Courting Miss Callie

Her aunt’s brows rose. “Whatever are you talking about, Callie?”

She frowned, chopped the peeled rutabaga in half, then cut it into thick slices. “Don’t you find something...odd about him?”

“Odd? In what way?” Her aunt donned an apron, joined her at the worktable and began slicing the cleaned carrots.

“Well, in little things.” She glanced out the window. Ezra and the horse were gone. She went back to dicing the rutabaga. “For instance...his clothes are all new, and of good quality.”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, I noticed that. But logging is a rough business, and if he had finished a long job perhaps his clothes were worn, and he bought new ones.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps. His boots are new, also. And he hesitated when he said the men robbed him of his wages.”

Sophia met her gaze. “You don’t believe he was robbed?”

“Oh, yes.” Her hands stilled. “There was anger in his voice when he spoke of it. And his wound bears witness. But I don’t believe he was robbed of wages.” She picked up the last slice of rutabaga and diced it.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” She furrowed her brow and stared into the distance. “Perhaps of his possessions...or money from some source other than logging or like occupations.”

“But there would be no reason for him to lie about that.”

“I suppose not.” She added wood to the fire in the stove, then set the pot of rutabaga on to cook. “But Ezra is hiding something.” She thought back to that moment on the porch when he had helped her into her cloak and his hands had brushed against her neck. “He is not a laborer, as he allows us to believe.”

“And why do you accuse him of shamming, Callie? What would be his purpose?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Sophia. I only know it’s so. His face is not tanned from the weather. His hands are smooth, not rough or callused. His speech is educated, and he has impeccable manners. Ezra Ryder is not who he pretends to be.”

“You may be right, though I still cannot think of why he would go to such elaborate measures to get a free meal. Nor does it matter to me. But you do. And I have taken advantage of your generous nature for too long. Why, you’ve been so busy cooking and baking for my guests, you haven’t even had time to visit your friends.”

Her heart sank. Please, Lord. I’m not ready to face going home. “I don’t mind, Aunt Sophia. I enjoy cooking.”

“Even so, you should have time to enjoy your friends before you must leave for home.” Sophia added the carrots she’d sliced to the pot of rutabaga and removed her apron. “I’m going to Olville tomorrow and place a notice for a cook with Mr. Percy at The Citizen.”

* * *

Who was Daniel? Callie’s brother? Her suitor? Ezra frowned and threw the last shovelful of manure and soiled bedding onto the wagon at the end of the open stall. Whoever Daniel was, he must be a logger. And someone who rated high in Callie Conner’s opinion, if the fondness in her voice when she spoke of him was any indication. He scraped the shovel along the planks in the stall gathering the last of the detritus into a pile, scooped it up and tossed it into the wagon. Perhaps Joe would know about Daniel? But if he asked, Joe would know of his interest in Callie.

His interest in Callie.

He braced his folded arm on the shovel handle and stared into the distance. It was true. He was drawn to Callie in a way he’d never experienced with other women. There was something different about her. Something real and honest. But what chance would an itinerant stable hand have of gaining Callie Conner’s respect, let alone regard? Perhaps he should ask Mrs. Sheffield for the money to mail a letter to Thomas. He could repay her with interest once his funds came, and then he could take a room in the hotel and— No.

He set his jaw, tossed the shovel in the wagon then led the horse pulling it forward until the box was in front of the next stall. “Whoa. Good girl.” He patted the solid shoulder of Mrs. Sheffield’s horse, then climbed the ladder to the loft and forked fresh bedding down into the stall he’d just cleaned. He did not want Callie Conner to know about his wealth. He’d had enough of women pretending to care for him because he was rich. He would simply have to take his chances.

He climbed down, put fresh hay in the rack, then untied the guest’s horse from the snub post in the center of the barn and led him to the watering trough. At least he could be the best stable hand Mrs. Sheffield had ever had.

The horse lifted his head, snorted. “Had enough, boy?” He led him into the clean stall. “There you are, fellow, fresh hay to eat.” The horse stretched his head forward, pulled a mouthful of hay from the rack and started munching. He trailed his hand over the arched neck, patted the sturdy shoulder, then stepped out of the stall, closed the door and moved on to the next. If he hurried with mucking out the stalls, he’d have time to groom the horses before supper.

