Courting Miss Callie
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“—Sophia will start wondering why you don’t go home.”
“Exactly.” She turned and sank into the chair opposite Willa. “If I stay overlong she will become suspicious.” A wry smile curved her lips. “And you know Aunt Sophia when she is after information.”
“I do indeed.” Willa’s eyes crinkled. “Remember when we came home with our skirt hems all wet and she suspected we’d gone floating downriver on Daniel’s homemade raft?”
“And we denied it.”
The coconspirators in childhood crimes burst into laughter.
“It’s funny now—” Willa wiped tears from her eyes and shook her head “—but, when Sophia plunked us down on that porch settle and—”
“—we sat there with our skirts dripping water and shaking our heads no, too scared to even talk.”
“Scared? I was terrified! Sophia was relentless—until we confessed and promised to never do it again.”
“I know. I’ve never been able to withstand Aunt Sophia’s questioning. Not to this day.” Her laughter faded. She looked down and smoothed a fold from her long skirt. “And that makes things...difficult.”
“Not if you tell her the truth, Callie.”
Her stomach tensed. She shook her head. “It’s not that easy, Willa. I want so much to stay here and live with Aunt Sophia, but I can’t tell her I ran from home to escape Mother’s and Father’s plans to marry me off to a wealthy man. Mother is her sister. And their relationship is already strained since we moved from Pinewood.”
Willa’s smooth brow furrowed. “I thought Sophia knew that your parents’ reason for moving to Buffalo was so you could make an...advantageous marriage.”
“Yes.” She nodded and let out a long sigh. “That’s why their relationship suffered. Aunt Sophia knew how I felt about Mother’s and Father’s plan. How can I tell her that they will not listen to my pleas, but continue to parade me on the social circuit like some bauble for purchase! She would be so upset with Mother. Oh, why couldn’t God have made me average or even plain?”
“Are you questioning God’s wisdom, Callie?”
“No. I know His wisdom is perfect. It’s my submission that is faulty.” She surged to her feet, strode across the room and stared at the rain making tiny rivers down the small window panes. “It would be so much easier if I were plain. Father never would have moved us from Pinewood, Mother and Aunt Sophia would not be estranged and I could have a normal life.”
She drew in a breath and spun back around. “Those rich men in Buffalo don’t care about me, about who I am, Willa. They only want me because I will look pretty on their arm at their social gatherings. I’m no more to them than...than their expensive watch fobs, or their perfectly matched horses that pull their fancy carriages. I’m only another way for one of them to gain ascendancy over the others. They don’t love me—they want to own me. And they’re bidding against one another for my hand—to Mother and Father’s glee.”
The tension in her stomach turned into painful spasms. She pressed her hand against her abdomen and raised her chin. “Those men are greedy, arrogant, shallow and pompous. And they are duplicitous liars, the lot of them. You know it’s true, Willa. You met a few of them when your heart was broken, and you came to visit. Well, I’ll not have any of them! I want a husband who loves me, not one who wants to own my beauty.”
The starch left her spine. She moved back to the chair, sat and took a slow, deep breath to ease the discomfort in her stomach. “I cannot bear the thought of being wed to one of those men, Willa. But how do I stand against Mother’s and Father’s wishes? All of their aspirations for increased wealth and prestige rest on me. I have no wish to disobey or disappoint them, but I despise the shallowness of the life I will lead if I marry any of the men who are bidding for my hand—especially Mr. Strand. And I’m afraid he is the one who will win Father’s blessing. What am I to do?”
Willa rose and came to her. She yielded to the warm comfort of her friend’s arms about her, blinking back the tears that stung her eyes.
“I think you must tell Sophia the truth, Callie. Tell her that there are men vying for your hand, and that you came to stay with her to gain time to decide what you will do. And then trust the Lord. He will provide your answer.”
* * *
Ezra folded the end of the ticking to hold in the clean hay, flopped the stuffed mattress down on the taut roping of the narrow cot and spread one of the blankets over it. He unfolded the other two to use for covers and looked around his sleeping quarters.
The small room boasted wood plank walls with one small, dirty window instead of the painted plaster and large, draped mullioned windows in his bedroom at home. And the furnishings! A cot with a straw tick and wool blankets instead of a four-poster bed with a feather mattress and linens. A dusty old grain chest instead of a polished, mahogany highboy. Harness and halters and bridles hanging from pegs on the wall instead of paintings and a bookshelf. And a bare puncheon floor instead of waxed wood and an Oriental carpet. And no fireplace. No source of heat at all.
