Belonging (16 page)

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.

But then His gaze moved on, and she felt both relieved and sorrowful.

“Come,” He said. “Peter, come to Me.”

Oh, how she wished it was her name He called.

“James, come here. And John, you too.”

She imagined what it was like for Jesus to call His disciples to Himself, and then she pondered how amazing it was that He had called her too. Not as one of the inner circle of three, or one of the twelve closest to Him, or even one of the five hundred who witnessed Him after the resurrection. But He had called her as one of those for whom He prayed almost two thousand years before.

With eyes still closed, she whispered the words, “Neither pray I for these alone, but for them also which shall believe on me
through their word.” Jesus had known her even then. He’d known she would trust in Him and want to serve Him. “That the world may believe that thou hast sent me.” She inhaled deeply. “That the world may know that thou hast sent me, and hast loved them, as thou hast loved me.”

Felicia smiled as she realized—as if for the first time, although it was not—that Christ’s prayer
had
been answered. All of these centuries later,
she
knew the Father’s love, and she would never be alone. No matter what happened to her in Frenchman’s Bluff, she wouldn’t be alone or cast aside. She need not fear tomorrow. Of that she could be sure.

She began to speak aloud those things for which she was most thankful: for her small cottage; for the comfortable bed that welcomed her at night; for each of her students, from the youngest to the oldest; for the opportunity to cook for herself, especially because she could make whatever she wanted; for the warm sun on the rock; for the music of the river flowing by; for the songbirds in the trees. On and on she went.

Once she had exhausted her list of thanksgiving, she stretched her arms above her head and cried, “Thank You. Thank You. Thank You, Lord.” Then she laughed for joy.

Colin knew he should ride on. He should disappear back into the trees that lined the river. When he’d first heard Felicia’s voice, he hadn’t realized she was praying. How could he? It was unlike any prayer he’d heard before. But now that he’d realized it, he should leave. Yet he couldn’t make himself go. She looked so … peaceful … stretched out on that rock, bathed in the morning sunlight. Peaceful and joyful.

And beautiful.

Drifter shifted his weight beneath the saddle and snorted his impatience. Felicia sat up, a startled gasp carrying to Colin.

“It’s only me, Miss Kristoffersen,” he called before riding forward.

“Mr. Murphy.” She stood, clutching a book against her abdomen.

“Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t. I mean, I was just … just …”

“Praying?” he finished for her, half hoping she would correct him.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I was praying.”

Colin dismounted and moved to stand beside the horse’s head. “Never heard Reverend Hightower pray like that.”

Her face grew pink.

He surprised himself by adding, “I liked it.”

The blush deepened.

Colin couldn’t recall knowing another woman who blushed as easily as Felicia. He found it almost as attractive as the blue of her eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone out here,” she said. “It’s so far from the main road.”

“I was hunting.” He motioned with his head. “It’s a bit early in the season, but I thought I might find a deer or two up through the canyon that way. Both Charity and I are partial to venison stew.”

She nodded, as if saying she liked venison also.

“Mind if I join you for a moment or two?”

Uncertainty filled her eyes. “Well, I—”

“Drifter would like a rest.”

Apparently she was more prone to take pity on his horse than on him. She nodded again. “Of course. If you like. Please join me.”

Colin turned the gelding loose to graze, then climbed onto
the boulder. By that time, Felicia was seated again, her legs tucked beneath the skirt of her outing costume. He sat beside her. “Beautiful spot.”