Sycamore Hill Read Online Free

to spend.
    As soon as my wayward trunk arrived in Sacramento, I had boarded
the next train to Oakland. Once there, I intended to take the train on to
Sycamore Hill. However, as the Fates had it, that train had already departed,
and the next would not go for another three days. The station manager had
mentioned an old stage line that was still in business. He also warned me that
the line had a reputation for frequent breakdowns.
    Forty miles lay between Oakland and Sycamore Hill. After traveling
a continent, that small distance seemed negligible. I decided to take a chance
and ride the disreputable stage. I might have known it would break down not
once, but several times. The last time, the coach had lost a wheel ten miles
from town. The driver said it would be several hours before he could effect the
repairs. So I had taken to the road with the assurance that my trunk would be
dropped off at the general store in Sycamore Hill. Perhaps I would have been
wiser to stay with the stage and take my chances on arriving in town. At least
then I would have arrived looking like a lady and not something even a cat
would hesitate about dragging in.
    In spite of all the mishaps, I was filled with trembling
excitement. Only at odd moments had I felt real resentment at the Haversalls.
Bradford Dobson had been surprised that my attitude had remained so mild. I
realized after his disclosures that I had never really known the Haversalls at
all, in spite of living under their roof for 18 years. They were strangers to
me. Having never become accustomed to luxuries, I did not miss them. Yet, I
could not say I did not have moments of bitter resentment about my stolen
inheritance. The worst moments were when I realized what a fool I had been to
remain out of mistaken gratitude. How they must have laughed at me!
    But now I was free. I wondered sometimes if I would have felt so
free had I possessed that fortune Bradford Dobson had spoken about. Money
carried heavy responsibility. Had I inherited Haversall’s factory, I could
never have overlooked the despicable conditions of the loathsome place. As it
was now, I had nothing but a few dollars remaining from my father’s fortune,
and ahead of me a position as a schoolteacher for a rural community.
    I wondered if I would have that position after the school-board
representative had a good look at me. I stopped long enough to brush down my
doe-brown skirt. The dust made a soft cloud around me. Sooner or later the sun
had to begin its descent, and the noon-high heat would have to dissipate.
    Glancing up into the sky again, I thought it must be well after
two. Another hill stretched out before me. I prayed that this one would be the
last, and beyond it would lie a nice shady community. Sycamores were trees; so
surely that meant the town had an abundance of them. Nice, tall trees to cast
cooling shadows over my sunburned brow and cheeks and nose by the feel of it.
    I was so deep in my thoughts that I failed to notice the gopher
hole right in front of me. Stumbling, I fell headlong into the road. Only
momentarily stunned, I stood up quickly, straightening my blouse and brushing
down my skirt.
    “Of all the ridiculous things to do,” I mumbled to myself,
checking that I had not tom something or scraped anything. “You don’t need the
Haversalls to make a fool of you. You do such a great job of that yourself.”
    Then I started to laugh thinking of the picture I must have made a
second earlier. It started with a mere jerk of my mouth and then opened into
peals of sound. A voice behind me cut it off as effectively as a noose around
my neck.
    “This is hardly a day to be out pleasure-walking.”
    Jumping with frightened surprise, I whirled around to face a man
sitting above me on a buckboard. His face and expression were shadowed beneath
the rim of his hat. In quick perusal I took in the rest of his appearance,
noting the clean white shirt that covered a set of decidedly broad shoulders,
the