He went to open the barn door wider and let in more light, glanced toward the hotel and frowned. Callie was standing on the porch laughing with some tall, handsome, well-dressed man. Daniel? No. Daniel was a logger. And, from the looks of things, he had no hold on Callie Conner’s affections. It seemed Miss Conner might be interested in wealthy men after all.

Chapter Four

Callie shrugged into her plain, green wool dress and fastened the fabric-covered buttons that marched single-file from the high collar band to the waist. A quick shake settled the full skirt over her petticoats and straightened the hem. Two small tugs pulled the long sleeves down to her wrists. Now, for her hair. She sighed, looked into the mirror over the washstand and undid the bow at the nape of her neck. The ribbon came free in her hand, and her thick, curly hair spread across her back and shoulders like a frothy, black cloud.

She frowned, grabbed her brush and turned from the mirror. An image of the smooth, thick roll of dark chestnut hair that graced the nape of Willa’s neck rose in her mind. She’d always envied Willa her well-behaved hair. She bent forward, brushed her silky curls toward the crown of her head, grabbed the green ribbon that matched her dress, then paused and listened to the muted sounds coming from the kitchen. Why was Sophia up so early? To prepare for her trip to Olville? A spasm hit her stomach.

She straightened and hurried to her door, her unrestrained curls bouncing on her shoulders and down her back. “Aunt Sophia, I need to—Ezra!” What was the man doing in the kitchen?

He pivoted. Stared. The pile of stovewood in his arms slipped and tumbled to the floor.

Her hair! She whirled back into her bedroom and slammed the door, her cheeks burning.

“Mercy...”

The word came through the door, gruff and sort of strangled sounding. Then came a sound of movement, followed by wood thudding against wood.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her racing pulse, then walked to the washstand to finish her toilette. The reflection in the mirror of her long, flowing curls brought the heat surging back into her cheeks. Ezra Ryder had seen her looking like that.

She snatched up her brush and swept her hair toward her crown, wound the green ribbon around the thick mass and tied it off, capturing as many of the rebellious ends as possible. As always, several strands escaped.

She leaned toward the small, framed mirror, caught up the errant strands and jabbed them into the curly pile atop her head. That was better.

A quick twist of her wrist turned down the wick and snuffed the lamp. She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against one of the panels. Silence. Had he gone? No matter. There was work to be done. She squared her shoulders, pulled the door open and strode out into the kitchen.

Empty.

Thank goodness! She collapsed against the worktable and blew her breath out in a sharp gust.

The back door opened.

She whipped around, watched in dismay as Ezra, his arms again loaded with stovewood, backed into the room, held the door from slamming with his booted foot, then turned toward the woodbox. Their gazes met. She stiffened, waited for his comment on her abandoned appearance at their earlier encounter.

He dipped his head. “Good morning, Callie. I’m sorry if I startled you earlier, but I noticed the woodbox was almost empty when I finished supper last night and thought I’d fill it.” He emptied the load in his arms into the box, straightened and smiled. “I wanted to be sure there was wood enough for you to make breakfast. And some of that good coffee.”

She gave a stiff nod.

“Well, I’ll get out of your way.” He stepped up beside her and picked up an old, dented lantern sitting on the worktable. The circle of golden light around them wavered. He nodded and headed for the back door.

He wasn’t going to say anything about her appearance? No comment about her long, curling tresses? No flowery compliments about her beauty? The tension in her shoulders eased. “If you’ve no pressing work to do, I can have coffee ready in a few minutes. It’s the least I can do in return for your bringing in the firewood.”

He stopped, and turned. “That’s not necessary—but there’s no work pressing enough to make me miss a good cup of coffee.”

It was impossible not to respond to his grin. Her lips tugged upward. “Then if you will light the lamps, I’ll start the coffee.” She turned to the stove and reached for the door to the firebox, felt the heat radiating off it and glanced at the dampers. They’d been opened a bit. “You started the fire?”

“Yes. I hope that’s all right?”

He was close behind her—too close. In her experience that meant he would try to steal a kiss. She braced herself, gripped a cooking fork and glanced over her shoulder. He was standing with his back toward her, lifting down one of the lamps that hung over the worktable. The tension flowed from her. “Of course. Thank you.”

She frowned, grabbed the coffeepot, lifted the tin of ground java off the shelf and inched to the side. She hadn’t thought about how close they would be while he was lighting the lamps. She scooped some of the coffee into the pot, replaced the tin on the shelf, then moved to the sink cupboard and ladled in water from the bucket.