He shook his head, sat on the wood edge of the cot and removed his boots. He was too sore from his beating last night and too weary from the work he’d done this evening to be concerned about the lack of luxury. And the cot was a vast improvement over the pile of hay he’d found himself in when he’d come to after his assault by those thieves—no, by Johnny Taylor and his friend. He’d been thinking about it all evening, and he had no doubt it was Johnny. It was the only thing that made sense.
The shock of his cousin’s betrayal struck him again. To rob him was one thing, but to knock him unconscious and leave him half buried in a haystack to die...
He scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. Had Johnny told anyone else of his wealth? Was he in danger? It didn’t seem likely, since Johnny had wanted his money himself. Still, he’d have to figure a way to get in touch with Tom Mooreland and have his business manager send funds to pay for his return trip to New York City. Perhaps Mrs. Sheffield would advance him postage money and add the expense to his room and board. He’d found the post office inside the mercantile when he’d gone to ask the proprietor where to find Johnny.
The incongruity of his position brought a grim smile to his lips. He owned a bank and an insurance company along with various other enterprises, was one of the wealthiest and most highly respected businessmen in New York City, and he hadn’t money enough to post a letter. Ridiculous!
He stretched his muscles, grimaced at the pain in his shoulder and thigh, and took a deep sniff of the air. The smell of the hay and grain and leather and horses reminded him of his parents’ farm in Poughkeepsie. It had taken a lot of hard work to keep the place going, but he’d always found time to spend with the horses. He’d missed them when he’d started working for Mr. Pierson at the brokerage. Perhaps he could talk Mrs. Sheffield into keeping him on until his money arrived. At least he’d have food to eat and a place to sleep. One of his strengths as a businessman was his ability to make fair, but advantageous deals. It was worth a try.
He snuffed the stable lantern, stripped down to his long underwear, tossed his clothes on the chest, slipped beneath the covers and stretched out on his right side. The hay crackled and yielded beneath his weight. He folded his arm beneath his head for a pillow, careful not to wipe the salve from his wound.
Callie Conner. He’d never seen a woman possessed of such beauty. Her skin was flawless, her features delicate and refined. And those incredible violet-colored eyes! But it wasn’t only her face. Her voice was soft and melodious, her movements lithe and graceful. Best of all, there was no coquetry, no coyness, about her. Far from it. The woman seemed completely unaffected by her beauty. He couldn’t say the same for himself. She’d drawn his gaze the way flowers draw bees. He’d had to remind himself not to stare.
He frowned and adjusted his position to ease the ache in his thigh, listened to the drumming of the rain against the wood shingles on the roof. Why was someone as beautiful as Callie Conner content to be a cook in her aunt’s hotel? It certainly wasn’t because she lacked spirit. Those beautiful, violet eyes had thrown sparks when he’d tried to refuse her care of his wound. That baffled him. He’d only been trying to protect her sensibilities. Why should that make her angry?
He broke a stem of hay that was poking him in the ribs and closed his eyes. Why was Callie not out front greeting guests in her aunt’s hotel? One look and men would vie for the chance to court her. Wealthy men. He should know. She had certainly drawn his interest. And not only because of her beauty, but because she was different than the young society women he knew—all of whom were eager to marry his money. Or was she different? Was the beautiful Miss Conner as unaffected as she seemed, or was it simply that she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to marry a wealthy man?
He opened his eyes and stared at the shadowed darkness. He’d made this visit to Pinewood to free himself from those sort of doubts, to spend a few weeks among people who did not know him so he would not have to weigh every word and action to determine if someone liked him, or was merely trying to curry his favor in order to secure a loan from his bank or gain a position of note in one of his companies. Why should he let the robbery and Johnny’s treachery ruin the plan?
He tugged the blanket closer around his neck to stop the cold air sneaking beneath it from chilling his back and closed his eyes. It would be pleasant to get to know the prickly Miss Callie Conner better. Much more pleasant than dodging the sycophants back home. If he could talk Mrs. Sheffield into keeping him on as a stable hand to pay for his room and board, he’d hold off on writing that letter to Tom.
Chapter Three
Her eyes burned from her sleepless night. Callie tied her apron on, stepped to the fireplace and lifted the large bowl of risen bread dough off the warm hearth. She squeezed her eyes shut to bring moisture into them, dumped the dough out onto the floured worktable and gave it a punch to deflate it. Hopefully, Sophia wouldn’t notice the faint circles under her eyes.
She separated the dough, shaped and slapped it into the pans she had waiting and covered them with a towel. Sophia would welcome her into her home permanently if she asked, but, in spite of Willa’s reassurances last night, it was not that simple. The words she’d overheard her father speak to her mother three years ago haunted her.
