Belonging (6 page)

Still, there were more reasons to stay in Idaho than there were incentives to move back to Ohio. He’d tried to explain them to Olive when she visited Frenchman’s Bluff a few years back. Obviously he hadn’t explained well enough, for her letters were always the same.

He returned the envelope to the table next to his chair, then rose and walked to the kitchen, where he ran water from the pump into a glass. Taking the glass with him, he went out on the stoop and sat on the top step. It was cooler outside than it was indoors. Although the days were still hot, he was grateful for the falling temperatures at night. A hint of fall was in the air, although it would be several more weeks before it arrived in earnest.

The screen door outside of the cottage’s kitchen opened and closed—it had a distinctive squeak—and a moment later, he saw the shadowy form of Miss Kristoffersen following the path toward the outhouse. He considered calling out to her, but better judgment prevailed. It was easy to imagine the blush that would rise in her cheeks were he to stop her on the way to the privy.

How long would she remain the schoolteacher in Frenchman’s Bluff? Miss Lucas had stayed only six months before she married that merchant from the capital. At least Miss Andrews, the teacher before Miss Lucas, had been with them for a year and a bit before she nabbed herself a husband and was required to resign from the position.

Not that Colin had anything against marriage. His own had
had its rough spots, to be sure, especially in the early years, when Margaret’s heart had looked back instead of forward. Still, he and his wife had found contentment with each other, and their union had given them Charity.

Thoughts of his daughter brought a smile to his lips.

From the moment she was born, Charity Estelle Murphy had wrapped her papa’s heart around her little finger. He’d loved her with a fierceness that took his breath away, as it did now. And with everything within him, he wanted the best for her—including a good education. If she’d had a better teacher at the start, maybe she wouldn’t struggle so today. The same way he’d struggled.

The privy door closed—that too had a distinctive sound, even when closed carefully—and moments later, he watched as Felicia made her way back along the path to the cottage.

Maybe she would prove him wrong. She might turn out to be a good teacher. She might stay more than a few months or a year. He could hope so anyway.

Felicia carried the lamp from the parlor into her bedroom. After setting it on the chest of drawers, she freed the buttons of her shirtwaist. But when she began to remove her skirt, she heard the whisper of paper from within the right pocket. Gunnar’s letter. She stepped free of the skirt, leaving it in a black puddle on the floor, and sat on the side of the bed.

A little more than six months ago, Britta and Lars Kristoffersen had died within hours of each other. Britta in the morning, Lars just after sunset. Felicia had been at their bedsides, without reprieve, for two days, but nothing she’d tried had brought down their high fevers or saved their lives.

She’d donned deep mourning attire at once. She’d seen them
laid to rest beneath a large cottonwood near the creek that ran through the homestead. The Kristoffersens had been her parents for sixteen years, and she had honestly grieved their passing, despite the loneliness she’d felt, despite the lack of affection shown her.

Then Gunnar and his sons had swept in like a swarm of locusts, and she’d learned that she was not only parentless but penniless and homeless too. That nothing besides her clothes were hers. That even the name she’d worn for sixteen years wasn’t hers by right. She wore it now only because it was the name on her diploma from the normal school. Otherwise …

Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away. In that instant, she decided she was finished with mourning. She didn’t care what convention said was the proper length of time for mourning one’s parents. She would not wear the awful black shirtwaists and skirts and wraps another day, nor would she change gradually from black to gray to white to colors.

As a girl, Felicia had asked God why her adoptive parents couldn’t love her. Why had they taken her into their home if they hadn’t really wanted her? She would never know the answer to that question, not in her lifetime anyway. But it was time to let go of the wound it had left on her heart.

Eyes closed, she pictured herself holding in cupped hands the hurt and pain that came from being unloved and lonely. Then she lifted those hands toward the heavens.

I forgive them, Lord. I don’t want to carry this hurt with me any longer. Will You carry it for me?

She sat in silence for a long while, waiting for a touch from her Savior, from the Friend who had faithfully walked with her for so many years, from the One who had promised to never leave her nor forsake her—a promise kept.

She envisioned, like a whisper in her heart, walking through
a beautiful meadow, wildflowers of every color and hue in abundance. At first she was clad all in black. But then Someone joined her and walked beside her. She couldn’t see His face, but she didn’t need to. She knew Him well. When He took her hand in His, she saw her dress turn from black to red to white.

Forgiveness extended. Forgiveness received. Washed clean in the blood of the Lamb.

Amen.

She rose, folded the black shirtwaist and skirt—leaving the crumpled letter from Gunnar in the pocket—and carried them to the trunk at the foot of her bed. There was something satisfying about putting the clothes into the empty chest, followed soon by the remaining items of her mourning clothes from the wardrobe.

God willing, she wouldn’t need them again until she was an old, old woman.

SIX

“Miss Kristoffersen’s going fishing today, Papa. I told her I’d show her the way to the river. Remember? Can I stay and fish too?”

Colin looked across the breakfast table at his daughter. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Charity.”

“Why not? I know how to get there, and I’ll make sure I don’t go any closer to the water than that old log. Just like when I’m with you. I promise.”

“Does it occur to you that she might not want you around all the time? She’ll be with you every weekday once school starts.”

