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“Are you Mr. Beaumont?”
He nodded, still gaping. Wondering if they were going to stand there all afternoon just gawking at each other, she stuck her hand out and moved forward. Her foot slipped out from under her on the wet, slick ground, and, arms flailing, she landed face first in the mud at Mr. Beaumont’s feet.
Two strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her up, a sucking sound coming from the action. Mud dripping from her face, dropping in clumps down her dress and cape, she shook the mess from her hands.
Mr. Beaumont shoved the flowers at her and placed his hands on his hips. “A woman of mature years, Miss Cochran?”
Chapter 2
Priscilla raised her chin, swiping at the clumps of mud dropping to the ground. “Excuse me, Mr. Beaumont. I am happy to meet you, but now that you have greeted me, I would appreciate being escorted to my house so I may clean up and get warm.” She pulled the sodden flaps of her wet, ruined cape together. Rocky Mountain air was much cooler than Oklahoma.
The man’s eyes flashed. “No, Miss Cochran.” He pointed at a surprised Mr. Boswick. “The only place you’re going is back on that mail coach and return to wherever it is you came from.”
Ready to fight, she stood her ground. “I will not, sir.” She waved the bouquet in his face. “I have a signed contract to teach in Dogtown for one year.”
“Under false pretenses. You lied,” he growled.
She stamped her foot, splashing mud on the bottom of his trousers. “I did not.”
Mr. Beaumont stabbed the air with his index finger in front of her face. “You said you were of mature years.”
She shoved his finger aside. “Well, I’m not a child, am I?”
“Hold on here, now.” The man who had been standing with Mr. Beaumont, his head swiveling back and forth as she and Mr. Beaumont traded words, stepped up to her. “Miss Cochran, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Raymond Morrow, the mayor of Dogtown.”
Giving him a warm smile, she took a deep breath and smoothed the front of her mud-splattered cape. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morrow.” She extended her dirty gloved hand and glared at Mr. Beaumont who stretched his neck muscles.
The mayor looked askance at her hand, took it lightly and continued. “I think at this point, you have the right of it, Miss Cochran. You need to clean yourself up and change into something warm.” He nodded at Mr. Beaumont. “This can all be cleared up after the lady is more comfortable, Mitch.”
She’d started to shiver during the exchange and now she found it hard to even speak. Lord, the cold water and mud had seeped all the way to her skin.
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.
