Belonging Page 4

  “Papa!” Charity slid off the stool and darted over to him. “You should hear Miss Kristoffersen’s story about when she learned to ride a pony. It’s funny.”

  Colin glanced in Felicia’s direction. Her cheeks were flushed. From the laughter or from embarrassment?

  Kathleen rose from the floor. “Have you come to help, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Actually, I wondered if Miss Kristoffersen might need me to take Charity back to the store.”

  “Oh, no, Papa. I wanted to go bake cookies with Phoebe and Suzanne. Can I? I mean, may I? Mrs. Summerville said I could when I was done cleaning the blackboards, and I’m done. Aren’t I, Miss Kristoffersen?”

  Felicia swept a few strands of honey-brown hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Yes. You’re finished, Charity. Thank you for doing such a good job.”

  “Can I … I mean, may I”—she looked toward her teacher and received a nod of approval—“go over to Phoebe’s and Suzanne’s, Papa?”

  “It’s close to lunch time,” he answered. “You don’t need to be filling up on sweets before you’ve had a decent meal.”

  Kathleen moved toward him, a soft smile curving the corners of her mouth. “The girls would be delighted to have Charity join them for lunch. And you needn’t worry about her eating too many cookies and spoiling her appetite. Mother Summerville will see to that.” She placed her hand atop Charity’s dark hair. “You would be sure to eat your lunch first, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” his daughter answered, eyes sparkling.

  “Then you’ll let her?” Kathleen finished.

  Colin realized he’d been outmaneuvered. Done in by a woman’s pretty smile and a child’s pair of pleading brown eyes. “I suppose you can go for a couple of hours. But then it’s straight home. You’ve got chores still to do.”

  “May I go now?” Charity started for the exit without waiting for his reply.

  “Yes,” he called after her.

  “Thank you.” Kathleen touched his forearm, as she was prone to do whenever they stood near each other. “My girls so enjoy Charity’s company. It’s good for them to play together.”

  He nodded before turning his eyes toward Felicia. “Is there anything you need me to do, Miss Kristoffersen?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Murphy. We’re almost finished here. Charity and Mrs. Summerville made the morning’s work much lighter.”

  “Well then.” He took a step backward. “Guess I’d best return to the mercantile. Good day, ladies.”

  “Good day, Mr. Murphy,” they replied together.

  He started to turn, then stopped. “Mr. Reynolds over at the post office gave me a letter for you.” He moved to where Felicia knelt on the floor and put the envelope in her outstretched hand.

  He would have been hard-pressed to describe the expression that crossed her face. Displeasure? Fear? Revulsion? It was there and then gone, so fast that he wondered if he’d seen her expression change at all.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murphy.” She stuffed the letter into the pocket of her skirt.

  He gave her a nod before turning and walking away, saying a final good day to Kathleen as he passed by her.

  Helen Summerville’s voice whispered in Kathleen’s mind. “Go after him, Kathleen. Ask him to walk you home. If you would just show some interest in him …”

  Show some interest in him? That was almost laughable. She’d all but thrown herself at Colin Murphy, and he hardly knew she was alive. No, that wasn’t fair. He knew she was alive. He just had no interest in her.

  Kathleen felt like crying, and it wasn’t because she’d lost her heart to Colin. Oh, he was the nicest of men. A man of integrity. A good father. Looked up to in the community. Unquestionably handsome. But those weren’t her reasons for wanting him to notice her. No, her reasons had to do with her mother-in-law. It was Mother Summerville who’d decided it was time for Kathleen to find herself another husband, and it was Mother Summerville who’d decided Colin should be the stepfather to her granddaughters. And Mother Summerville was not one to have her wishes thwarted.

  “Mrs. Summerville … Kathleen?”

  She turned to face Felicia, hoping the other woman wouldn’t see how close to tears she was. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering. Would you mind terribly if I went home? Mother Summerville wasn’t expecting me to send Charity over to play with my girls, and I really should be there.”

  “Of course it’s all right.” Felicia rose from the floor. “You’ve been a tremendous help. I’m grateful to you.”

  “You’re most welcome.” Kathleen removed her apron from around her waist and draped it over her left arm. “I’ll see you at the picnic on Sunday, if not before.”

  “Picnic?” Confusion flitted across Felicia’s face.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Hasn’t anyone told you? I thought for certain Mr. Swanson would have. The women of Frenchman’s Bluff are planning a welcome picnic for you after church on Sunday.”

  “They are?” Something in Felicia’s voice revealed more than she probably would have liked—her uncertainty, her trepidation, perhaps even her loneliness.

  Kathleen’s heart went out to her. “You must think we’re terrible for not giving you a bigger welcome on the day you arrived, but this is why.”

  “No, I—”

  “You’ll be the guest of honor on Sunday, and everyone from miles around will be there to welcome you. I promise, we really are delighted you’ve come to Frenchman’s Bluff.” Almost everyone, anyway.

  Relief filled Felicia’s gaze. “Thank you, Mrs. Summerville.”

