Spring — 1880

NO VISITORS. NO PEDDLERS. No Admittance.

Clear enough, Alicia thought, even as her fist pounded loudly on the solid oak front door. For the third time, she delivered four resounding thumps, then caught her breath as the door opened far enough for her to see the man facing her.

One hand lifted and the index finger pointed to the hand- lettered sign.

"Can't you read plain English?"

That the man was in a wheeled chair came as no surprise, but his total lack of courtesy took Alicia's breath away. As did the sight of dark brows and a cynical frown that seemed intent on frightening her off his porch. "Can you speak English?" he asked, his tone only marginally less rude.

"Yes, of course I can," she answered crisply, determined not to backtrack. Indeed, had she done so, she'd have landed in a fine crop of tall weeds, just to the left of the rickety steps. She'd noticed them as she made her way up the sidewalk, before her attention was drawn to the porch stairs that sagged in the middle where a board was broken.

"You have a step in dire need of repair," she pointed out. "You're lucky I didn't fall and break a leg."

"At least you have one to break," he growled, his lips drawn back over his teeth.

He'd actually snarled at her. There was no other word for it. Until this moment she'd never realized that a human voice could mimic that of an angry dog. Perhaps he had good reason, after all, she thought.

"No, I have two," she said, correcting him mildly.

"But since I need them both, I'm just as glad I didn't have an accident making my way onto your porch."

"You needn't have bothered to come visiting," he said harshly. "As the sign clearly states, I'm not receiving callers." One large hand lifted to halt her words as she inhaled and prepared to explain the reason for her visit. "I never receive callers," he reiterated. "Not today. Not any day in the foreseeable future."

He pushed his chair backward and prepared to close the heavy door.

Alicia was quicker than he, and her sturdy, black, buttoned-above-the-ankle boot jammed into the space before he could slam the solid chunk of wood in her face.

"Get your damn foot out of my door." This time it was a subdued roar, delivered from a face twisted with anger. "Do I have to call the sheriff to toss you out on your fanny?" He looked her up and down. "Though unless my eyes deceive me, it might take two husky men to do the job."

Alicia felt the flush climb her cheeks. It was an insult, delivered with scathing honesty — but an insult, nevertheless. And as the town's schoolteacher, she had, until this moment, been accorded the courtesy due her position. She gritted her teeth. That her weight was, and had always been, a problem, was neither here nor there. But his blatant intention to offend her had touched a sore spot, one she guarded closely.

"Two husky men?" Her brow jerked upward. "More like three," she answered crisply, "unless the blacksmith is one of them."

Jake McPherson bowed his head, and Alicia wondered if it could possibly be a gleam of amusement she caught sight of, as one corner of his mouth twitched. Then he offered her his full attention, once more delivering a measuring look at her person.

"I don't entertain," he said, his mouth firm, his eyes dark as the coals she'd shoveled into the potbellied stove this morning. "I bid you good day…madam." As if he could move her foot by a glare, he stared down at it again.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to be given the privacy I'm entitled to," he told her sharply. "I've wasted enough time on you already."

"Not nearly enough," she said firmly. "I think you'll find you need to listen to what I have to tell you, Mr. McPherson."

"I don't need to listen to anything anyone has to say," he answered. Then, as he would have forced the door closed, never mind the presence of her shoe, he halted, his hand touching the knob. "How the hell do you know my name?"

"It happens to be the same as your son's. McPherson," she said. "I'm Jason's teacher. I really need to talk to you," she added, and then awaited his cooperation.

"I doubt that. I don't really need to talk to anyone, lady." He looked beyond her to where two women stood at the end of his sidewalk, just beyond the gate that sagged on one hinge. "Did you bring a whole contingent of cackling hens with you? Or did they just happen by for the show?" he asked.

"I didn't intend to perform for you, sir," Alicia told him, wishing fervently that she were anywhere else in the world right now. Back in her tiny bedroom or even in the cold schoolhouse, where her desk awaited her attention and the floor still needed sweeping due to the broken glass that littered it. Not to mention that the blackboard had not yet been wiped clean of today's arithmetic problems.

"I doubt you could do any tricks I haven't seen at one time or another, anyway," he said. "Now, take your damn foot out of my door and leave my house off your list of places to visit. Mind the step when you leave. I can't come to your rescue if you fall."

"If I write you a letter, will you read it?" she asked, desperate to be heard by this man, in any way available.

His look in her direction bordered on crude, his words derisive. "I don't accept love letters from strange women."

If he was trying to be offensive and rude, he was certainly succeeding, she thought glumly. If the man thought he was going to get the best of her, he had another think coming. She hadn't gathered her courage in both hands to be turned away at his front door. Besides, there was some indefinable look in his eyes that compelled her to continue this discussion. Her response was quick and to the point.

"Love letters? I doubt you'd ever get one," she snipped. She watched him frown and look surprised at the same time, then she leaned forward and shoved the door, causing his chair to roll backward toward the wall, where it tilted precariously for a moment before it settled back down.

With a quick movement, she slid through the opening and glanced back out to the sidewalk in front of the house. One of the spectators had her hand over her mouth, the other was leaning forward as if to look beyond Alicia's sturdy figure. She'd managed to draw enough attention to herself to last a long time, she thought resignedly.

There was nothing for it but to face the man in his lair, and hope he didn't have a gun handy. If looks could kill, she'd be six feet deep in the churchyard tomorrow. Fortunately, she'd faced down more angry opponents in her life than Jake McPherson. She'd survive this encounter. One way or another, she'd speak her piece before she left this house. Some way, she vowed silently, she'd make him smile before she was done.

He trembled with anger, his hands gripping the tires of his chair. Unless she was mistaken, his first inclination was to run her over where she stood. Perhaps he was having second thoughts, she decided. Having gotten a good look at her, he might have recognized that she was not a woman to be trifled with.

Taller than most women, she stood eight inches over five feet. Blessed by her family background with an ample backside and a bosom to equal it, she was a match for any average man. Any average man, she thought, beginning to rue her actions. She blushed anew as she recognized her brazen behavior, aware that she had crossed the boundary lines of good conduct.

"I apologize, Mr. McPherson," she said quietly.

"I've been rude. If this matter weren't so important, I wouldn't have come calling without first requesting an appointment."

"Rude doesn't begin to describe you, ma'am," he told her. "You've forced your way into my house, attacked my person and now you refuse to leave."

From the rear of the house, a door slammed and Jake's head turned in that direction. "You'll have to excuse me. My son has come in, and he'll need help with fixing supper."

"Jason fixes the meals?" she asked. The boy was only nine years old. Certainly old enough for chores, but far too young to be entrusted with cooking on a stove he could barely reach with safety.

"As well as you'd expect," Jake answered, "our housekeeper quit."

Alicia tried in vain to hide her smile. "I heard from one of the ladies in the general store that you have a difficult time keeping any hired help."

"That's none of your damn business," he told her.

"Now, just leave, if you please. That's about as polite as I'm going to be today. You'd better open that door and walk across that threshold right now, or I'll send Jason after the sheriff."

"Oh, I think perhaps the sheriff would be eager to see your son, Mr. McPherson," she said quietly. "However, I doubt that Jason is interested in showing his face anywhere near a lawman right now."

Jake's hands moved up to grip the armrests and then, as if he sought a distraction, he smoothed the lap robe that concealed his lower limbs. What there was left of them. One was longer than the other, Alicia noticed, for the small quilt outlined Jake's right knee and draped from it. The other leg was even more damaged, it seemed, missing above the knee.