“I know,” Faith replied. “I will make you a promise. If you have trouble with Mr. Hargadon I will speak with him. See if something can’t be worked out.”
“You said that about Miss Ferguson,” Lydia reminded with a catch in her voice. Faith had talked with Miss Ferguson and failed miserably.
“I know,” Faith replied. “Miss Ferguson is a mean old hag,” she said vehemently.
“Oh,” Lydia said startled by Faith’s comment. Her brown eyes opened wide with shock. She had never heard Faith speak uncharitable about a person before.
“Don’t you worry,” Faith exclaimed. “If Mr. Hargadon is unreasonable I will ask father to let you study at home.”
“He won’t you know,” Lydia replied sadly.
“He might if I can come up with a good enough reason. I will think on it. In the meantime you will have to start school on Monday.” Faith handed her youngest sister a skein of lavender embroidery thread. “Is this the color you want,” she asked hoping to distract Lydia. Her sister was such a sweet child it angered Faith each time she thought of Miss Ferguson’s unfair treatment.
“Yes, thank you,” Lydia said graciously.
The knock on the front door startled both sisters. They were not expecting company. Any unexpected intrusion was usually for their father and meant bad news. As minister Mr. Gaines was called on in times of sorrow and tragedy.
Faith opened the door and was shocked to find Mr. Cook standing on her front porch. Merciful heavens, she thought. Her first instinct was to slam the door shut in the man’s face.
“Miss Gaines,” Mr. Cook said, belatedly removing his hat. “You left a package on the counter. I told Mr. Morse I would bring it by.” The man looked hopefully beyond Faith into the room beyond.
“Thank you,” Faith said snatching the package from the man’s hand. She closed the front door before Mr. Cook could say another word. A moment later Faith was laughing. She looked at the cards of buttons she was holding in one hand. Earlier she had seen Mrs. Jordan selecting the buttons. The elderly woman must have forgotten and left them lying on the counter. Mr. Cook either by pretence or by mistake believed they were hers and followed her home.
The man was becoming a pest!
* * * * *
Saturday afternoon Royce locked the schoolhouse door before venturing towards the shopping district of Junction City. A cool breeze blew out of the north. A sure sign winter was on its way. He walked along the main road greeting people. When he glanced through the front window the Barber Shop was full of ranchers and cowhands. Every spot along the hitching rails in front of the town’s businesses was taken. There was standing room only in the general store and Royce decided to wait to do his shopping. The livery stable was doing a brisk business.
Royce stopped to gossip with the young man shoeing a team of mules. The man worked slowly but methodical. “You’re the new schoolteacher,” Job Randall said. His forearms were budging with muscles. His shock of brown hair hung long on the collar of his faded work shirt. He was medium height with blue eyes. This was the reason Royce had stopped to pass the time of day.
“Yes Sir,” Royce replied showing interest in the man’s work.
“I ain’t never heard of a man teaching school,” Job replied as he dipped hot metal into a bucket of water. “Miss Ferguson,” he stopped and looked at Royce as if he was trying to remember what they were talking about. “Miss Ferguson,” he repeated. “She is my idea of a schoolteacher,” Job continued picking up his thoughts on the matter.
Middle aged and lumpy with a sourpuss face, Royce could almost hear Job say. Miss Ferguson was Royce’s idea of a schoolteacher as well. “You live around here long,” Royce asked casually.
“Me,” Job replied. His face scrunched up in thought. He pursed his lips wrinkling up his nose in the process. Job was not a handsome looking man. His front teeth were big and crooked. His eyebrows were bushy. “Let me see,” he said. “I don’t rightly know. I was born in Sweet Water. Why do you want to know?”
“No reason,” Royce said his tone friendly, “Just something to say.”
Job gave him a wide toothy grin. “My pa got shot for asking the wrong question,” the man volunteered. “He asked a Pill Pusher why he had snakeheads in a bucket of brine. The Pill Pusher shot my pa dead then was hanged by a mob of angry citizens.” Royce smiled wondering at the truth of the tale. He had met dozens of men like Job Randall. A little slow in their thinking but hardworking. The majority were also notorious liars.
Royce stayed and watched Job Randall fit iron shoes on a mule before moving on. He wanted to appear aimless in his wanderings. Conscious of the fact as a new man in town he was probably being watched. Strangers were mostly viewed with suspicion in western communities. In the case of Junction City he had reason to believe his being watched was not idle curiosity. If Dean had been murdered because he was a Territorial Marshal the killer would expect another Marshal to arrive in town.
Standing at the north end of the dusty road was the First Baptist Church. Next to the white painted building was a cemetery. Granite and wooden headstones were laid out in neat rows. The earliest marker was closest to the church and dated July 10th 1836. That year had been a bad one for infants. Ten graves marked the passing of children in the summer of 1836. Royce was standing over the grave of Dean when a shadow fell across the wooden marker. Turning, he saw an angel looking at him. She was dressed in brown. Her pale yellow hair glowed in the sunshine as she looked at him with the corners of pink lips turning up slightly. He had met three Gaines sisters already this one
