The curriculum was rigorous. Mornings were for the mind. Obadiah taught her to read and write, patiently correcting her as she stumbled through sentences, praising her intelligence where her mother had only seen stupidity. He taught her arithmetic so she could never be cheated, and history so she understood the world beyond the ridge.
Afternoons were for the body and spirit. He taught her to ride, to chop wood, to set snares, and—crucially—to shoot. “No one will ever lay a hand on you again unless you want them to,” he promised.
As winter melted into spring, the “useless” girl vanished. In her place stood a young woman who could track a deer, read a novel, and look a man in the eye. Her body, once the source of so much shame, became a vessel of strength. She wasn’t just surviving; she was thriving.
The Past Comes Knocking
But peace is a fragile thing. One autumn evening, the crunch of footsteps shattered their tranquility. Constance and Charity had returned, their greed insatiable. They didn’t want Temperance back; they wanted money, claiming she owed them for the “cost” of raising her.
The old Temperance might have cowered. The new Temperance stepped onto the porch and looked her mother in the eye.
