Colin saw the teacher take in the apron tied around his waist. An instant later, a hint of a smile tipped the corners of her mouth.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said.
“No.” He untied the apron and hung it on a hook near the sink. “What can I do for you, Miss Kristoffersen?”
“I was hoping I could speak with you.” Her gaze flicked to Charity and back again. “Alone.”
Colin looked at his daughter. “You’d better take care of the horses before it gets any later.”
“Now?” Reluctance was written on her face.
“Now.”
She sighed heavily. “Okay.” She headed toward the back door a second time.
“Better give them both a good brushing too,” he called after her.
The screen door slammed shut in answer.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked Felicia.
“No, thank you.”
He motioned toward the table. “Mind sitting in the kitchen while we talk?”
“Not at all.” She moved to the nearest chair, pulled it out, and sat down.
Colin took a moment to pour himself a cup of coffee before sitting opposite her. “So,”—he took a sip of the hot beverage—“what’s on your mind?”
“It’s about Charity.”
Interesting, the way the muted light falling through the kitchen window on the west side of the house seemed to gild her hair, especially the long wisps that had pulled free of her bun.
“I’m wondering. Do you ever read to her?”
He stiffened. “She isn’t a toddler any longer.”
“No, of course not. But she needs encouragement, and I thought—”
“What she needs is to apply herself if she wants to improve.” He sounded like Miss Lucas and disliked himself for it.
Felicia sighed. “Yes. I agree, Mr. Murphy. That’s why I hoped you could work with her in the evenings. Repetition can be a great teacher. I fear whatever skills she acquired last year were lost over the summer. She struggles with her reading, and she’s embarrassed because of it. She knows she’s behind the other students her age. If she got some help at home …” Her voice drifted into silence.
He felt his daughter’s embarrassment, wished he could rescue her from it. But he couldn’t, and it made him angry that he couldn’t. “I thought we hired you to teach.” His exasperation made his voice sound harsh, which wasn’t his intention. She wasn’t at fault.
Felicia drew back in her chair, her eyes rounding. But she didn’t attempt to defend herself as he would have done. “You did, indeed.”
He should apologize. He hadn’t meant to be rude.
The surprise left her eyes, replaced by determination. “Will you allow me to work with her in the evenings? If I had half an hour with her every weeknight, just the two of us without any interruptions, I’m sure we would see her reading skills improve. Perhaps I could come over after supper. She and I could work here in the kitchen, with your permission.”
Strange, the way her offer made him feel. Trapped. Outmaneuvered. Exposed. And at the same time, grateful … and perhaps hopeful.
“Please, Mr. Murphy. I believe it could make a real difference for Charity. It’s so important that she not be left behind. What she learns in school now could alter her adult life more than she knows.”
Margaret had read to Charity at bedtime, beginning when their daughter was no more than two years old. In his memory, he saw them together, their daughter’s eyes wide with excitement. He’d often stood in the bedroom doorway, shoulder leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, listening to the stories and enjoying them almost as much as Charity had. Maybe if he’d been able to continue the practice after Margaret died—
“Mr. Murphy?”
He pushed away the old memories and his feelings of guilt along with them. “All right, Miss Kristoffersen. If you think this is best.”
Felicia didn’t understand Colin Murphy. Why was he unwilling to help his own child? Did he think a daughter less in need of an education than a son would be? No, she couldn’t believe that. He didn’t strike her as that type of man. Then, was he so busy that he couldn’t take the time to give Charity half an hour every night? Perhaps. Yet he didn’t seem to resent the time he spent with his child.
She remembered thinking, on the day she’d arrived in Frenchman’s Bluff, that he was cool and reserved with his daughter. Only she’d changed her opinion about that over the past couple of weeks. He was strict, yes, but he was loving too. He wanted the best for Charity. Felicia didn’t doubt that about him.
“Do you want to start tonight, or is tomorrow okay?” Colin asked, pulling her from her reverie.
“Tomorrow would be fine.” She rose from her chair. “Shall we say seven thirty?”
“That’ll be fine.” He stood too. “I’ll make sure Charity’s ready for you.”
She thanked him as she left the house. The screen door squeaked behind her, but she didn’t hear it clack shut. She suspected Colin had stopped the door with his hand and that he remained there still, watching as she crossed the yard toward her cottage.
She wished he wouldn’t do that.
THIRTEEN
Silence flooded the classroom as the last of Felicia’s students headed for home. The blackboards were clean. Schoolbooks lined the appropriate shelves. No jackets or sweaters or lunch pails had been left behind in the cloakroom.
With a tired sigh, Felicia closed and locked the door to the schoolhouse. It had been a good week, all things considered. One of those “considered” things was Daniel Watkins. She’d had to discipline him several times. Daily, in fact. She’d warned him today that if he was involved in one more infraction, she would have to take the matter up with the Carpenters. He hadn’t cared. That had been clear from the defiant look he’d given her.
As she walked toward home, her thoughts turned once more to her brother. The Hugh of her memories seemed so much like Daniel. Was that true? Were Daniel and Hugh really so much alike? Or had the passing time made the memories untrustworthy?
