” he asserted, feeling self-conscious. “It took me a long time, but I finished it.”  

“What was it about?” 

Robert squinted, trying to remember what his teacher had told him. “Well, it was about a boy named Gulliver who…traveled a lot. Went to different places, met a lot of different people. Yeah, he—he traveled.”  

“Right. I could have worked that out myself. Anything more specific?” Nothing ever went past Ava.

This would probably dig him deeper, but he said it anyway. “He went to Australia.” 

“Australia,” she repeated with skepticism. “A book from a hundred years ago mentioned a penal colony halfway across the world?”

Robert gripped his slate tight. A scratching sound to his right caught his attention. Lena had started writing furiously, her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration. 

Slate full, she lifted it up to both of them, her eyes trying to communicate something to Robert he couldn’t stomach looking at her long enough to decipher. 

He is right. I read it this summer. Gulliver meets the Aboriginal Australians. They teach him how to fish. He lives with them for two years. Then he leaves on a trade ship. 

A lucky guess, then. Ava must have thought so, too, but she didn’t push, and asked Lena about her summer in a much warmer tone that she’d used with Robert. Girls, he thought. At least Lena didn’t seem to be upset with him. 

She wiped her slate clean, this time only writing one sentence. 

I made a friend in town. 

Oh. She’d probably been to Thunder Mesa several times after the catastrophe that was their encounter. Good for her. It might have helped her erase the memory. 

“Who was it? Anyone we know?” Ava asked, but there was no time to find out. Miss Barlow called them back to their seats to begin their reading and spelling drills.

When they broke for writing, Robert handed out pencils and notebooks for the older students. They were expected to pair up for this activity, and he didn’t have to ask who to go with this time. He worked with Lena in companionable silence, peeking at her writing occasionally—much better than his, unsurprisingly—until Miss Barlow announced it was time for lunch. 

From under her desk Lena pulled out a wicker basket lined with cloth, and unwrapped it to reveal roast chicken, cheese, a roll with some kind of preserves, and baked apples in a jar.

Most kids ate beans and cornbread. The meal stuck out like a sore thumb. A few students exchanged glances, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you have a cup? I’ll go fill it with mine.” Robert inclined his head toward the communal water bucket. 

Air ballooned in her cheeks.  

So that was a no. He scanned her area to be sure. Everything she’d brought was in front of her. She wasn’t the only one without a cup. The kids even poorer than Robert had to drink straight from the dipper. 

“Oh, well in that case you can…” Watching a younger boy approach the bucket, dunk the dipper, and slurp messily, the words snagged in his throat. There was probably dirt and spit and all kinds of gross things there. And she wasn’t used to sharing anyway. 

He waited for the child to finish before filling his own tin cup and setting it on her desk. Her gaze went back and forth between him and the cup, hesitation written all over her face. 

“I washed it at home, promise. It’s as clean as it can get,” said Robert, wiping off a smudge with the sleeve of his shirt. “If you’re worried about the water, I can fetch some fresh—”

The urge to drink overtook any qualms she had. Grabbing the cup in both hands, she tilted it back and drank all the water in one gulp. Her lips smacked lightly as she set it down. 

Robert blinked. He left to collect more, and this time she waited until he had unwrapped his own lunch before taking small, demure sips. 

The next problem was obvious. She hadn’t brought a spoon either. Sighing, he used a cloth to clean the one he’d brought and placed it on her desk. They ate their lunch—Robert with his jerky and stale cornbread, Lena with her spread that was easily the fanciest food he’d seen up close. 

Miss Barlow kept the cookies by her desk. Robert retrieved two and set them down, and Lena picked hers up to study it. They were small and round, a yellowish color, with toasted nuts rolled and baked all around. 

“Have you ever had pinyon nut cookies before?” 

Her head shook. 

“They’re really tasty. You know what cookies are, right?” 

An emphatic nod. 

Okay, they could work with this. “What about pinyon nuts?”

Lena’s furrowed brow told him all he needed to know. 

