Mr. Beaumont fisted his hands on his hips. “No, she has to get back on that coach.”
The mayor ran his fingers through his hair. “Now, Mitch, be reasonable. The girl is shaking. The mail coach leaves from here three days a week. If the two of you can’t get this sorted out, she can catch another ride. Now we have to take care of her, and we can talk about this at the town meeting tonight.”
Mitch strode up to Mr. Boswick and pointed at the coach. “Don’t unload all those trunks. The lady isn’t staying.”
The three men got into an argument. Priscilla noticed a young boy standing a few feet back from the men. He looked enough like Mr. Beaumont to probably be his son. And most likely, one of her new students. She walked up to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She quickly took it off to see a mud stain there. She winced. “My name is Miss Cochran, and I assume you will be one of my students?”
The boy gazed up at her with a look she’d been warned about in her education classes. A young boy’s crush on his teacher. He licked his lips and blushed red under his tanned skin. “Yes, ma’am.”
She offered him a warm smile. “Perhaps you can direct me to the nearest hotel? I would like to get cleaned up and into something warm while the men deal with this.”
“Um, sorry, ma’am—I mean Miss Cochran—but there isn’t a hotel here in town. Your house is over there, behind the schoolhouse.” He waved across the street.
“Do you suppose it’s open?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll be glad to walk you over there.”
He was a sweet little boy, probably about ten or eleven years old, with much better manners than his father. The child must have taken his temperament from his mother. “Thank you so much.”
“What is your name?” she asked as they started across the street to the sound of the men still shouting.
“Ian Beaumont, ma’am.”
So he was Mr. Beaumont’s son. She pitied the poor woman married to the man if this was any indication of how he treated women. They walked quietly side by side until they reached a small house behind and to the left of the school. Ian raced ahead and tried the doorknob. He grinned at her as he opened the door.
It was a pleasant house, the whole thing only about twice the size of her bedroom at home, but she could see herself very comfortable here. Ian led her through the parlor, which the front door opened into, to the snug kitchen behind it. To the left was a bedroom. From what she could see, there was a dresser with a mirror, a small desk and a chair, and an iron bed with a very homey looking quilt.
Without her trunks she would have to peel off her wet clothes and after washing up, wrap herself in the blanket while her clothes dried. She turned to Ian. “Thank you so much for bringing me here. Please tell your father I would appreciate my trunks being delivered so I’ll have something to wear.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell him that.” Ian began to back away toward the front door, probably anxious to leave once she’d mentioned undressing. He banged into the wall, turned and left the house, closing the door smartly.
Pricilla removed her bonnet and cape and laid them over one of the two kitchen chairs. She went to the sink and pumped the handle, grateful to see clean water splash into the sink. She gave her hands and face a wash and, not finding a towel, dried them on the part of her skirt that was still clean.
She checked the stove and found a pile of kindling someone had thoughtfully placed inside. She took the flint from the shelf over the oven and lit the small pieces of wood, blowing on it until the fire caught. After taking a quick look around, she spotted the firewood box near the back door and, taking two small logs, shoved them into the stove, already enjoying the warmth.
After checking the shelves underneath the counter that ran against the far wall, she found a large pot that she filled with water and set on the stove. Making sure the windows were covered, she shimmied out of her clothes, stripping all the way to her skin. She unbuttoned her half boots and peeled off her stockings, then made a beeline to the bed and yanked the quilt off, wrapping herself in it.
Dragging a chair close to the stove, she enjoyed the warmth while she waited for the water to warm. She wondered how the argument was proceeding out on the street. Well, she was no shrinking violet. She had a contract signed by the mayor of Dogtown. Despite what that dreadful Mr. Beaumont had said, she had no intention of returning home. She was here, and here is where she would stay.
Mitch waved his hand i
n disgust as Boswick unloaded Miss Cochran’s trunks from the coach and piled them onto the boardwalk. How the hell many dresses did a teacher need, anyway? “If we let this woman stay, I guarantee she’ll be back on that coach in less than a week. I don’t see the point in getting the parents all stirred up about school starting and then have the damn thing close down again.”
“Look, Mitch. Like it or not, the woman is here now.” Ray turned, looking around. “I thought she was here. Where did she go?”
Boswick dropped a satchel on top of the pile of trunks. “While y’all were shouting at each other to wake the dead, little Ian walked her over to the teacher’s house behind the school.”
“At least someone in your family has manners,” Ray quipped.
The mail coach driver placed his hands on his hips and spit out a stream of tobacco juice. “I gotta get moving here, so y’all can take care of seeing to Miss Cochran’s trunks. I’ll be back around again on Saturday if she wants to leave then. Right now I have deliveries to make which ain’t gettin’ done with me standing here listening to you two squabbling like a couple of women.”
“Pa, Miss Cochran said she’d like her trunks brought over.” Ian hurried up to him, his face flushed.
“Oh, she did, did she? Well, of course, I’m sure the princess is used to people jumping at her command.” Mitch reached down and hefted one of the trunks onto his shoulder. “I’ll take these over to the house,” he said to the mayor. “You go on about your business. I’ll stop by your place tonight before the town council meeting to discuss this.”
Ray nodded and headed toward his home where he conducted his law practice.
“Ian, get your chores done before you deliver the newspapers the mail coach just dropped off. I’ll be going to the mayor’s house later on, so reheat that leftover stew from last night for your supper,” Mitch called over his shoulder as he settled the trunk more comfortably, then headed across the street.