So many years. Hugh would be … how old? Thirty at his last birthday. Long since a man. She tried to imagine what he might look like. Perhaps like their father, but Sweeney Brennan was even more of a blur than Hugh.
A sadness tugged at her heart. How different her life might have been had their mother lived. They might have been poor all of their lives, but they would have been together. She wouldn’t have had to wonder what became of Hugh and their sister, Diana. She wouldn’t have had to wonder what they looked like. She would know.
Arriving home, she pushed aside the melancholy thoughts at the same time she pushed open the door. She set her books, lesson plans, and lunch pail on the table, and her thoughts turned to supper preparations. It scarcely mattered. Cooking for herself held little appeal.
“Miss K?”
She turned toward the screen door. Charity stood on the other side, looking in.
“I’ve got a letter for you. Mr. Reynolds gave it to Papa.”
Felicia made a mental note to herself: Speak to the postmaster about giving her mail to Colin. It wasn’t her landlord’s business, after all. And this was the second time since her arrival in Frenchman’s Bluff that Mr. Reynolds had done it. Of course, that could be her fault. She had yet to visit the post office. But why should she? It wasn’t as if she expected any correspondence.
Charity opened the screen door. “You want it?” She held the envelope toward Felicia.
Reluctance washed over her. Who would write to her besides Gunnar? She went to the door and took the envelope from Charity. “Thank you.”
“Sure. See you later. I’m going for a ride on Princess.”
The instant Charity disappeared from view, Felicia’s gaze fell to the letter in her hand. Gunnar. As she’d thought. Who else? She was tempted to rip it to pieces without reading it, but she found she couldn’t do so. She went into her small parlor and sank onto a chair. After drawing a deep br
eath, she removed the letter from the envelope, unfolded it, and began to read.
Felicia,
Since there has been no reply to my first letter, I write again to persuade you to return to Wyoming. Have you no respect for the memory of those who took you in, no honor, no sense of obligation? You owe the Kristoffersens for the clothes on your back and whatever else you took with you to Idaho. Will you rob us? Come back and do your duty by the family.
Gunnar
Rage and hurt warred in her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to weep. How could he accuse her of robbing him and his sons? From the age of ten, she had worked alongside Britta and Lars. She’d cleaned the house and cooked meals and sewn clothes and weeded the vegetable garden and tended the livestock. Had Gunnar ever done a single day’s work on the Kristoffersen farm? No, he hadn’t. Not he or his sons. They were lazy and worthless and—
She drew herself up short, wishing to stop the torrent of unkind words in her head.
What would she have done with the farm if she’d inherited it? Sold it. She wouldn’t have wanted to stay there. The Kristoffersens had done her a favor, really, leaving the farm to their nephew. Of course, it would have been nice to have a little money, to not feel she was on the edge of a precipice without a soft place to land should she tumble off.
Unto thee will I cry, O Lord my rock.
The whispered words in her heart shamed her even more than the bitter ones toward Gunnar. It wasn’t a precipice on which she stood. She stood on the Rock.
He only is my rock and my salvation: he is my defense; I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God.
“You have brought me this far, Lord,” she whispered. “I will trust You to take me into my tomorrows as well. Keep my mind set on You, and place forgiveness in my heart.”
She folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.
Kathleen leaned down and kissed Suzanne’s forehead, then repeated the same with Phoebe. “Goodnight, my darlings.” She picked up the lamp and carried it out of the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.
Kathleen liked this time of the day. She enjoyed the silence that blanketed the house and the town. Her in-laws went to bed at the same time that her daughters did, but she was never ready to retire this early. Perhaps because this was when she missed her husband the most.
She went down the servants’ staircase and set the lamp on the kitchen table. Afterward, she retrieved her white knit shawl from the hook near the back door and stepped outside onto the porch.
Frenchman’s Bluff was mostly dark, lamplight spilling from windows here and there. Overhead, stars glittered in a cloudless sky, and a night breeze rustled leaves. The air was quickly cooling, causing Kathleen to pull her shawl closer about her shoulders. Moving slowly, she followed the porch around the side of the house to the front, where she stopped beside a post and leaned her shoulder against it.
Faint music from the saloon reached her ears. The tune made her smile. Another of those scandalous songs Harold had liked to play on the piano.
The moon was just beginning to rise when she heard the sound of a horse coming down the street. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. She wondered who it might be. Perhaps Dr. Young, their neighbor, returning from visiting a patient. Or perhaps the horse was headed in the other direction, carrying a man to the saloon. No, the hoof beats were drawing closer.
Moonlight spilled over the tops of trees to the east, illuminating the street and, a moment later, the horse and rider. Then the rider pulled back on the reins. “That you, Miz Summerville?”
The sound of the male voice, coming out of the silence of night, speaking her name, startled her, and she straightened away from the post.
He nudged his horse forward. “It’s me. Oscar.”
Her pulse quickened even more. “Mr. Jacobson.”
“Surprised to see you there.” He stepped down from the saddle. “You looked a little like an angel with the moonlight on your white shawl.”