How to explain? “Well, it’s a seed. Something that falls out of a tree in these big, hard pine cones. You make sure it’s all dried out before you can harvest the nut. They just come right out. Then after that you can bake with them, eat them straight…”

For someone who said absolutely nothing, Lena didn’t hold back her feelings. She rolled her eyes. 

“You know what nuts are,” he said, mentally chiding himself. “Just not pinyon nuts. Do they not have those in Russia?” 

Apparently not. 

“There’s a pine tree right outside the schoolhouse. I’ll show you after we finish eating. But just…try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat yours.” 

Maybe he should have kept quiet so he had more for himself. But seeing her nibble the side of her cookie, eyes widening with wonder, he felt a surge of pride bubble up. The desert didn’t have much, but there was still plenty to like if you looked hard enough. 

Robert checked the clock. “We have some time left before lunch and recess are over. If we hurry, we can even eat some.” 

Lena nodded, rewrapped her food scraps, and tucked them back into her basket. She mimed a washing motion for the cup and spoon and placed them on top. The thought of his things inside Ravenswood Manor was too bizarre to comprehend. 

They climbed down the steps of the schoolhouse and he led her under the shade of one of the trees. 

“Look, there are already some on the ground. You see how these are open?” He picked one up and ran his fingers over the scales that looked like flower petals. “We want to look for dried pine cones like this. The nuts are in there.”

Together they worked sorting good from bad. When they had a sufficient pile, Robert showed her how to gently pluck off the scales to collect the seeds. Lena scooped as he peeled off the dark brown shells, eating a few and collecting the rest in a small sack. 

Two students leaning against another tree had been watching them for a while—John, who was also Robert’s age, and his best friend, a year younger. “Would ya look at that, Lamar? The Ravenswoods not only built this town, they got their daughter doing charity work, too. Helping the poor and needy.” 

Robert’s hands shook as he clenched the sack of seeds, nails digging into his palms until they made indentations. It was alright—he just had to hold on for a minute until it passed. They continued gathering, Lena crouching as she picked cones off the ground. 

“He doesn’t even live in town. Why doesn’t he go to school in Tumbleweed?” 

“Because no one wants him there, either.” John snickered. “Picking up trash and eating it. That’s all he is, just like his pa.” 

A sickly feeling washed over Robert but he ignored it. It was over anyway. The boys turned their backs to continue whatever it was they had been discussing. But before he knew what was happening, he caught a blur of something bright pink moving very, very quickly. 

In a flash Lena had her hands planted on John’s back, shoving him forcefully. His legs tangled on the tree roots as he fell forward. He cried out.

Some students rolling a wooden hoop stopped in their tracks to edge closer and see for themselves. 

Had she just—? For him? 

Standing rigid with her hands on her hips, Lena’s breathing was coming in heavy gusts. She puffed away a loose lock of hair from her reddened face.  

Miss Barlow arrived on the scene as Lamar was helping John up, his trousers dirtied and torn below the knee. “What on earth is going on here?” 

“Someone pushed John,” someone said with clear delight in their voice. 

“Who was it?” 

“I couldn’t see. But it was one of them.” Lamar pointed a finger at Lena and Robert. 

No, she couldn’t get in trouble because of him, and on the first day of school, too. Mr. Ravenswood would be so angry. Just thinking of that man’s harsh gaze made him shudder. 

“I did it,” blurted Robert, raising his hand in surrender. “I pushed him. They said something that made me angry.” 

The disappointment in his teacher’s eyes was immeasurable. “I see.” 

But then Lena tugged at Miss Barlow’s sleeve, and she whispered something in her ear he couldn’t hear. Her brows rose. 

“Recess time is over. Return to your seats inside,” she said simply. “Robert, Lena—you two will stay after class to tidy and sweep the schoolhouse. Lena, shoving is not an appropriate form of communication. I am certain it is not tolerated by your parents and it is not tolerated here. And Robert, a lie to protect someone else is still a lie. You are not sparing anyone punishment by absorbing it yourself.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He couldn’t believe it. Lena had not only defended him, she hadn’t allowed him to take the blame, either. What was going on in that head of hers?