“My dear Mrs. Conner, we have produced an exceptionally beautiful daughter, and the young men in Pinewood are noticing. I believe it is time we moved to Buffalo and introduced Callie to the social circuit. One of those wealthy men will pay handsomely for her hand and our financial future will be secure.”
She sighed, shook down the ashes in the stove and added kindling and wood to the embers to heat the oven. Were her parents in financial stress? It didn’t seem so, but how could she know? She had learned from overhearing bits and pieces of conversations between the wealthy businessmen who traveled in the social circuit that things were not always as they appeared. And then there was the rift between her mother and Sophia to consider. She did not want to cause greater estrangement between the sisters.
She adjusted the damper on the stove, walked to the door, put on her cape and stepped out onto the porch. Moisture dripped from the eave, but it had stopped raining. She crossed to the rail and looked up at the still dark sky. “Most gracious and loving God, I do not wish to be selfish in my actions or disobedient to You or to my parents, yet my heart—” She closed her eyes to hold back a rush of tears. Her heart was not to be trusted. It wanted its own desires. She took a breath and forced out the words she dreaded to say. “May Your will be done, dear God. Amen.”
She sighed and opened her eyes. There was a dull gleam of yellow light visible at the small window of the equipment room in the barn. Ezra Ryder was awake. Joe would be bringing him for breakfast soon.
She laid her problems aside and headed for the kitchen to make batter for griddle cakes.
* * *
Ezra fingered the three-day growth of beard on his face, scowled and ran his thumb along the edge of the hoof trimmer. If he could get hold of some soap—
“Kinda desperate, are ya?”
He turned and gave Joseph a wry grin. “You might say that.”
The elderly man nodded and limped toward the end wall. “There’s somethin’ over here that’ll serve yer need.”
Something to help him shave? He frowned and trailed after the groom.
“Lift that stuff aside.”
He stared down at a scarred chest piled with stable paraphernalia. Clearly, Joseph had misunderstood his intent for that hoof trimmer. What was the man thinking? Well, his was not to reason why. He was here at the largess of Mrs. Sheffield, and Joseph was his boss. He eyed the gnawed corner of the chest lid, slapped at the pile of burlap bags on top of an old, torn buggy seat to scare off any mice, then lifted the seat to the floor.
Joseph opened the chest, leaned his stooped body over and began rummaging through the contents. “Now where— Ha! There it is!” He hauled a wood case out of the chest and closed the lid. “One of Mrs. Sheffield’s guests left this a couple years back. I put it in here to keep, but he never come for it. I reckon you might as well have the use of it.” A chuckle rumbled out of the groom’s sunken chest. “It’ll save ya cuttin’ yer face up tryin’ to shave off them whiskers with that hoof trimmer you was eyein’.”
Ezra smiled and took the polished case into his hands. “It would have been an awkward, bloody affair all right, but to be rid of this itching on my face would have been worth it.”
He balanced the case on his flattened palm and flipped the latch. The lid opened a crack, and a faint scent escaped. He sniffed. Witch hazel? He shoved the top up and gaped at the items in the case. A shaving cup, brush and soap, straight razor, strop and mirror, the corked bottle of witch hazel, small towels, scissors, a comb and a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes that rivaled the ones on his washstand at home, all tucked neatly away in their own compartment. His mouth slanted into a wide grin. Queer how circumstances changed your perspective. It felt like he held the riches of the world. “Thank you, Joseph.”
“Joe’s good enough.” The elderly man headed for the stalls ranged along the side wall. “I heat water for washin’ on the old brick forge in my room at the other end of the barn. There’s still some in the pot. You’d best hurry with your shavin’, it’s ’bout time for breakfast.”
* * *
Callie jerked her gaze from Ezra Ryder back to the worktable and wielded the knife she held in a crisscross pattern, dicing the apples she’d peeled and cored. He’d caught her staring. Foolish of her, but gracious the man was handsome without those dark, stubbly whiskers hiding half of his face. And he was younger than she’d thought.
She stole another look at him through her lowered lashes. He had a sort of stubborn-looking chin, but a nice mouth. And truly lovely eyes. The corners crinkled a little, like he was ready to smile. Heat spread across her cheekbones. Just what was she doing, admiring Ezra Ryder’s good looks? She hated it when people did that to her.
She buttered a deep bowl, tossed in enough of the chopped apples to make a thick layer, sprinkled them with sugar and a dusting of cinnamon, then added a layer of the diced bread.
