Plots and Pans Read Online Free PDF Page B

Pennyworth’s sympathetic expression. “You’ve been holding my letters as part of my punishment.” At least, she assumed so. Papa usually wrote every week, and she hadn’t received a letter since she switched rooms. She pushed back the panic clawing up her throat to demand, “Where are the others?”
    “There are no others.” The headmistress’s hands fluttered, empty and helpless.
    Turning away to give herself some privacy, Jess forced a few deep breaths. She slid her finger beneath the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in a single, rough motion. She delved inside and pulled out the letter. Either her brother’s penmanship had actually gotten worse, or he’d struggled to put down the words.
    Dear Jess
,
    This is my third try to get this out, but every time it keeps coming out wrong. Maybe it’s because there isn’t a right way to tell someone bad news. Well, maybe in person, but I’d probably botch that as bad as this letter. It’s hard to believe and harder to tell you that Pa’s passed on—
     
    A tiny mewling sound escaped Jess, far too small to unload the sudden weight of grief. Her gaze locked on that line, blurring the script until it made no sense. She staggered backward, groping for the arm of a nearby chair and collapsing into it. Darkness edged her vision.
    “Breathe, Miss Culpepper.” Miss Pennyworth’s voice sounded muted, as though coming from a long distance, even though Jess felt her hand bracing her back. “Breathe deeply now.”
    The vile smell of ammonia burned its way through Jess’s stupor, making her gasp for air and splutter back to her senses. She waved the headmistress and her smelling salts away, heart racing.
    Miss Pennyworth took away the vial and stepped back. “You were coming over faint.”
    “Culpeppers don’t faint.” Aghast at such weakness, stricken by loss, Jess swallowed a sob.
    “You didn’t,” the headmistress assured her. “But you must admit you’re better now.”
    Better?
Jess looked up blankly. Nothing could make this better.
My breathing won’t bring him back—but my stubbornness made his lung collapse in the first place. It’s my fault he’s gone
.
    She looked back at the letter, needing to be sure. After all, people died of fevers and falls every day. Maybe something else took Papa. Maybe it had nothing to do with that terrible day seven years ago when the bronco threw her, then kicked her father when he tried to reach her.
    Yes, it was his lung, and NO, you can’t go around feeling like it’s your fault he died. Don’t shake your head at that, Jess
.
     
    She gave a strangled cough. Her brother hadn’t seen her in years, but he’d known she’d blame herself. Then again, they both knew she had good reason to feel responsible. Guilt intensified her grief as she scanned the next few lines.
    Pa didn’t blame you—his last words were how much he loved you and how he wanted to be sure you’d be looked after. He always talked about bringing you home, but didn’t think he could keep you safe out here and raise you into the sort of woman Ma would have wanted. He didn’t send you away because he was mad about you riding the bronco or him getting injured
.
    After all, he knew better than to jump in a corral and try to skirt around that bronco—you remember what he taught us? “Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.”
     
    Jess mouthed the words as she read them, remembering happy days filled with sunlight and sage advice when their father taught them everything he knew about ranching. For a moment the memory eased her pain. Then it rushed back, heavier and harder than before.
    Jess bowed her head.
She’d
been the fool who’d tried to bust a bronco she had no business riding. If Papa hadn’t been so worried about her, he wouldn’t have jumped into the pen, run past the wild horse, and gotten kicked in the chest. Without that injury, he wouldn’t have struggled through having his lung