John and Lamar still looked dissatisfied. They walked back inside with a huff. Lena and the other children soon followed, but Robert dragged his feet, too stunned by what had happened. 

Miss Barlow held the door open as he climbed up the steps. She leaned forward, voice low. “Friendships are all about give and take. Let others decide what they are willing to contribute before you rush to reciprocate.” Her gaze softened, and she smiled as she returned to the chalkboard to begin their history lesson. 

Since he’d started attending school, Robert had never been in trouble a single day in his life, too much of a rule-follower to do anything wrong. His track record now gone to pieces, he felt a strange sense of relief. The world hadn’t ended, the punishment wasn’t terrible. Cleaning was something he actually enjoyed. 

“I need to step outside for a while. There’s someone I want to speak with. Can I trust you to clean up on your own?” Miss Barlow was looking at the two of them. The classroom was quiet now that everyone else had left. 

Robert nodded. “I promise we won’t leave until all the chores are done.” 

“Alright, just call on me if you need anything,” she said, and closed the door behind her. They were alone now. This was his chance. 

“I…um—so I just wanted to…” Gosh, why was this so hard? “Thank you…for what you did. And for not being mad at me anymore even though I deserve it.” 

The corner of Lena’s mouth puckered and her eyebrows bunched together in dissatisfaction. Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. He tried again. 

“Look, I’m really sorry for—”

“Why are you apologizing?” Her voice came out unexpectedly sharp, her Russian accent warping the words. 

Robert startled. “What?” 

“I’m not mad at you. I never was.”

“But I lied about my name. And my pa—my father, I mean—he was awful to your sister. To both of you.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” she insisted. “You saved us. And today, you gave me your cup and spoon.” 

“Well, I’m not that nice,” said Robert quickly, not wanting any more misunderstandings. “I only let you borrow those. I’ll—I need them back tomorrow.” 

That made Lena laugh, but there was no malice behind it. Robert felt the awkwardness between them melt, and his face relaxed into a smile.

“You are very odd,” she said. 

“So are you. Why didn’t you talk until now?”

“I don’t know. I was scared.” 

“You’re not scared anymore?” 

She shrugged. “Not right now. There’s no one else here. But if I had to talk in front of the class, I don’t think I could. Not yet.” 

He believed her. As brave as she’d been, she must also be very nervous. His jitters hadn’t fully gone away, so he couldn’t imagine what hers looked like. Not knowing anyone, having to eat different foods and speak a whole new language. It must be lonely. 

Robert grabbed two brooms from the closet near Miss Barlow’s desk and handed her one. Something told him now that Lena had broken whatever spell she’d been under, he’d have a hard time getting her to be quiet. That was alright with him. “Tell me about your sister.” 

“She’s in Boston now, in finishing school. I could have been there, too, if I had been able to say anything during the interview.” She took the broom by the handle and began to aimlessly sweep the same spot back and forth. Cleaning must be new to her, too. 

“Oh, no. That’s—I’m sorry to hear that.” Robert said, trying to figure out how to tell her nicely. 

“I like this better. Being around other children my age is fun. And we get to play games.” 

An idea sparked. “Hey, I just thought of one. Let’s see who can pick up the most dirt. You start in this corner and I’ll start over there.” He pointed to the furthest row of desks. “We’ll each take half the room and sweep from back to front until we meet at the door.”

She gave a wicked grin and got into position. “Alright.”

“Ready?” Robert asked, gripping the handle tight, and at her nod they began, sweeping behind the chalkboard and under the desks. This time he knew better than to let her win, and the satisfaction of doing so was made better by how well she matched his pace. 

Collapsing against the wall in defeat as Robert scooped up the dirt in a dustbin, Lena caught her breath. “Is this how you do all your chores?”

“No, but it does make things go by faster. Are you ready to give up or do you want to try something else?”

“Quit? Never,” she said, a glint in her eye. 

For the next half hour, everything was turned into a game—stacking books, removing residue from the slates, even stepping outside to dust the entry mat.

Both exhausted, they moved on to wiping the windows with a wet rag. Lena had really taken the cleaning to heart. She stared at a stubborn stain for a long time, the corners of her mouth lowering in an exaggerated pout. How peculiar. It looked like someone had tied a string and yanked them down. 

