Belonging (8 page)

“I’m sure. I promised Tommy I’d help him with his tree house. We’re gonna build a whole ‘nother level.”

“Charity is quite the tomboy, isn’t she? She could use a woman’s touch.”

He shoved Helen Summerville’s critical words aside and grinned at his daughter. “No falling out of the tree and breaking your arm.”

“I won’t.”

“Tell Mrs. Bryant I’ll be back before suppertime.”

“Okay.”

Colin stepped onto the wagon seat. “You mind Mrs. Bryant.”

“I will, Papa.”

With a nod, he clucked to the team and drove the wagon away from the mercantile. He didn’t make many deliveries. Most folks came to the store and carried out their own purchases. But there were a few customers, like Widow Ashton, who needed some extra help on occasion.

Madge Ashton—not quite five feet tall, with life etched deeply into each wrinkle and line of her face—had lived alone on her forty-acre farm for more than twenty years, ever since her husband Albert’s heart failed him at the age of sixty while walking behind a plow. Fiercely independent, Widow Ashton maintained her home and tended her chickens and her milk cow by herself. The farmland she leased to one of her neighbors. When weather permitted, she walked into town to attend church services or to do some shopping. She no longer owned a horse to pull a buggy.

Which was why Colin was driving out to her place now. The widow had been in the mercantile earlier in the day and bought more items than she could carry. He’d invited her to wait until Jimmy came to work so the lad could mind the store, then Colin could drive her home in the wagon with the supplies. But she’d declined.

“Too much to do at home to dillydally around here,” she’d said. “Besides, it’s good for me to walk. Keeps the blood flowing through these old veins. But I’ll be much obliged if you would deliver those things to me when you can. Doesn’t have to be today. First of the week would be fine.”

But Colin didn’t want to wait until Monday. He’d learned a thing or two about Madge Ashton over the years, and one was that if she bought canning supplies today it was because she was ready to begin canning today. She was a sweet old soul, but she did tend to be impulsive.

One of the horses snorted and bobbed his head. Colin looked
up and saw someone riding toward him. A woman. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she was riding astride without a saddle. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.

Felicia Kristoffersen?

He drew back on the reins, stopping the team, and waited for the horse and rider to reach him. It was indeed Felicia, and the bay gelding she rode, he was certain, belonged to Walter Swanson.

“Miss Kristoffersen,” he called as she drew closer, “what happened?”

“Mr. Swanson’s buggy lost a wheel.”

That explained the harness on the horse.

Colin looped the reins around the brake and hopped down from the wagon. “How far back?”

“I’m not sure. Five or six miles, I suppose.”

Her complexion was rosy from the heat of the day, and a fine sheen of perspiration had beaded across her forehead and down her nose. Long strands of honey-brown hair had pulled loose from their pins to float about her neck, begging Colin to imagine what it might look like flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Riding astride had tugged her dark blue skirt several inches above the top of her boots, revealing more of her shapely calves than she probably realized.

He cleared his throat. “You’d better get down and come along with me.” He put his hand on the gelding’s neck. “I’ve got a delivery to make first, but then I’m going straight back to town. We’ll tie your horse to the wagon.”

Her gaze rose longingly toward Frenchman’s Bluff.

Colin could tell she was about to refuse him. Quickly, he said, “I’m not sure it would be a good thing for most folks to see the new schoolteacher … like this.”

At first she seemed confused by his comment. Then came
understanding. The color deepened in her cheeks, this time from embarrassment. “I must be a sight.” She slipped off the horse’s back in a fluid motion, pulling down her skirt as soon as her boots touched the ground.

Yes, she was a sight, but not an unattractive one. Any red-blooded man would—

He turned away, leading the bay to the back of the wagon. By the time he turned back, Felicia was seated in the wagon, and her hands were busy tidying her hair. He was sorry for that.

He stepped up to the wagon seat and took the reins in hand. “Ho there!” The wagon jerked into motion. “Mind if I ask what you were doing out here?”

