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Picking himself out of the mud, Jarrod heard the receding taunts and threats.
"That'll teach you for being teacher's pet and showing us up."
"Keep it up, sissy. We've got more where that came from."
Jarrod got to his feet and limped over to his schoolbooks. Picking them up, he almost couldn't swallow his tears; not from the pain of his throbbing ankle, but because of the mud and water that threatened to ruin the precious books. He bit his lip to stifle a sob as he saw the cover of the top volume completely obscured with dark mud. Miss Jenkins had loaned him her copy of The Three Musketeers and now it might be ruined. He could never tell her what really happened; he wasn't a tattletale. But his face burned with the shame that she might think he'd be so careless with a book, let alone one not his own.
Even though that was one of the reasons J.R. Morton and his friends taunted him, Jarrod didn't regret staying after school to help out his teacher. Miss Jenkins was always willing to answer a question or discuss something that he was wondering about and Jarrod wasn't brought up to not show his appreciation.
As Jarrod limped to the back of the livery where his horse was stabled, he wondered how long it would be before they went after him again. J.R. and his crowd had never been friendly, but since the school term had started, the bullying had gotten more physical. He had been so proud that his parents deemed him old enough to ride his own horse to school, but when things escalated, the ten-year-old had considered asking his parents if he could stay home and study on his own instead. But then there would be questions and besides, that was the coward's way out and no matter what anyone said, Jarrod Barkley wasn't a coward.
Jarrod cleaned himself off the best he could in the water trough. He resisted trying to wash off the books; he reckoned if he let the mud dry, it might flake off more cleanly. He'd just have to make sure to lay them open in the sun and hope that the pages weren't too damaged by water. If they were… Well, he had a dollar fifty saved from his birthday and he hoped that would be enough to buy Miss Jenkins a new book.
When he dismounted behind the stable at home, Jarrod's ankle was throbbing so painfully that he could barely put any weight on it. He struggled with the heavy saddle and the relief when it was lifted out of his arms made him stumble and almost fall.
"Hey, lad, let me help you."
Jarrod looked into the kind eyes of one of the stable hands. Pete Johnson had been a fixture around the ranch for almost as long as Jarrod could remember. "Thanks," he said, and hoped he wouldn't be asked any questions.
Pete eyed the young boy critically. He and Tom Barkley had known each other for a long time and he was grateful to work for such a man. Oh, he wasn't a saint, no man was, but Tom worked hard, treated his men fairly and was doing his best to raise his sons into fine, upstanding men.
Pete knew Jarrod was a concern to his old man, though. The boy was smart as a whip and a hard worker, but Pete had heard Tom berate his eldest more than once for sitting around with his nose in a book, even though the boy never failed to do the chores that were expected of him. It didn't help that over the past few months Jarrod had come home from school with bumps, bruises, torn clothes and now what appeared to be a badly sprained ankle. Pete knew from listening to Tom that the rancher was about to give up on the boy for being clumsy and too much of a mama's boy and a bookworm, but Pete had a sneaking suspicion he knew was up with Jarrod. He wasn't in the habit of eavesdropping, but a body couldn't help but overhear things. He was mending some tack when he heard Jarrod politely ask his father if he'd teach him how to fight. Tom had laughed, told his son that his mother didn't hold with violence and besides, a book would never fight back before he mounted his horse to ride out for a day's work on the ranch.
Pete hadn't forgotten the dejected look on Jarrod's face when he came to the tack room to get his horse's bridle and the quick way the boy had regained his composure to greet the older man respectfully.
"Sit down, boy, and let old Pete have a look at that ankle."
Jarrod looked as though he was going to protest but sat down on the crate Pete indicated. Pete had to use a fair amount of force to remove the boot, but Jarrod didn't make a sound of complaint even though Pete could see the pain etched on the boy's face.
"Ease off that sock." Pete went to the pump and filled a bucket with cold well water. He came back, gently placed the swollen, purpling foot into the bucket and heard Jarrod sigh in relief.
Jarrod gave him a small smile as the stable hand sat beside him. "Thanks, Mr. Johnson."