“Are you alright?” Robert asked.

Still scrubbing at the window, she turned to face him. “Yes. Why do you ask?” 

“Your face—it just—it looks like…sorry, let’s keep going. We’re almost finished.” He pretended to wipe his nose with his sleeve to conceal his laughter.

Is this what she’d felt like when they first met? After the incident, he’d inspected his mouth with the small mirror pa used for shaving. She wasn’t wrong. There was something sort of funny about it.

“What? What does my face look like? And why are you hiding yours?” she demanded. 

Robert pulled down the corners of his mouth with his fingers. 

“I do not look like that!” 

“Yes you do.” Robert smiled, liking that his teasing made her frown even more. 

“Fine. But you look like you’re hiding something in your mouth.” 

“I know! You said that already.”

Looking more pleased than she ought to have been, Miss Barlow returned to the schoolhouse and paused their squabbling enough so they could finish cleaning the windows.

Chores complete, they soon parted ways. Lena entered the carriage he’d seen her board last time, her pink dress fading behind the glass. It took off, and despite the sun beating down on Robert as he began the walk home, things felt a little less bright than they had five minutes before. 

His mother was in the rocking chair on the porch. 

“Hi, ma. How was your day?” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. Her face felt thinner. 

She kept her eyes trained on the needle she was threading. Mending clothes was hard work. “We need your uncle’s help more than ever. Be sure to stop by the Express Office tomorrow after school.”

“Sure. Miss Barlow says hello, by the way.”

“She’s been teaching at that school a long time.” 

“Yeah, she has.” Robert hesitated. There was still something nagging his brain. “Why do I go to school in Thunder Mesa and not here? I just—uh—I was wondering. One of the other kids asked and…I didn’t know what to say.”

His mother still didn’t look up. “You should be very grateful to attend such a nice school. Tumbleweed doesn’t have half as many nice things. They can’t keep a teacher more than six months.” 

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth was what she was trying to say. But that’s not what he’d meant. 

“I am grateful, I just wanted to know—” 

“Go on and get started on your homework before your pa gets here. Lord knows he’ll have something for you to do.”

Robert nibbled on his lip. “Yes, ma.” 

It would have been nice if she’d asked about his day. He was practically itching to say something—about the pinyon nut cookies he’d tried, that he’d been chosen to be someone’s partner. Maybe even that he’d made a new friend. But ma wasn’t really the talking type. 

Entering the cabin, he climbed up the rungs of the ladder and grabbed the wooden box that was wedged against the corner, carefully lifting it open.

His hands reached for the tightly bound hardcover copy of Gulliver’s Travels, its spine intact, pages sticking together in the way only a new book would.

That morning, the idea of Lena lying to spare him seemed too impossible to entertain. But now?

A note slipped out as he opened the cover. 

Robert,
My hope is that you read this book twice. Once as you are now, and you let yourself dream and imagine new worlds to your heart’s content. Then a second time, when you’re older, and you discover that the injustice you face now was undeserved. It was a reflection of society’s moral failings, not your own. 

May this book shape you to create a world free from those restraints. Your greatest strength has never been in your intellect or work ethic but your kindness, which you have in spades. Preserve the light inside and it will never guide you astray. Happy Birthday.

All My Best,
Miss Barlow

Robert followed the note’s creases to fold it back into place, an unfamiliar (but not unpleasant) ache pulling on his chest. He closed the book. The truth might take away some of the good he’d accumulated.

Instead he dug in the box and pulled out a candy wrapped in white wax paper. He unwrapped it, lifted it between his thumb and index finger. It looked exactly as it had three months before: tiny and golden and perfect. 

“Your pa’s home!” His mother’s voice called out, the canary in the coal mine. No more than thirty seconds before he would come in.

The lemon drop was rewrapped, the note slid behind the cover of the book. That was where they belonged, where they were safe and clean. The latch clicked softly as it closed, and Robert placed the box in its spot, within arm’s reach as he slept. Then he emerged from the hidden space to await his father, feeling braver than he had in a long time.