“Children, make a run for it,” she called out as she quickly doused the fire in the round-bellied stove with a pail of water. “You’d better hurry, it looks like a big one!”
It was the right thing to do, she decided; they were already bundled up and ready to go home, and she’d officially declared school out. There would be no teaching her disappointed pupils if she changed her mind and kept them inside.
And there would be no pretending with Tiny in the snug little farmhouse, cooking him the meal she’d planned—Ma Anderson had left a plucked and dressed chicken, saying they wouldn’t be home until after dinner. There would be no snuggling together in the big rush rocker. No kisses designed to lasso her cowpoke.
“Go home,” Gerda called gaily over the whine of the wind that was causing some of the students to halt in confusion. They looked at her, questions in their eyes. Homestead children understood weather. Shelter in place—wasn’t that what they were taught to do in a blizzard?
But they were also taught to always obey Teacher.
It wasn’t a blizzard yet, Gerda determined; it was only a startlingly dark cloud with no borders and a fierce wind whipping up the snow already on the ground; not much was falling from the sky. If everyone left now, they’d be home, snug and dry, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. “If you live too far away, stay with a friend who’s nearer. But if you run now, you’ll be fine!” She clapped her hands to make her point, hastily threw on her own shawl and the knitted blue hat with the jaunty pom-pom that Tiny loved, grabbed Minna and Ingrid by the hands, and ran out of the schoolhouse, the door shutting on its own as the wind kicked up something fierce.
Then she leapt into the sleigh with the two girls. Tiny jumped in beside her, and with a shout, he slapped the reins down on the haunches of the bay, and they took off, trying to outrace the storm.
There was a moment, when she turned around to look at the receding backs of her students only to find, to her astonishment, that the snow—suddenly tumbling down from the sky to mix with the snow kicked up from the ground—had already swallowed them up. She almost told Tiny to turn around; maybe she should run after them and bring them back to the schoolhouse, after all.
But then Tiny smiled down at her, and even though the temperature seemed to be plummeting by the heartbeat, and her eyelashes had little drops of ice on the ends weighing them down, she smiled back.
And she laughed as Tiny urged the bay to go faster.
CHAPTER 5
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DON’T EVER LOSE THAT SLATE or that bucket! They cost a dime. A whole dime, do you understand? If you lose them, you can’t go to school anymore. And come right home after. No dawdling.
The words were pounded into Anette’s brain as thoroughly as if Mother Pedersen had taken a hammer to her skull. She never had lost the slate or bucket, and she never had dawdled, and she wouldn’t begin now. She clutched the slate tightly to her chest, beneath her shawl, the bucket in her other hand, and bent into the wind. She couldn’t open her eyes at all against the force of it, the hard pebbles of ice pounding her face. But her feet knew the way—hadn’t she made this trip hundreds of times? All she had to worry about was the ravine at the edge of the farm. But that was a mile away. She just had to run, that was all—run faster than normal to chisel through the wall of wind blowing her backward with every other step.
But Teacher was yelling at her to come back inside—Teacher, who knew how Mother Pedersen was! Who knew that she meant what she said and that if you crossed her, even with a look, she would make your life miserable. Mother Pedersen would act on her threat, that was one thing Anette knew—she didn’t like sending Anette to school at all. She only did it because it was the law or something—maybe because Teacher boarded with them, and so she couldn’t very well keep Anette from attending. But Mother Pedersen never stopped talking about the expense of the slate and the pail and the clothes, and the work she had to do in Anette’s absence.