Wind Song by Margaret Brownley Page B

glistened with moisture, and her face had taken on a warm, rosy glow. Her eyes sparkled merrily over her pretty pink cheeks, and it was all he could do to tear his eyes away from her to tend the stove.
    "Breakfast smells delicious," she said, taking her place next to Matthew.
    He poured two cups of coffee and carried them to the table. "Do you always run like that in the morning?"
    She nodded. "I never start my day without doing my morning calisthenics. Nor do I allow my students to begin work without proper attention to exercising the body."
    He had a vision of thirty or more students running around a schoolhouse in downtown Washington. "Is that why you were considered too progressive?"
    "It didn't help my reputation," she admitted. "But I was right to require my pupils to exercise. As their physical condition improved, I noticed a marked improvement in their schoolwork. Every institution of learning should adopt a physical training program."
    "It's an interesting theory," he said.
    "I can assure you, Mr. Tyler, it's more than just a theory." Aware that Matthew was watching her intently, she asked. "Does Matthew attend school?"
    "It wouldn't make sense, would it? He can't speak."
    "I thought Kansas required children to attend at least twelve weeks of school a year."
    "Not until they're eight. Matthew won't be eight until next year."
    "Oh." She took a sip of hot coffee. "Has he ever spoken?"
    A muscle tightened at his jaw, as if he were debating how little or how much to say. "He spoke until two years ago."
    Maddie placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her folded hands. She wondered what had happened to make the boy stop speaking. Once or twice she'd had the strangest feeling that Matthew wanted to tell her something. It was the way he looked at her, his round face dark with intensity, his keen, determined eyes beseeching.
    Sometimes she even imagined a word trembling on his lips, though he never made a sound. What exactly would he tell her, she wondered, if he could speak? All too aware that the closed expression on his father's face was meant to forbid any further discussion, she was reluctant at first to press for answers. Still, she couldn't seem to help herself. "What happened two years ago to make him stop speaking?"
    "He found his mother dead."
    Her throat tightened around the inadequate apology. "I'm…I'm sorry." She glanced quickly at Matthew, who was watching her with that same look that made her feel so terribly inadequate. "I'm sorry," she said again for the boy's benefit, and he quickly averted his eyes. Not knowing what else to say, she finished her breakfast in silence.
    Luke stood abruptly and began clearing the table. She carried her own dirty dishes to the kitchen area and slid them into the tub of sudsy water.
    "I really am sorry…I'm used to probing into my students' backgrounds. It helps me to understand how to work with them…you know, bring out their best qualities and…"
    "Matthew is not your student."
    "I'm well aware of that." Resenting his curt reminder, she bit her lips, determined to say no more. She glanced at Matthew, who was staring down at his empty plate. Feeling sorry for him, she tried to break the tension that had suddenly settled in the dark, dismal room. "I'd better get started. I have a long ride ahead of me."
    Luke handed her a neatly wrapped package. "Just a bit of dried meat and some goat cheese. And here's a canteen of fresh water. You're not likely to find any that's safe enough to drink along the way."
    Touched by his thoughtfulness, she took the package and canteen from him. "Thank you. I'm most grateful for your hospitality."
    Luke walked over to Matthew's chair and laid his hands on his son's thin shoulders. "It was our pleasure, wasn't it, Matthew?"
    She held out her hand. "It was nice to meet you, Matthew." She smiled as the young boy stood and politely shook her hand. With his expressive eyes ad thoughtful young face, he was an appealing child. One who