  It wasn’t often that Kathleen felt sure of herself, sure of what the future held, sure of others. At least not since her husband’s death. But she felt sure about this: she and Felicia would become friends. Mother Summerville might be predisposed to dislike her, but that wouldn’t sway Kathleen’s feelings in the least.

  “Please, call me Kathleen,” she said, smiling.

  Felicia returned the smile. “I would like that very much.”

  “I look forward to introducing you to others on Sunday, Felicia. Now I’d better go.” She gave a little wave as she hurried from the classroom.

  Felicia walked to one of the desks pushed against the wall and sat down. She allowed the silence of the room to wrap itself around her as she considered the sweet news Kathleen had delivered. A potluck after church to welcome her.

  Felicia hadn’t realized until that moment how worried she’d been because of the absence of a welcoming committee on her arrival. But it seemed they’d been waiting for Sunday, and that made perfect sense. Sunday was when those who lived on the farms and ranches came to town to attend church, the day of the week when everyone took off to honor the Sabbath, to rest and be with their families.

  “I’m sorry, Lord. I let myself worry too easily, don’t I? How much better it would be if I relaxed and trusted in You to make it all work for my good.”

  She put her hands on her thighs, ready to push up from the chair, but the crinkle of paper reminded her of the letter in her pocket. A letter from Gunnar. Her stomach tightened. Why had he written to her? What more could her “cousin” have to say? They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

  Drawing a deep breath, she opened the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper.

  Felicia,

  I write to you, hoping you have come to your senses. Rolf remains willing to take you for his wife. There is no need for you to be alone. You belong here with us. It was the wish of both Uncle Lars and Aunt Britta that you stay and marry Rolf. You know this to be true. After their many kindnesses to you through the years, we cannot believe you have chosen to repay them this way.

  Are you so ungrateful for the life they gave you? You were nothing but a dirty little orphan when they took you in. You never wanted for anything after they brought you home. They even paid for your education. But you know as well as I that they meant you to teach the Kristoffersen children who would be born to you. Not to go off to teach stran
gers. Come back where you belong. Rolf is waiting.

  Gunnar

  Felicia wadded the paper into a ball and shoved it into her pocket, along with the envelope. Cousin Gunnar could await her reply until doomsday for all she cared. As if she would consider marrying any of his sons. Especially not his foul-tempered eldest. The idea made her stomach turn. Rolf Kristoffersen didn’t want a wife. He wanted a slave. He wanted someone who would silently and obediently keep his home tidy, cook his favorite dishes, and warm his bed during the cold Wyoming winters. She shuddered at the thought of Rolf’s large, sausage-fingered hands on her body. Never. She would rather starve to death. She would rather go unloved her entire life than tie herself to the likes of him.

  She drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She wouldn’t starve to death. She had a position that would allow her to support herself. She had a cozy home to live in. Although she wouldn’t grow rich working as a schoolteacher, she wouldn’t go in want either. And as a teacher, she would know the love of children—of many, many children—without needing to give herself in marriage to someone she couldn’t love and respect. She would chart her own path. So help her, she would.

  With new resolve, she rose from the desk and finished her cleaning chores in no time at all. Then the supplies went back into the storage closet, the desks went back into their neat rows, and everything was in readiness for the first day of school. The satisfaction she felt made her wish the school year was starting tomorrow rather than next week.

  She’d made the right decision coming to Frenchman’s Bluff. She would make a home for herself here. She would win the children’s affection, and she would teach them far more than they expected. That was her promise to herself—and to God.

  As she left the schoolhouse, she paused on the steps and closed her eyes. “Bless this building, Lord, and all who enter it to learn. And help me be the very best teacher these children could have.”

  FIVE

  Colin stood in the doorway of his daughter’s bedroom, listening as she said her bedtime prayers, hands folded and eyes tightly closed.

  “… and God bless Mama, who’s with You in heaven, and Papa, who’s with me right here on earth. Amen.” She got up from her knees and slipped between the sheets.

  Colin went to the bedside, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, pumpkin.”

  “Goodnight, Papa.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  She turned onto her side and closed her eyes. “You too.”

  Colin turned out the lamp on her bedside table and left the room with silent footsteps, knowing his daughter would be sound asleep before he finished descending the narrow staircase to the ground floor. He envied her ability to fall asleep so quickly. It seemed to him that he’d spent more time tossing and turning in his bed than sleeping in it. Especially in the years since Margaret died.

  In the parlor, he settled into his chair and picked up the envelope that held the letter from his mother-in-law. He turned it in his hand several times but didn’t remove the letter. He knew what it said.

  Olive Day was nothing if not consistent. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for wanting him to return to Ohio. Her husband and only child were dead. It was natural that she would want to be close to her granddaughter. And maybe he was wrong for refusing to leave Frenchman’s Bluff. Maybe it would be better for Charity to be near her grandmother. Olive would dote on her, there was no doubting that.

  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 sa
t 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.”