Pete acknowledged him with a nod. "I think you're old enough to just call me Pete. You call me Mr. Johnson and I look around for my pa."
Jarrod's answering grin was a bit wider this time. "Okay, Pete."
"Reckon you can tell me what happened?"
The boy shrugged. "Just fell."
Pete looked at him skeptically. "Just fell? Sure you didn't have a little help?"
Jarrod glanced up in surprise and Pete knew he had it dead to rights. "You're a smart one, lad, and that makes some folks jealous. Add to that you're one of the best-mannered boys I know and sometimes that's taken the wrong way, even by those close to you." He gave Jarrod an encouraging grin. "Now I've never known that smarts and manners stopped any man from having guts and anyone who says so is just plum loco."
"I wish some other people thought that," Jarrod said quietly.
Pete grasped the back of the boy's neck and shook him gently. "Then it's up to you to show them."
Sighing sadly, Jarrod shook his head. "I don't know how I can do that without knowing how to fight, but Mother doesn't like that sort of thing and Father won't teach me."
"Hmmm." Pete gave Jarrod a thoughtful look. "Reckon I can give you some pointers. I ain't a brawler, but I like to think my fists know what they're doing when they need to. If your ankle's feeling better by then and you've finished all your chores, how about we start Saturday afternoon?"
Jarrod grinned enthusiastically. "Sure! Thanks, Pete!"
Pete watched as Jarrod gathered his things and limped to the house. He decided he needed to have a talk with his boss and make sure Tom understood as well that smarts and manners wouldn't make his son any less of a man.
---
"Hey, Nancy-boy!"
Jarrod's back stiffened at the insult, but he didn't give the speaker the satisfaction of knowing it bothered him as he turned slowly.
"Yeah, I was talking to you, Barkley." J.R. Morton swaggered up to him, his cronies not far behind. "Sweet on the teacher by giving her presents? Or more likely just sucking up." He laughed coarsely.
Jarrod hadn't thought anyone had seen him when he gave Miss Jenkins the new copy of 'The Three Musketeers' he'd bought her to replace the damaged one but realized he should have anticipated it. "Just returning a book," he said simply. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get home."
The bully sneered. "Running home to Mama?"
Jarrod didn't dignify that with a response, he just turned and started walking. But when the shove came from behind, he was ready for it. Hours of Pete's patient teaching had honed his reflexes and he used the push for momentum as he grabbed J.R.'s arm to turn quickly and pushed back. "Leave me alone, J.R.," he warned.
"Or what?" J.R. scoffed, but Jarrod saw a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
Bullies are cowards, he could hear Pete saying. All swagger and bluster that goes away as soon as someone stands up to them.
"I don't want to fight," Jarrod told him. He'd practiced hitting the hay-stuffed bag the way Pete showed him and they'd sparred more than a few times, but that wasn't the same as a real fight and Jarrod wasn't sure enough of himself that he didn't think he'd get beaten to a pulp.
J.R. snorted derisively. "Course not, a sissy like you don't fight."
But Jarrod had enough. He knew if he backed down now, he wouldn't just lose face in front of a bully, he'd lose his self-respect.
He slowly set down his books. "Take it back," he demanded. J.R. just laughed rudely and grabbed Jarrod by the front of his shirt. Jarrod lashed out with his fist to connect solidly with J.R.'s stomach and followed up with an uppercut to the jaw. J.R. flew backwards into his friends and they all went flying.
J.R. looked at Jarrod in shock. "You hit me," he said in disbelief as he rubbed his jaw. The others wore similar incredulous looks.
Jarrod stood lightly on the balls of his feet, hands ready at his sides. He tried not to look too pleased with himself. "I said I didn't want to fight, J.R., not that I wouldn't. I've got more if you want it."
True to Pete's prediction, J.R. and his cronies got up, slowly backed away and left Jarrod alone.
Jarrod retrieved his books and continued walking. It felt good to know he could stand up for himself, even if he wished he didn't have to. Instead of heading straight for the livery, he decided to make a stop at the store. He likely had enough money left over from replacing his teacher's book to buy Pete a pouch of tobacco as a thank-you.