“I’ll take the herbs if I need them,” he said.
“Thank you for all of your help and the good night’s rest,” Marigold told Marlys. She took her crumpled bonnet from her bag, nodded to the boys and led the gathering outside.
James had their belongings nestled in the back of a buckboard with wood sides, along with what looked like a few purchases Mrs. Halloway must have made. He’d formed a couple of makeshift stairs with crates and stood to the side while Seth made the climb into the rear. After only a few muffled groans he seated himself on another crate, which had a nest of blankets behind. James then ushered Seth’s mother up to the wagon seat, while Marigold and the boys scrambled up.
“That’s not ours,” Tate said, pointing to their stack of belongings. “That train. It isn’t ours.”
The item he referred to appeared to be a small wooden train engine with a couple of cars attached.
“It belongs to the other children on the train,” Harper agreed.
Marigold remembered seeing the toy during the trip to Kansas. “There were no other children on the train, Harper.”
He nodded and gave her a wide-eyed look of sincerity. “There was. And that’s theirs.”
She glanced at James. “Are you aware of any other children arriving, Mr. Johnson?”
“No, miss. Only these here boys.”
Marigold raised an eyebrow at Tate and Harper, but then she shrugged. If they’d made up imaginary friends to pass the time, she wasn’t going to create a disturbance over their play. “Well, we’ll take it along until someone else comes for it.”
James loaded the makeshift steps and, with an agile leap, seated himself and clucked to the horses. “I’ll take you in a roundabout way out of town, Miss Brewster, so you can see a little more of Cowboy Creek.”
“That’s thoughtful, James,” Evelyn told him.
His route first took them east to Lincoln Boulevard, where he turned the team left and headed north past the schoolhouse and an elegant two-story home.
“That’s the Gardner place,” Evelyn said. She narrated the tour as they went as far north as Sixth Street, then turned south onto Eden, the main thoroughfare. She pointed out everything from the grand opera house to the bakery, where the enticing scents of cinnamon and yeast drew sighs from the boys.
Only once they passed Aunt’s Mae’s boardinghouse did Marigold get her bearings. Then, after a few more blocks of seemingly thriving businesses, they headed south, out of town.
“It’s so flat here,” Tate said. “Where are the trees?”
Marigold had thought much the same for days while the train crossed the prairie with little more than short grasses in sight.
Seth reclined against the blankets, his forearm crossed protectively over his side. “You’re right. What you see for miles and miles is little bluestem and buffalo grass. They withstand drought.”
“What’s drought?” Harper asked.
“No rain,” Seth explained.
Marigold studied the terrain from beneath the brim of her bonnet.
“A couple of horticultural societies started up recently, teaching Kansans about forestry,” Seth told them. “It’s possible to grow trees, but it’s not easy. The dogged wind makes the soil all the drier.”
Tate held onto his hat as a strong gust threatened to take it.
“You’ll see a few trees when we get to the ranch.”
His effort to talk to the youngster touched Marigold. She glanced at him, and when his gaze met hers, she quickly looked away. She’d thrust herself into the midst of strangers in a peculiar land, and now she had to make the best of it.
* * *
She hadn’t known what she’d expected, but White Rock Ranch consisted of acres of spring grasses, freshly plowed fields and pastures with grazing horses. Barns, corrals and a dormered two-story house with covered porches along two sides came into view. A row of eight-foot elms stood to the west of the house.
“That’s a big house,” she said to no one in particular.
“It came with the ranch,” Seth told her. “There’s a soddy out behind where the previous owners lived until they built this one. My brother told us about the land as soon as the rancher came to him for help selling.”
“Did you plant those trees?” Tate asked.
Seth sat forward and inhaled sharply. “I did.”
James lowered the tailgate and jumped into the back of the wagon to assist Seth. He and Mrs. Halloway helped him down to the ground.
“Until we get more beds, I’ve given the boys your room with the bigger bed,” his mother told Seth. “Miss Brewster will have the far bedroom, and you’ll be sleeping in the room off the kitchen for now.”
“Sounds busy.”
She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “It’s convenient.”
“I’d prefer a bed out here.” He made his way up the porch stairs to a rocker and sat.
“I’ll arrange it.” Evelyn reached the door and gave Marigold a resigned smile. “He’s made up his mind. I’d be wasting my breath to argue.”
“I’ll help you with the beds and the cooking.”
“There’s plenty of room,” she assured Marigold, “but the rooms aren’t all furnished yet.”
James carried in Marigold’s and the boys’ bags and left them as directed. Marigold carried Peony’s carrier into the room she’d been assigned. She sat on the narrow bed, lifted the cat out onto her lap and squeezed her eyes shut. Only a year ago she was living in the comfortable home her parents had left to her and her sister, teaching in a well-appointed school, helping care for the niece she adored. Memories of her sister, Daisy, and her niece, Violet, assailed her. They’d been on their own because Daisy’s husband had contracted gold fever and disappeared for months at a time, but they’d had each other. With both of them working, they’d been able to support themselves and care for Violet. Life would never be like that again. She might as well resign herself to the unfortunate fact.
She could have stayed in her family’s home. She would have managed. But every room, every corner, every furnishing had held bittersweet memories. The reminder of her loss was too great to bear. She’d cared for her parents until their deaths, and because Daisy had never had a home of her own, Marigold had been thankful for her company and happy to help care for Violet. After Daisy’s death, she and her niece had clung to each other—until Violet’s father had come for her.
Marigold had no legal right to her sister’s child. Violet had cried, and Marigold had encouraged her to be brave when all she’d wanted to do was cry herself. Later, she’d done plenty of that in the hollow house in which she’d been left alone.
It had been time to leave. Start over. Make her own decisions. The teaching position in Cowboy Creek had sounded like a grand adventure.
She glanced around. The room was clean, the quilt-covered bed comfortable enough, the pine chest of drawers and washstand adequate. She would meet new students and be up to the challenge of teaching them. Teaching brought her joy.
She had much to look forward to.
* * *
“Ain’t neither caterpillars.”
“Are so.”
“No, they ain’t. Caterpillars ain’t brown.”
“Some are. Go on, touch ’em.”