“On three,” Marlys said.
He had another scar above his right eyebrow, where the skin wasn’t tanned like the rest of his face, and a fresh cut under the same eye she hadn’t noticed before. Two neat sutures held the cut closed.
“One. Two. Three.”
He grasped her arm gingerly, undoubtedly holding back so as to hurt neither her nor the lady doctor, but she gripped his and pulled firmly. His lips formed a white line, but he sat up and leaned forward. Marlys quickly slid pillows behind his back and the women allowed him to inch back onto the added support.
A fine glow of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and Marlys used a damp cloth to blot it away.
“Are you doing all right?” Marlys asked.
Seth released a breath. “Yes. I’m fine.”
Marlys hurried from the room, returned with a tray and settled it on his lap. “I’m going to see to one of my other patients now.”
“Thank you.” After the doctor had gone, he glanced at Marigold. “And thank you, Miss Brewster.”
Marigold uncovered the plate and handed it to Seth, along with a fork. His attention moved to the boys, who were taking up only two chairs, because Little John huddled on Tate’s lap.
She got the book she’d brought along and seated herself beside Harper. “My books are still packed in trunks, but I had this one with me. It’s about a little girl, but we’ll have plenty of time to read stories about boys later.”
“What is the book called?” Harper asked.
“Jessica’s First Prayer.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a little girl abandoned in London, but she makes an unlikely friend.”
“Who is the friend?”
Marigold grinned. “You will have to be patient, listen and find out.” She opened to the first page. “‘In a screened and secluded corner of one of the many railway-bridges which span the streets of London there could be seen a few years ago, from five o’clock every morning until half past eight, a tidily set-out coffee-stall, consisting of a trestle and board, upon which stood two large tin cans, with a small fire of charcoal burning under each so as to keep the coffee boiling during the early hours of the morning when the work-people were thronging into the city on their way to their daily toil.’”
“What’s a coffee-stall?” Tate asked.
“An open booth where a vendor...where a person sells coffee.”
“What’s a trestle?” Harper asked.
“A bridge,” Tate replied.
“Well, there are trestle bridges,” she answered, “but this is a makeshift table.”
“Trestle is the wood frame that’s holding the board on top to make a table or a bridge,” Seth explained.
Marigold gave him a relieved glance. “Yes, exactly. The table is set up so the coffee can sit upon it.”
“And then the little girl sells it,” Harper suggested.
She gave Seth an apologetic glance. “This might take a while.”
The fork hovered above his plate. He studied the faces of the curious boys, his overwhelmed expression revealing doubts about his ability to raise three young boys while he ran a ranch. He met her gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”
In that instant and with those words, much as he’d ignored pain for the sake of remaining calm in front of the children—as well as for the sake of his pride, no doubt—she watched him deny his sizable struggle and accept the responsibility that had been delivered to his door. These children frightened her. But he frightened her more. She needed control of her future. She sensed the threat each of them presented to that control.
She wanted people of her own choosing in her life, but so far, since arriving, circumstances were determining her actions. Marigold turned back to the book. She could handle anything for a short time.
* * *
The doctor’s husband, Samuel Woods Mason, was the local newspaperman. Marigold recognized his name right away, had followed his articles covering the war and read the book he’d written afterward about his army experiences. He was a talkative, friendly man and arrived with a handsome young son some time later.
“You’re the new schoolteacher?”
She extended a hand. “Yes. I’m Marigold Brewster.”
They stood in the exterior portion of the doctor’s office.
“When things settle down, I’d like to do an interview and write a piece for the Webster County Daily News. Your arrival will be of interest to the citizens.”
“Well, I don’t know how interesting I am, but I’d be happy to let people know my plans for the students.”
“Everyone is interesting if I ask the right questions,” he said with a smile. “And in this town women are of utmost interest. This is August,” he said, indicating his son. The slender boy had jet-black hair and lashes like his father’s, and appeared a couple of years older than Tate.
Marigold extended a hand. “I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other at school.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“August loves to read,” Marlys told her. “He’s learned to speak Chinese and now together, we’re learning to write the characters. He can also understand German and is picking up some Shawnee.”
Marigold looked at the boy in surprise. “My goodness. That’s impressive, August.”
He gave her a bashful smile. “Marlys teaches me languages. We visit the people who speak it so we can learn.”
He’d called the doctor Marlys, but looked to her with affection.
“Come meet the children who will soon be in your class.” Marlys rested her hand on his shoulder and introduced the boys, who’d been sitting on chairs in the waiting room. The four of them looked each other over.
“You’re going to stay with us tonight while Dr. Mason looks after your—after Mr. Halloway,” Sam explained. “We can get up early and have breakfast at The Cattleman.”
“They have flapjacks and sausage,” August told them.
The boys looked at Marigold for confirmation. She felt so out of her league with these children. She’d taught in stressful circumstances, with inadequate supplies, and in cold classrooms during the war, but she’d always been confident she had something to offer her students. These children needed so much more than she could give them.
But right now, they simply needed assurance that they were going to be safe and together, and she could offer them that. She kneeled in front of the trio and took Little John’s damp hand. “August and Mr. Mason are going to take good care of you tonight.” She looked from one little face to the next. “You’re all safe and you’re together. Tomorrow we’ll get you settled at Mr. Hallo—At Seth’s ranch. Your travels are over, and you’re going to be just fine.”
As she stood, Little John dug his fist into her skirt and clung to the fabric.
“Let go, Little John,” Tate told his smallest brother.
Little John’s lower lip trembled.
She thought quickly. “I’ll tell you what.” She moved to a nearby table, under which her open bag sat. Attached to her skirt, the toddler followed. She reached into the satchel and withdrew the book they’d started earlier. “You take care of