I appreciate you and Kurt meeting me here, Mrs. Boyd. And I apologize for the wait. Monday afternoons are always hectic.” With an abbreviated sigh, Judith Stafford settled into her desk chair.
Rachel offered an understanding smile, hoping to mask her nervousness. “I was in town anyway, so it was no bother. I’m grateful for the time you set aside to meet with us.”
Miss Stafford straightened the stack of books on her desk, then the row of pencils. “With so many students under my tutelage, my schedule is demanding. But I’m finding that, on the whole, working with the students here in Timber Ridge is very rewarding.” She cut a narrow look at Kurt. “With students who actually have a desire to learn.”
Rachel felt a pinch in the comment but knew that, with Kurt’s recent misbehavior—and what they were here to talk about today— it was deserved. She so wanted this meeting to go well and was willing to do anything to help the situation improve. That included getting her relationship with this young woman on surer footing. “I hope you’re enjoying living here, Miss Stafford. It’s quite different from Dallas, I suppose.”
“Oh yes, very different. But I’m feeling at home here now, despite some rough patches along the way.” She sneaked another look at Kurt.
Rachel sensed all wasn’t forgiven and forgotten, and she couldn’t blame Miss Stafford for still being upset about the outhouse incident. Kurt must be presenting quite a challenge for the first-time teacher. She quelled a sigh. He was a challenge for her, and she was his mother!
Miss Stafford leaned forward, pencil in hand, and looked down at an open file on her desk. Rachel made a discreet attempt to read it as well, but couldn’t.
“Are you aware, Mrs. Boyd”—Miss Stafford lifted her head— “of your son’s most recent breach of conduct?”
Rachel’s gaze went involuntarily to the wood-burning stove in the corner, and her face went warm. “Yes, ma’am, I am. He told me he . . . placed a book inside the stove, and that it was burned.”
Miss Stafford’s gaze slid to Kurt, then back. “Did he tell you which book it was that he placed into the stove?”
Rachel blinked. When she’d finally wrangled the truth out of Kurt, she’d been so angry she hadn’t stopped to clarify details. Mitch hadn’t seen Kurt put the book into the stove, and apparently none of the other students had either. Or if so, no one was talking. She cleared her throat. “I’d assumed it was his textbook. The one assigned to him.”
Miss Stafford slowly shook her head. With a less-than-friendly smile, she pulled open a side drawer and withdrew a charred object. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, as if it were a dead rat. “Your son put my grade book into the fire . . . after he earned a failing mark on an assignment.”
Rachel swallowed, staring at what once might have been a book. She wanted to look at Kurt to see his reaction, but Miss Stafford was watching her so closely she felt as though she were the guilty party, as if she were the one being disciplined. And something didn’t make sense. After Kurt had earned a “failing mark”?
When Molly taught this classroom last fall, Rachel clearly recalled her sister-in-law say that Kurt had finished strong in his studies, despite having given Molly some tense moments during class. Remembering the incidents with the mouse and the snake, Rachel cringed.
But burning Miss Stafford’s grade book . . . That had more serious ramifications than anything he’d done before.
Her thigh began to ache. Every muscle in her body was taut. A thousand thoughts flitted through her mind, foremost of which was that none of this would be happening—with the ranch, with Kurt—if Thomas were still alive.
Kurt had been barely six years old when Thomas died, and Thomas had merely to give Kurt a stern look and the boy toed the line. But her stern looks went ignored, her threats unheeded. Even the paddlings she’d given him—that hurt her far more than they hurt him—yielded no noticeable change.
“Mrs. Boyd . . .”
Rachel lifted her gaze to see Miss Stafford wearing a surprisingly thoughtful look, her hands clasped before her on the desk. It occurred to her then how very young a woman Judith was. And how pretty, with her brunette hair swept back in a stylish lace chignon. And how snug she wore her shirtwaists.
“Be assured, Mrs. Boyd, I’ll continue to be as patient as I can be with your son. But his behavior must show improvement.” A brief glance included Kurt in the warning. “Molasses on the drawer pulls of my desk and making faces at the other children in class is disruptive. Making inappropriate noises that boys often make in order to draw attention to themselves is disturbing. But burning something . . .” Miss Stafford frowned. “That’s another issue entirely. I’ve spoken with a member of the town council, and we feel that—”
“Pardon me?” Rachel said before she could stop herself. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. “You spoke with a member of the town council, about my son, before speaking with me?”
Judith Stafford sat taller, traces of thoughtfulness now gone. “As the teacher in Timber Ridge, I report to the town council. If I’m experiencing problems with a child—”
“Then you should speak with the child’s parent first,” Rachel said with a calmness she didn’t feel.
“Which I did.” Miss Stafford’s mouth curved in a tight smile. “As you will recall, I’m sure.”
Rachel pressed her lips together—embarrassed, ashamed . . . and furious. Both with Miss Stafford for the liberties she’d taken, with Kurt for his antics, and with herself for not having better control of her son. She could well imagine which member of the town council Miss Stafford had spoken with. Mayor David Davenport, a close personal friend of Judith’s aunt and uncle who lived in town. She felt sick inside.
If LuEllen Spivey, Judith’s aunt and the biggest gossip in town, got wind of what Kurt had done with Miss Stafford’s grade book . . .
“Kurt, wait for me outside in the wagon, please. And close the door on your way out.”
Still shaking, Rachel guided the wagon into town, aware of Kurt’s furtive glances but not trusting herself to say anything to him. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she felt people watching her as she drove by. Mayor Davenport knew about Kurt burning Miss Stafford’s grade book. . . .
