“Yes, thank you. You can advise me on my students,” Royce said and saw Miss Ferguson’s pleased reaction to his words. Royce was glad when the woman left. He credited his discomfort around Miss Ferguson to his inexperience dealing with women. As a Territorial Marshal, he dealt almost entirely with men.
His living quarters came as a surprise. The long narrow room was divided down the center. The front room was furnished with secondhand pieces of furniture, a mismatched couch and chair, a round table and kerosene lamp and shelves for books. The backroom contained a cook stove, small square table, one chair and a rickety cupboard. In the corner was a single bed frame with mattress. All the comforts of home Royce thought depositing his valise on top of the bed.
* * * * *
Miss Ferguson’s house was built on a hill behind the Elementary School. As the sun dipped below the horizon Royce walked the short distance. Light shone through the open windows. A breeze fluttered plain white muslin curtains.
“Come in,” Miss Ferguson called when Royce stepped upon the front porch. In the kitchen at the back of the house three places were set at the table. The room was filled with the aroma of cooked food. “That brother of mine has not showed up,” she said with censure in her voice. “I don’t know what I am going to do about him. No sense of time,” she continued in high squeaky tones. “Younger brother,” Miss Ferguson said as if that made a difference. “Sit down.” With a wave of one hand she directed Royce to the chair at the end of the table. “Coffee,” she asked in a manner indicating she was trying to be sociable and found it difficult.
“Thank you,” Royce replied stiffly. Things were not getting off to a good start. He viewed the empty chair wishing he had declined Miss Ferguson’s invitation to dinner.
“Do you have any younger siblings,” Miss Ferguson asked placing a platter of steaks on the table. She added a bowl of cooked vegetables and mashed potatoes before she opened the oven door and took out a pan of biscuits.
“No ma’am,” Royce replied.
“Then you would not understand about younger brothers,” Miss Ferguson said. The woman had the habit of raising and lowering her shoulders while she talked and wrinkling up her nose in a prissy fashion. “Milton does his best. I have him to thank for the meat on my table. He does like to hunt and fish. A fulltime job is beyond his capabilities. Perhaps it is my fault. I am not strict enough. Then again our parents died when Milton was very young and I am afraid I spoiled him,” she made excuses.
“A common occurrence,” Royce said wondering why pebbles were crawling along his flesh. The last time he had this sensation he had a bunch of outlaws held up in a lineshack and was quickly running out of lead. He had been shot that day and left for dead.
“You met Elizabeth Gaines,” Miss Ferguson said changing the subject to Royce’s students. “She is very bright. On the other hand her younger sister Lydia is a poor student. I don’t think she is ready for the fifth grade though she is old enough. She is backwards you understand. Such a pity too, she can barely read and the child’s English is deplorable.” Miss Ferguson had taught Junction City’s school for twelve years. Over the next hour she elaborated on his students. Her comments about Lydia being backwards had galled Royce and he listened with only half an ear. It had been the woman’s tone of voice. As if she found pleasure in another’s misfortune. Plain looking herself, the woman might find the attractive Gaines sisters irritating and for one of them to be considered backwards some sort of distorted justice.
“I am sorry you did not meet my brother,” Miss Ferguson said wistfully as she stood on the front porch of her plain looking house. There were no frills or signs of luxury present in the parlor or kitchen.
Royce could tell Miss Ferguson put great store in her brother. Sisters often did he recalled. “I am sure we will meet another time,” Royce replied. He had the same crawling feeling up his spine when he looked at Miss Ferguson. As if his instincts were trying to tell him what his mind did not comprehend.
The night air was cool when Royce walked home under a canopy of stars. He let himself into the Secondary School building and climbed the narrow stairs. He would start teaching classes on Monday. Two more days to cram his head full of numbers and facts and hope no one realized how grossly inadequate he was at teaching.
* * * * *
Faith dashed through the front door of the Gaines’ home. Closing the door she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Mr. Cook was on her trail again! She had barely made it out of the general store without having to speak to the man. Faith placed her package on the table. Standing in front of the oval mirror hanging on the wall, she removed her hat and set it on top of her package before fluffing her hair with nervous fingertips.
“Did you get my thread,” Lydia asked. A quiet child of eleven years, Lydia sat in the parlor working on her embroidery.
“One skein of lavender embroidery thread,” Faith said. She was smiling when she crossed the room and sat down in the overstuffed chair across from Lydia.
“Must I go to school,” Lydia asked woefully. They had gone over this subject twice that morning.
“I am afraid so, Dear,” Faith replied. “You know Mr. Hargadon looks nice. You might like going to school.”
Lydia sighed deeply trying not to let the tears that stung her eyes flow down her cheeks. “I don’t like school,” she