“There any more coffee, Callie?”
She laughed, dusted the bread crumbs from her hands, and turned to lift the coffeepot from the back of the stove. “One of these mornings I’m going to surprise you and say no, Joe.”
She grinned at his answering chuckle, and poured the hot coffee into his cup. “Would you like more coffee, Mr. Ryder?”
“Mr. Ryder?” Joseph dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and fixed a quizzical look on her. “Why’ve you gone all niminy-piminy for? We don’t use last names ’mongst us workers, and he’s workin’ here. His name’s Ezra.” He returned to stirring his coffee.
She glanced at Ezra Ryder. His dark brows were raised and his blue eyes were bright with awareness. He shot a look toward Joseph then returned his gaze to her. “I would appreciate another cup of your excellent coffee...Callie.”
“As you wish...Ezra.” Heat shot into her cheeks. She poured his coffee, spun on her heel and hurried to the stove, set the coffeepot on the side to cool and glanced back at the table. Ezra was gazing at her with an odd, unreadable expression on his face.
She finished layering the remaining apples and bread crumbs into the bowl, put the cover on, then slipped the bowl into the oven. The temptation to look at him again tugged at her. She fought it down and busied herself cleaning off the worktable.
“Good breakfast, Callie. See ya at supper.” Joe’s chair scraped on the floor. She glanced toward the table, watched him pull on his battered felt hat and limp toward the door.
Ezra drained his cup and rose.
“Wait, Mr.—Ezra. Your wound needs more salve.” She lifted the small crock down off the shelf, grabbed a cloth and carried them to the table. “You’ll have to sit down.”
She avoided his gaze, opened the crock and stepped behind him. “The swelling has gone down some, and the gash is already healing over. It looks much better this morning.” She spread some salve on it, wiped her fingers on the cloth and closed the crock.
Muted shouts came from outside.
“What’s that?” Ezra surged to his feet and grabbed his jacket.
“They’ve started rafting.” She pivoted, grabbed her cloak and turned to the door. He reached around her and opened it. She rushed out onto the porch and hurried over to the steps. “Look!” She pointed to a pair of rafts of lashed-together logs floating down the flood-swollen Allegheny, then looked at him. His face was a study in amazement.
“I’ve never seen such a thing. Those rafts are huge!” He shrugged into his jacket, took her cloak from her and held it open.
“It’s quite a sight. I’ve missed seeing them since we moved away.” She stepped beneath the cloak, felt the warmth of his fingers on her neck as he draped it around her shoulders. Smooth fingers, not rough or dry or callused.
“You don’t live in Pinewood?”
“No. We moved a few years ago. I’m visiting Aunt Sophia.”
“I see.” He stepped up beside her and peered out over the rippling water. “What are those shanties in the middle of the rafts?”
“They’re for cooking and sleeping. See the smoke coming out of the chimney stacks?” She brushed back a curling tendril being stirred by a rising breeze and cast a measuring look at him. “Daniel says people pay to go along on the trip. They take advantage of the opportunity to ride the rafts to Pittsburgh and then head west.”
“Brave souls.”
Brave souls? What a strange comment from a logger.
He glanced up toward the brightening sky and moved to the top of the steps. “I must get to work and earn my bed and board. Thank you for breakfast.” He dipped his head in a polite bow, walked down the steps and headed for the barn.
His limp wasn’t as pronounced this morning. She stood staring after him a moment, then turned and went inside to clean up the breakfast dishes and check on the pudding she’d put to bake in the oven for dinner. She was certain now that Ezra Ryder was a liar. All loggers and lumbermen knew about rafting the winter’s stockpile of logs down river to market when the spring floods came. Why didn’t he?
* * *
“Mmm, that roasting chicken smells delicious, Callie. And what is that you’re peeling? Rutabaga?”
“Yes.” Why didn’t Ezra leave? She drew her gaze from the window and smiled at her aunt. “I thought I would cream them with some carrots for supper.”
“That sounds tasty. What’s so interesting outside?”
“Nothing really. It’s turned into a lovely spring day.” She cut a thick slice from the rutabaga and diced it into a pot full of water.
Sophia strolled to the window and looked out. “Ezra is watering one of the horses. I must say I’m surprised. I expected he would eat his free meal, sleep the night in the barn, have breakfast this morning and be on his way. That’s what most of the itinerant workers who come begging for food do.”
She diced the rest of the rutabaga into the pot and picked up another one to peel. “I don’t believe Ezra Ryder is an itinerant worker, Aunt Sophia.”
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.