She squeezed her eyes tight. She needed to tell James. Mayor Davenport had caused her brother such trouble, what with James moving in with her and the boys after Thomas died, and Kurt’s misbehavior in school last fall, which had endangered Molly and led to her being injured, which then filtered back to the town council and led straight back to James.
Just as it would again.
She took a deep breath. Davenport would attempt to use this situation against James too, in the upcoming sheriff ’s election.
She brought the team to a stop in front of the store, and Kurt immediately jumped from the bench seat. As she carefully climbed down, the sharp pain in her leg reminded her of Rand’s restrictions. He’d declared her well enough to walk, with limitations she intended to heed. Another week of healing, he’d said, and she should be strong enough to walk without assistance. But still needing some support, she retrieved the cane from beneath the bench seat, and when she looked up, she saw Kurt waiting for her by the team. Odd, he usually ran on ahead. Of course he wanted to know what had happened with Miss Stafford, but she had no intention of discussing it right now.
She picked a path toward the boardwalk, mindful of the mud and muck. The warmer temperatures in recent days were welcome, especially with May still a week away, but the melting snow combined with deposits from animals was not.
“Mama?”
She managed the two steps up to the boardwalk, wishing for a handrail. “Yes, Kurt?”
“Do I . . .” Hands in his pockets, he stared at his feet. “Do I still go to school?”
She couldn’t see his face, so couldn’t tell whether he hoped her answer would be yes or no. “Yes, of course you still go to school. Why?”
He licked his lips. His little shoulders rose and fell. “I just wondered.”
Wishing she could bend down to be eye level with him, she gently urged his chin upward. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. “Miss Stafford is giving you another chance. But, Kurt, you must respect your teacher.” She glanced at a woman passing by and pasted on a “How do you do?” smile that lasted all of three seconds.
She thought of a question Miss Stafford had asked her, for which she had no answer. “Can you tell me, son . . . why are you doing these things? You never got into this kind of trouble before . . .” She caught herself before saying “your papa died” and decided to leave the question hanging, wondering if he hadn’t already finished the sentence in his mind, as she had.
Kurt stared up, eyes wide and blue, shining with beguiling innocence. He gave a slow shrug, as if he too wished he knew the answer.
Rachel sighed and nodded for him to go on. She watched him walk into the store, loving him, hurting for him, praying for him, while still wanting to shake him senseless.
Mitch was waiting for them inside, but she needed a moment to gather her composure. She shuffled to an out-of-the-way bench and eased down, welcoming a moment to rest. Sitting provided immediate relief to her leg. She looked back in the direction of the school and felt her stomach knot tight again. She hadn’t been this angry in a long time.
She took a deep breath, held it for as long as she could, then slowly gave it release.
Miss Stafford wasn’t the most patient teacher, nor had she demonstrated the best judgment in contacting the town council, but Kurt was to blame too, Rachel knew. As was she . . .
From her sequestered bench, she watched the townspeople pass, glad to be the one doing the watching. She considered walking the short distance to the sheriff ’s office to talk to James, but her promise to Rand that she would take it easy kept her where she was.
A boy passed by on the street below. A tiny puppy followed him, working hard to keep up. The dog nipped at the boy’s heels and the boy tripped and nearly fell. Rachel giggled to herself. For as long as she could remember, Mitch and Kurt had wanted a dog. But that was one more responsibility—and one more mouth to feed—that she didn’t need right now.
She shifted on the bench and felt the layer of bandages protecting her incision. She was fortunate her wound was healing so well, and that Rand was so skilled a surgeon. She arched her back, stretching her shoulder muscles.
Rand Brookston . . .
There was definitely more to the man than she’d originally believed. He was a doctor, yes, but each time they were together she saw less of her father’s traits in him and more of . . . well, more of a very kind, generous, and selfless man. An odd combination for so gifted a physician.
The surgery he planned to perform on Ben sounded fraught with risk, and she had a list of questions for him. She’d known Ben’s condition was serious but not that his remaining time was so short. A pang tightened her chest. Rand had shared that if Ben hadn’t told Lyda about his prognosis by today, he would. Devastating as that would be for Lyda, she agreed with him. Lyda deserved to know while there was still time to say the things that needed to be said.
She’d read Rand’s article in the special edition of the Timber Ridge Reporter over the weekend. Well written and informative, the article cited facts about typhoid fever, how a person could lessen their likelihood of contracting the disease, and what to do if symptoms presented themselves. She’d heard of no other reported cases.
Recalling something Rand said to her when he’d examined her a few nights ago, and how he’d said it, she felt the start of a smile.
“A severe blow to the body—let’s say . . . being kicked by a heifer . . .”
She’d been on the receiving end of his sarcasm before, but something about his attitude that night had been different. And when he’d used her given name, making her look at him . . . She leaned back on the bench, relishing the sunshine. And surprisingly, the memory.
Moments passed, and finally, with the aid of her cane, she rose.
She spotted Mitch and Kurt as she entered the store, seated off to the side, each eating a cookie. She held up two fingers as she passed, indicating their cookie limit, and the boys nodded.
Jean Dickey was behind the counter, helping a customer. “Lyda’s upstairs,” she whispered, her customary smile at the ready, and returned to her task.
Rachel continued through the curtained doorway and up the stairs, looking forward to seeing Lyda and Ben, yet dreading it as well. Life could change so quickly. As she reached the second-floor landing, she heard muffled cries, and rounding the corner saw Lyda in Rand’s arms.
Lyda sobbed against his chest, covering her face with her hands. Rand held her close and stroked her back, whispering something in her ear. A floorboard creaked beneath Rachel’s boot, and Rand looked up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
Lyda knew.