Into the Wilderness by Sara Donati

his injury; Her face fell.
    "Pardon
me, Mr. Bonner," she began.
    "Nathaniel."
    Elizabeth
drew
in her breath and let it out. When she was calmer, she set her face in what she
hoped were friendly but distant lines. "Please pardon me for bumping into
you that way. I hope I did not disturb your wound."
    Nathaniel
glanced at his own shoulder and back again.
    "I
did not realize you were behind me,"
Elizabeth
finished.
    "I
was coming after you," Nathaniel said. "I should have thought that
was clear enough. I need to talk to you," he paused. "About your
schoolhouse."
    Elizabeth
looked away and made an effort to control her breathing, to steady her voice.
"I doubt that there will be a school," she said. "The people
here don't seem particularly interested in one."
    "You
give up easily."
    "I
beg your pardon?"
    "I
wouldn't have thought it of you, that you give up so easy. That little bit of
ribbing at the trading post couldn't change your mind, if it was really
set."
    "I
haven't given up," she said. "It's just—" She paused, and seeing
that Nathaniel was not laughing at her, she continued more slowly. "It's
just more complicated than I anticipated. It's not what I expected," she
finished.
    "You're
not what they expected, either," Nathaniel said.
    "And
what did they expect?" she asked, although she was a little afraid of what
Nathaniel might offer in reply.
    "Not
a bluestocking," he said lightly.
    The
term was not familiar to
Elizabeth
,
but she sensed that it was not complimentary. "I expect that unmarried
women who care little for fashion are what you call bluestockings," said
Elizabeth
.
    "A
spinster who teaches school is a bluestocking, in these parts," corrected
Nathaniel. Before
Elizabeth
could comment, he continued: "They thought that a princess was coming, you
see, the judge's daughter. Dressed in silks and satins, on the lookout for a
rich husband. The doctor, most likely. Which ain't what they got—if it weren't
for those fancy boots you could be a quaker, as simple as you dress. Since you
won't be the spoiled princess they expected, they don't know what to do with
you."
    "I
am so sorry to disappoint,"
Elizabeth
snapped.
    "On
the contrary," Nathaniel said, producing a slow smile. "I ain't the
least bit disappointed."
    In a
fluster,
Elizabeth
picked up her skirts in preparation for walking back uphill and caught sight of
her boots: soft cordovan leather polished to a gleam, brass hooks, tassels, and
delicate heels. Not sufficiently lined for the icy byroads of upper New—
York
State, her toes were
informing her. Pretty boots: her one luxury and weakness.
    "Don't
go," he said behind her in a gentler tone. "I won't make light of
your boots anymore."
    Elizabeth
came
to a halt, wondering even as she did so why she should not go. Why she did not wish to go.
    He
said, "Folks will send their children to your school, but you got to have
one first."
    She
had been ready to do battle, but
Elizabeth
found herself suddenly less angry than curious. She turned to him. "Do you
think they'll come? I thought that I had ruined everything."
    Nathaniel
stepped back off the path to lean up against a tree trunk.
Elizabeth
noted, distracted, how big a man he
was. There were many tall men in her family; uncle Merriweather dwarfed most in
the neighborhood. She realized it was not so much his size but his gaze which
truly disconcerted her, absolutely direct and without apology.
    "Folks
here're a little tougher than you might be used to, but they know an
opportunity when they see one. Didn't the judge tell you that he hired me to
build a schoolhouse for you?"
    Elizabeth
shook her head.
    "Settled
it at dinner last night."
    She
barely knew what to say. She had been truly afraid that her father would not
honor his promise, that she would never get her school; but it seemed her
father had arranged for its construction after all. A wave of reluctant
appreciation overwhelmed her, along with the realization that she had Nathaniel
to thank for this. Why he would