“Calling on my students.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And the wheel?”

“I’m not sure what happened to make it fall off. The buggy didn’t hit a rut or any obstruction.”

He looked at her. “Were you hurt?”

“No.” A momentary smile played across her lips. “I’m not all that fragile, Mr. Murphy.”

Now would be a good time to apologize for the way he’d barked at her and his daughter yesterday. Then again, maybe it was best to leave things alone. He hadn’t been wrong … exactly … in chastising Charity. And besides, it didn’t seem as if Felicia was holding his gruffness against him.

Yes, he would leave it alone. Like she’d said, she wasn’t all that fragile.

Right up until the buggy wheel fell off and Felicia was dumped on the ground, it had been what she considered a perfect day. She’d called on four families, forming preliminary opinions about the
students’ strengths and weaknesses. Most of the children seemed almost as eager for school to begin as she was.

The two notable exceptions were Bernard Anderson and R. J. Franklin. Bernard, she suspected, was a lazy student. Not unintelligent, simply uninterested. She also suspected he was a prankster. Instinct told her that if he could stir up trouble in the classroom, he would. She would have to stay on her toes around him. As for R. J., he thought himself—at fifteen—too grown up to continue with schooling. He was eager to live as a man, to work beside his father on their dairy farm, to earn a living wage. Would she lose him before her first year of teaching was up, or could she change his mind, make him want to go on learning? And would she have to change his parents’ minds as well as his?

The Murphy wagon turned off the main road, bringing Felicia’s thoughts back to the present. Soon they were following a narrow track down a steep incline. Felicia braced her feet and held on to the seat with her hands until the wagon leveled out again. When it did, she was facing a field of tall corn. Green stalks and beige tassels waved in the warm breeze of midday.

“How beautiful,” she whispered.

“Irrigation makes a world of difference to this land. Soil’s rich. All it needs is water.”

She glanced his way. “Have you a secret yearning to be a farmer, Mr. Murphy?”

“Me? No. I like what I do. Running the mercantile suits me.”

Questions swirled in her mind. Things she would like to know about him, about the wife who’d died, about Charity. She found Colin a confusing man. Sometimes he seemed warm and caring, and just about the time she thought she might learn to like him, he turned gruff.

But perhaps her confusion had more to do with her lack of
experience with men. There had been few of them in her life. And those few hadn’t been the sort who invited one to know them better. Her father had been a drunkard and a rare presence in their tenement flat. Lars Kristoffersen had been old, withdrawn, and a man of few words. As for Gunnar and his sons? Well, she’d rather not think about them at all.

“I’ve wondered the same about you, Miss Kristoffersen.”

She met his gaze again. “About me?”

“Do you have a secret yearning to be something other than a teacher?”

“No.”

“Then why did you wait so long to teach after getting your certificate?”

She turned her gaze away from him. “I was needed at home. My … parents … were growing old and couldn’t do without my help. They passed away in late winter, and by this summer, it became clear that I … I couldn’t stay on their farm any longer. I had to begin teaching to support myself.”

“Is that why you never married? Because you were caring for your parents?”

“I don’t wish to marry, Mr. Murphy. I wish to teach.”

The horses turned between a break in the cornfields, and up ahead, Felicia saw a farmhouse and barn. Colin eased back on the reins, slowing the team from a jog to a walk. Only after the wagon rolled to a stop did he speak again.

“I hope you mean that, Miss Kristoffersen. It would be good for the children to have the same teacher year after year.”

Rolf Kristoffersen’s image flashed in her mind. She suppressed a shudder, saying, “I promise you, sir. I do mean it.”

EIGHT

Felicia sat on the stool before the dressing table, running a brush through her hair. Although her eyes stared into the mirror, it wasn’t her reflection she saw but the memory of having her hair brushed by her mother as they sat near the stove in the kitchen of their tenement flat.

