Belonging (15 page)

Yes, he knew what Lewis meant, and a sting of envy shot through him, catching him by surprise. For five years, he’d thought being a widower suited him. He’d been content to raise his daughter without anyone by his side. Many a man married two or three times, taking new wives to help raise the children of the wives who’d died before. Colin thought it better to leave things be.

But maybe he was wrong about that. Maybe he could use a partner, someone to share the burdens of day-to-day life. If he wanted, he could have a new wife within a short period of time. He need only ask Kathleen Summerville. She was willing. He knew that. It even made good sense.

“Not sure how much formal schoolin’ the boys’ve had,” Lewis continued. “I’d wager not much. Near as we can tell, they were on their own for about two years before they ended up in an orphanage. But if our new schoolteacher’s worth her salt, she ought to be able to—”

Lewis kept talking, but Colin no longer listened, his thoughts having turned to Felicia. He pictured her standing at the front of her class, her hair captured in a bun at the nape, a pair of reading
glasses perched on her long, narrow nose. Had he really expected the glasses would make her look prim? Because they sure didn’t. They made her look smart. Not only that, her large blue eyes seemed even more noticeable because of them. Beautiful blue eyes. Maybe if he’d had a teacher as pretty as Miss K, he would have wanted to stay in school beyond the sixth grade. Perhaps he might have fared better in his studies.

As pretty as Miss K.

It wasn’t wise, the way his thoughts had strayed to Felicia again and again today, the way he continued to think about the blue of her eyes or the sway of her hips.

No, it wasn’t wise. If he must take notice of a woman, it should be Kathleen. She’d lived in Frenchman’s Bluff almost as many years as Colin had. They knew the same people and shared the same friends. As a widow, she had no starry-eyed notions about marriage. She wouldn’t expect love. Mutual respect would satisfy her. She would enter into a union of two families with the same practical view as he would.

If
he would—and that was a big if.

That evening, as Colin finished washing the supper dishes, he heard a knock at the back door.

“I’ll see who it is,” Charity said, dropping the dish towel on the counter. A few moments later, she returned with Felicia in her wake.

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 breath, 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.”