And now, seeing how quickly Emma had bonded with Yates Turner, Faith felt both grateful and apprehensive. The man was becoming important to them, both perhaps too important, too quickly. Yet there was something about him that inspired trust. His kindness seemed genuine, his interest in their welfare sincere. And though Faith was reluctant to admit it even to herself, the way he looked at her as if she were precious and desirable awakened feelings she'd thought long buried.
"Careful Faith," she murmured to herself. "Remember why you came here to be independent, to make your own way. But as Emma's delighted laugh rang out when the cat finally approached to lap at the milk, Faith wondered if independence was truly more valuable than connection. Perhaps there was room in their new life for both. The weeks passed quickly as autumn deepened toward winter.
Faith settled into her role as teacher, earning the respect of her students and most of their parents. Emma thrived both at school and at home, where the stray cat, now officially named Whistle, had taken up permanent residence, much to her delight. Yates Turner became a regular visitor, stopping by the schoolhouse or their cabin several times a week. Sometimes he brought practical gifts, a repaired chair, fresh venison after a hunting trip, or books for both Faith and Emma. Other times he simply came to talk, sharing stories of his day or asking about theirs.
Faith found herself looking forward to his visits, planning her day around the possibility of seeing him. She told herself it was merely friendship, but Martha Jenkins's knowing smiles whenever Yates's name was mentioned suggested others saw it differently. The whole town's talking, Martha informed her one crisp October afternoon as they walked back from the merkantile. Harriet Wilson is positively apoplelectic that Yates Turner, the most eligible bachelor in three counties, is courting the new school teacher instead of her niece from Helina. Faith nearly dropped her basket of supplies.
He is not courting me. No. Then what would you call it when a man visits almost daily, brings gifts, and looks at a woman like she hung the moon? Friendship, Faith insisted, though her cheeks warmed. Yates is kind to everyone.
Martha snorted. He doesn't bring venison to the widow Hulcom or read stories to Mayor Wilson's children. Face it, dear. The man is sweet on you and on Emma, too. Faith couldn't deny the latter.
Yates treated Emma with a tenderness that sometimes brought tears to her eyes. He listened to her childish stories with genuine interest, taught her to ride the gentle mare he'd brought specifically for her lessons, and never failed to bring her small treasures of pretty stone, a carved animal, or once a tiny silver locket with just enough room for a miniature portrait. That's from my mother, he'd explained when Faith protested it was too valuable a gift. She'd want a sweet girl like Emma to have it. What Faith couldn't or wouldn't acknowledge aloud was how deeply she'd come to care for Yates.
His visits were the highlight of her days. His rare absences keenly felt. When he smiled at her, her heart raced like a school girl's. When their hands occasionally brushed as they worked together on some task. The contact sent warmth spreading through her entire body.
I'm not ready, she confessed to Martha now. It's too soon, too complicated, Martha's expression softened. Love is always complicated, dear. But sometimes it's worth the risk. Who said anything about love?