The Rancher Inherits A Family. Cheryl St.John

Brewster had made it up with crisp fresh-smelling sheets and a thick quilt, and he’d succumbed to Dr. Mason’s herbal concoction and the rigor of the ride home.

      His lip tickled, and he swatted at it. The tickle under his nose came again, and this time when he swatted, he came away with a skinny arm. He opened his eyes to find he’d captured Harper Radner. The boy’s wide dark eyes stared back, but his fascinated gaze was fixed on Seth’s upper lip—specifically his mustache.

      “What are you boys up to?”

      “Harper said you got caterpillars on your lip. I said nuh-uh.”

      Seth grinned. “Well, you’re right smart, Harper. What fella would want caterpillars on his lip? What if they fell into his supper?”

      The five-year-old scrunched his face into a mask of distaste. “Ewwww!”

      From the other side of the porch Tate guffawed.

      Seth released the boy’s arm. Harper backed up, spotted an empty bucket, which he turned over for a stool, and sat a few feet away from Seth’s bed. “I’m gonna sit here and watch for a while.”

      “I have a chore for the both of you. There’s a shed out behind the house. Go back there, leave the door open for light and find me a couple of lanterns. I’ll want them when it gets dark.”

      “To see your way to the privy?” Harper asked.

      Seth nodded. “And to read. Where’s Little John?”

      “Inside with Miss Brewster.” The two turned and darted around the corner of the house.

      The screen door opened ten feet away, and Miss Brewster exited the house carrying a tray. Little John walked so closely beside her, Seth hoped he didn’t trip her.

      “We heard you talking to the boys. Your mother sent your lunch.” She set the tray on an upended crate and moved it closer to him. “Do you want to sit up a little more?”

      “I reckon one more cushion.”

      She leaned across him to tuck the padding behind him, and her citrusy scent enveloped him. The unique zesty scent suited her—it wasn’t heavy or floral, but bright, like her hair and eyes. She wore a pale blue shirtwaist with lace trim down the front and an apron over a blue-and-white checkered skirt. The fabric rustled as she moved. Standing, she handed him a plate of food and smoothed her hand over her hip in an unconscious nervous gesture.

      Looking at the bruise on her delicate jaw made him wince each time he saw it. Her face was flushed and her eyelids seemed pink. The day wasn’t uncomfortably warm, which made him wonder if she’d been crying. The thought disturbed him more than he’d have liked. “Have a seat.”

      She glanced behind her and lowered herself onto a cushioned twig chair.

      Little John immediately leaned against her knees, and she lifted him onto her lap. He stuck a thumb into his mouth and rested back against her. His untrusting gaze bore into Seth’s.

      She smoothed the little boy’s hair from his forehead. The gesture made something in Seth’s chest shift uncomfortably, and he questioned his reaction. No female had ever affected him the way this one did. In her presence, he felt appreciative, protective, uncertain, wary...and enchanted. All at once. The tumble of emotions confused and worried him. He didn’t have time to think about perplexing feelings.

      He said a silent blessing and ate the meat and potatoes his mother had prepared, his gaze moving across the landscape. Once spring had arrived, he’d inspected all the buildings and made repairs to stalls and corrals. He and old Dewey had ridden fence for weeks, mending and replacing. Dewey was most likely finishing that chore today. Seth’s mother hadn’t mentioned him, but she’d left for town early and probably set out a breakfast for their hand. Right now Seth should be checking wells and pumps, inspecting the troughs to make certain they’d hold rainwater. Once this rib quit hurting he’d be able to ride.

      He glanced at Marigold, noting Little John had fallen asleep on her lap. “You can lay him at the foot of the cot here. I’ll sit up while he naps.”

      She shifted the boy’s weight so he was in a manageable position, then rose to place him on the bed. The child curled up and stuck his thumb into his mouth. Seth watched the boy slumber, his long lashes against his pinkened cheek. Glancing up, he noticed that Marigold hadn’t moved away, but was studying Little John as well, her expression undecipherable.

      “You’re good with the boys,” he said.

      She came out of her reverie to glance at Seth. “Children fascinate me. I suppose that’s why I became a teacher. They’re impressionable and for the most part unspoiled. They don’t resist change or new information, and unless they have cause not to be, they’re accepting.”

      She moved back to the chair and smoothed her skirts.

      “He’s pretty wary of me.” Seth set aside his plate. “I confess I don’t much know what to do for youngins. I realize Tessa was desperate for someone to look out for them, but I don’t know that I was the best choice.”

      “Apparently she trusted you.”

      He took a deep breath that shot a stabbing pain to his side. “I reckon.” He shifted, trying to get more comfortable. “Aside from feeding them and giving them a place to sleep, what do I do with them?”

      “They’re curious. They’re energetic. Give them room to play and discover. They need guidelines and routines, enforced with kindness. They need a sense of well-being and someone to listen to them.”

      Still feeling inadequate, he thought over her words.

      “Not all that different from adults in that respect,” she added and glanced away from his gaze.

      Was she missing a sense of well-being? She’d come all this way on a train by herself. He’d heard talk about the hiring of a new teacher, but until now he hadn’t put any thought into what kind of person would accept the position. All of the other women who arrived in Cowboy Creek were either already married to businessmen or ranchers, or had come seeking husbands. Marigold Brewster had apparently come to teach, but it was a long way to travel for a position.

      “What brought you to Kansas?” he asked.

      She glanced at Little John and then aside. “I lived in Ohio with my sister. We worked and took care of each other. And then she died. It was lonely living in my parents’ home without them—without Daisy, I mean. I saw the advertisement for a teacher in a growing boomtown community, so I sent a telegram and once I heard back, I sold the house. I wanted to start over.”

      “Did you have friends there? Other family?”

      She shook her head. “We had friends once. The war changed everything.”

      He nodded. “Indeed.”

      A moment passed and the cry of a hawk echoed in the distance.

      “Where were you during the war?” she asked.

      “We ranched in Missouri, so I guess that tells you something. We were battling over statehood from the start. Towns and families split over joining the Confederacy. My father had built up stock and my brothers and I helped out. The ranch was thriving, but when the war broke out, most of the ranchers had to set their cattle loose while they went to fight. We thought it would only be for a few months and we’d come back and round ’em up, sort ’em out and go on. We lost at Wilson’s Creek early on, won at Pea Ridge, but the battles went on and on, and there was no law to be had.”

      “I followed the newspaper reports,” she said. “What about your parents?”

      He collected himself before speaking. “My father was killed in sixty. Before the war. Then between Quantrill, the James brothers, Bill Anderson and the like, it was too dangerous to leave my mother alone, so we sent her to her brother’s family in Philadelphia, and she waited out the war with my aunts. I ended up fighting in Arkansas, was with General Steele during the Red River Campaign.”