Charity looked at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language.

“No,” he answered himself as he spread butter on a thick slice of bread. “Of course that doesn’t occur to you.”

“I told her she could use my fishing basket since she doesn’t have one of her own yet.”

His wife, Colin thought, had chosen the right name for their daughter. The child was always charitable toward others. Almost to a fault. “That was a nice thing for you to do.”

“Then I can go fishing with her?”

He shouldn’t relent. He should be stricter. But how could he say no when she looked at him the way she looked at him now? “I suppose. If she doesn’t object.”

“She won’t! I know she won’t!” She hopped up. “I’ll go right now. She’s probably ready to leave already.”

With a sigh, Colin pushed his chair back from the table and headed outside. He’d best make certain Charity was welcome on this fishing expedition. He was halfway between the back door of his home and the side door of the cottage when Felicia stepped into view. Her appearance caught him by surprise. She wasn’t clad in black. Instead, she wore a dress made from brown and white striped fabric. On her upswept hair sat a straw hat with a wide brim adorned with brown satin ribbons. The perfect outfit for a morning spent by the river, fishing pole in hand.

“Miss Kristoffersen.”

A smile curved her mouth when she looked his way. “Good morning, Mr. Murphy.”

Was it just the light-colored dress that made her seem … what? Younger? Prettier? Utterly fetching? “Charity tells me the two of you are going fishing.”

“Yes. It seems so.”

“You don’t mind if she tags along? Because I could give you directions easy enough. The river isn’t hard to find.”

“I like your daughter’s company, Mr. Murphy. But if you don’t want her sharing your favorite fishing spot, do tell her so.”

His daughter had mentioned the log, but he hadn’t immediately considered that’s where she meant to take the teacher.

“Perhaps I should find my own way after all,” Felicia said, breaking the momentary silence.

His daughter might be charitable by nature, but he obviously wasn’t. At least that wasn’t his first reaction, and it shamed him. Clearing his throat, he said, “Not necessary, Miss Kristofferson. Plenty of fish to go around, and Charity would be disappointed not to go with you.”

“Papa.” His daughter scurried into view. “Why don’t you come with us?”

“Afraid not. I’ve got a store to run.”

“Please, Papa. Jimmy could take care of things ‘til you get back.”

Colin was more than a little tempted. He hadn’t gone fishing in a couple of weeks. It wouldn’t be long before the weather turned cold. Another couple of months at most. And his daughter was right. Jimmy could take care of things for a few hours. The boy had done it numerous times since he started working at the mercantile. He was a trustworthy kid and one who didn’t shirk his duties. Maybe—

“I’m sure your father is much too busy to join us.”

Felicia’s words were like a splash of cold water, bringing him to his senses. What was he thinking? When he went fishing, he wanted to be with his daughter, just the two of them. There was no room for anyone else. Especially not a husband-hunting schoolmarm.

He pinned the woman in question with a hard gaze. “Charity needs to be back by noon. She has chores to do.”

The smile that had lingered disappeared in an instant. “I’ll make certain of it, Mr. Murphy. You can depend on me.”

Felicia and her young companion walked at a brisk pace, the trail taking them down the steep north slope of the bluff and through a long, narrow canyon. Throughout the journey, Charity peppered Felicia with questions: Did she like horses? Charity loved to ride better than almost anything. Did she ever have a dog? Charity wanted one, but her papa didn’t think she was ready for the responsibility yet. Why did Felicia want to be a teacher? It seemed to Charity that going to school
forever
would be
awful.
What was
the train ride like? Charity had never gone anywhere on a train. What was Felicia’s favorite dessert? Charity’s was chocolate cake or maybe cherry pie; she couldn’t decide for sure. What was her favorite color? Charity didn’t have one yet, although yellow was sure pretty.

The mouth of the gorge opened onto a surprisingly different landscape than the arid one they’d left above. Here, tall trees grew beside the river, their branches providing blessed shade from the sun, while crystal clear water gurgled and splashed over stones and boulders.

“Not many folks come this way,” Charity told Felicia, “’cause you can’t bring a buggy down that trail. It’s more fit for deer, sheep, and dogs, Papa says. But that makes it better for us. We get it all to ourselves.”

Felicia nodded, letting the melody of the river wash over her, bringing with it a feeling of contentment. She would come here often, she knew, to sit in the verdant underbrush. She would come here not just to fish but to think, to pray, to seek God’s face and wait upon His will.

“Come on.” Charity motioned with her hand for Felicia to follow. Then she started off, half skipping, half running, as she led the way toward a bend in the river.

Felicia remembered herself at the same age. An absent father and poverty had made her early childhood in Chicago difficult, but she’d been happy nonetheless. Everyone she’d known had lived just like the Brennans, in a few small rooms in one of the many tenement buildings. She’d never considered that there was any other way to live, and the streets of Chicago had been as familiar to her as this trail to the river was to Charity.

If she closed her eyes, she could smell the scents that had permeated the staircase of their tenement building: cabbage, bacon,
sauerkraut, onion, garlic. To this day, whenever she smelled cooked cabbage, she was transported back in time and melancholy would sweep over her. She missed her mother. She missed her brother and sister.