His comment made her laugh. “I’m not an angel. I assure you.”
“Mind if I come up and sit a spell? I know it’s kinda late, but I’m headed back to the ranch, and I’d just as soon let the moon get a bit higher.”
Mother Summerville wouldn’t approve. It was night. They were unchaperoned. “I don’t mind. Please come join me.”
Oscar tied his horse to the hitching post near the front gate. “I shoulda got an earlier start back.” He walked toward her, a jingle of spurs accompanying his steps. “But I was helpin’ the pastor fix the roof on the parsonage. Wouldn’t do to have it leakin’ when winter sets in. Time just got away from me.”
She liked this young cowpoke. It was pleasant to have his company here on the porch, surrounded by the soft night. Perhaps five or six years her junior, Oscar Jacobson had a quiet, unassuming manner. And it still surprised her that he liked to read and recite poetry.
After he climbed the steps to the porch, they moved in unison toward the chairs. He waited for her to be seated first, then sat in the closest chair to her right.
“Nice weather,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Always have liked the end of summer—days still warm but the nights cool. Air smells good this time of evenin’.”
She drew a deep breath through her nose. “Mmm.”
A period of silence followed. A peaceful one, when neither person present felt the need to fill it. That surprised Kathleen too, that she would feel that way in this man’s company. It wasn’t as if they were longtime acquaintances, yet it felt as if they were.
Oscar removed his hat and held it between his hands. “I finished readin’ Rudyard Kipling’s novel Captains Courageous this week. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“I could loan you my copy if you wanted. It’s a good story.” He paused, then added, “It’s not poetry, but I think you’d like it.”
Her mother-in-law thought reading novels was a horrid waste of time, but Kathleen liked nothing so much as a good book. “I should like to read it, Mr. Jacobson. Thanks for the offer.”
“I hear there’s gonna be a barn dance at the Dowd place in a few weeks.” He cleared his throat. “You plannin’ to go?”
“Yes. My girls and I are looking forward to it. We didn’t attend the last two. We were … we were still in mourning.”
Another silence stretched between them before he said, “I reckon you know I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. I’ve heard your husband was a fine man.”
“Yes.” She smiled, not for his benefit but for her own. “Harry was a fine man.”
“Wish I could have known him.”
“Me too.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “If you’ll be dancin’ this year, I hope you’ll save one of ‘em for me.”
Warmth rose from her neck into her cheeks. She felt more like a schoolgirl than a widow and mother of two. The urge to giggle nervously was hard to resist, but somehow she did.
“You think that might be possible, Miz Summerville?”
Her smile broadened. “Yes, Mr. Jacobson. I do think it’s possible.”
Although the moonlight couldn’t reach his face, seated as they were beneath of roof of the porch, she knew he grinned. Knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
“I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.” He stood. “Guess I’d best be ridin’ on. I’ll be gettin’ back to the ranch mighty late as it is.”
“Do ride carefully.”
Oscar set his hat on his head. “I will, ma’am.”
She rose and followed him as far as the porch steps, then waited until he rode away before going inside. She was still smiling half an hour later when she slipped between the covers on her bed and went happily to sleep.
FOURTEEN
Felicia awakened before dawn on Saturday morning with a desire to take a long walk. Laundry and other chores could wait. She ate breakfast, put a mason jar filled with water into a canvas bag along
with her Bible and a small writing tablet, and then set off in the direction of the foothills before the sun had crested the mountains in the east. She walked quickly at first, following the same trail she had taken with Charity the day they’d gone fishing together. Once she reached the river, she turned and followed its winding path, north and east, north and east. At one point, she came upon a broken tree branch that made a good walking stick. She was glad for it as the trail slowly but steadily climbed.
Close to two hours had passed before she decided to stop. A giant boulder presented an ideal resting place. She sat on it, facing the river, the sun warm on her back. After taking a drink of water from the mason jar, she opened her Bible, letting it fall open, then put on her glasses and began reading in the first chapter of Mark. Two chapters later, she came to the passage that said, “And he goeth up into a mountain, and calleth unto him whom he would: and they came unto him.” She stopped reading, lay back on the rock, and imagined herself among the throng who had followed Jesus that day.
There she was, moving along the dusty pathway in her simple tunic, a scarf draped over her head. She was trying to find a place where she could see the young rabbi. She’d heard that Jesus of Nazareth had done many great things, healing the sick of all sorts of diseases. Not only that, He was able to cast out demons. Who wouldn’t want to see Him with their own eyes?
And finally there He was, making His way up the hillside. Was there anything remarkable about the way He looked? Not really. Not as she’d expected there to be. Shouldn’t a man who could heal the sick and turn water into wine have a look that set Him apart?
Wait! He was looking at her. Not just at her. He saw her. He seemed to see inside of her. She held her breath. Would He speak? Would He announce aloud to the world what He saw in her heart? She hoped not, for suddenly she was ashamed of what He might find there—anger at the Kristoffersens, especially Gunnar; resentment over what might have been but never was; fear over the unknown future.
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