“Don’t ever … be forgettin’… that I … love you … me dear ones.”

Felicia lowered the hairbrush and set it on the table, her vision blurred by tears. Still, after all these years, she could hear her mother’s voice—her
real
mother’s voice—whispering those words to her children.

“Oh, Mum. I miss you. I wish—”

She swallowed the rest of the sentence. It was useless to want to change the past. She’d done enough wishing as a child, and it hadn’t changed a thing. It hadn’t brought her mother back to life or brought her brother, Hugh, to rescue her or made Felicia happier in her situation with the Kristoffersens.

I don’t mean to be ungrateful. Truly, I don’t.

She wiped away the tears with a handkerchief, then took up the brush a second time, using it to sweep her hair onto the top of her head, where she secured it in place with hairpins. Satisfied with her
reflection, she rose from the stool and went to the wardrobe, where she withdrew a pale blue and white percale shirtwaist and a solid blue wool skirt. She’d ordered them both from the Sears, Roebuck & Company catalogue soon after she’d begun seeking a position as a schoolteacher, spending just over two dollars for the new outfit. This would be her first opportunity to wear them.

Hopefully, no one in Frenchman’s Bluff would judge her for the abrupt change from black to lighter colors. Forgoing gray in between wasn’t considered proper mourning etiquette, but for women of limited means, etiquette often took a backseat to practicality. Besides, Felicia looked ghastly in gray.

Pushing away the somber direction of her thoughts, she quickly donned the new outfit, placed a simple straw bonnet on her head and, with her Bible held in the crook of one arm, headed out the door of her cottage.

The Frenchman’s Bluff community church was located on the south side of town, but even if she hadn’t known the location already, it would have been easy to guess from the number of people walking in that direction on this Sunday morning—including Colin Murphy and his daughter, who happened to reach the corner of Main and Idaho at the same time Felicia did.

“Hi, Miss Kristoffersen,” Charity said with her usual exuberance.

“Good morning, Charity.” She looked up. “Mr. Murphy.”

Colin nodded. “Miss Kristoffersen.”

They fell into step together, Charity walking between them. For a time, no one spoke, which suited Felicia. But at least her time with Colin yesterday afternoon had eased her fear that he disliked her. By the time they’d returned to town from Mrs. Ashton’s farm, Felicia had begun to feel almost comfortable with him.

Well,
comfortable
might not be the right word.

“How’d you like your trout?” Charity asked, intruding on her thoughts. “Did you eat it Friday night like you said you were gonna?”

“Of course. And I liked it very much. What about yours?”

The girl licked her lips. “Mmm, mmm.”

Felicia laughed softly.

“Papa fried potatoes and onions to go with it, and for dessert, we had some cookies that I helped bake over at the Summervilles’ house the day we cleaned the school. They had frosting on ‘em.”

“Oh my. That does sound good.”

“It was. Wasn’t it, Papa?”

“It was very good,” he answered.

“I like your dress, Miss Kristoffersen. It’s really pretty.”

“Why, thank you, Charity. It’s kind of you to say so.”

“I think blue’s my favorite color instead of yellow.”

Felicia smiled at the child. “Mine too.”

“Doesn’t Miss Kristoffersen look pretty in her blue dress, Papa?”

Several seconds passed before he said, “Yes, she does.”

The reply caused an odd sensation to swirl inside Felicia. He thought her pretty? She wasn’t sure she wanted that. But perhaps he was merely being polite. He hadn’t spoken with great feeling, and what else could he answer to his daughter’s question when Felicia was walking right beside them?

“Papa, there’s Phoebe and Suzanne. Can I go on ahead?”

“Okay,” he said. “But try not to get your clothes dirty.”

“See you inside, Miss Kristoffersen.” Charity raced off to join her friends.

Felicia tried to think of something to say once they were alone:
Charity’s a bundle of energy … She’s a delightful girl … You must be so proud of her … You’ve done a good job raising her …