Seeking True Love

Stunningly beautiful Callie Conner is sick of being pursued by shallow suitors. She wants a man of faith, honesty and moral integrity who will love and value her for more than her appearance. So she flees to her aunt’s hotel, where she soon finds herself falling for the handsome new stable hand.

A successful businessman in disguise, Ezra Ryder enjoys working in Pinewood where he is accepted for himself, and not for his money. Growing closer to Miss Callie, he longs to proclaim his love. But revealing his true identity would also mean revealing his deceit—can he risk losing Callie’s trust forever?

Ezra offered a sprig of pussy willow to Callie with a bow. “I wish this were a rose.”

“A kind thought, sir. But I prefer the pussy willow.”

When their hands touched, Callie’s fingers trembled and Ezra stepped closer.

“Callie...” Her name was a hoarse whisper, a question.

She stepped back. “Thank you, Ezra.” She turned toward the hotel.

Ezra’s pulse quickened as they approached the steps. He would take her elbow and help her up to the porch, bid her good-night at the door.

But Callie stopped short at the base of the stairs.

“Good evening, Ezra.”

The finality of her tone made her meaning clear—he was to come no farther. She climbed the steps and crossed the porch.

Ezra waited until she was safe inside, then exhaled a long breath. He was accustomed to young women welcoming his slightest attention, not turning their backs on him. Courting Callie Conner could prove to be more costly to his pride than he imagined.

DOROTHY CLARK

Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark lives in rural New York, in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. When she is not writing, she and her husband enjoy traveling throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.

Counting Miss Callie

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.

—Proverbs 22:1

This book is dedicated with love

and deep appreciation to my church family.

To those prayer warriors who faithfully

seek the Lord on behalf of my writing—thank you. I love and appreciate you all.

And, again, to Sam. Thank you is such a

puny expression of my appreciation, but it will

have to do—unless that fertile mind of yours can come up with better words. Blessings, my friend.

“Commit thy works unto the Lord,

and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To You be the glory.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

March, 1841

Pinewood Village, New York

Callie Conner propped the full basket on her hip, closed the door of the buttery and started toward the hotel, then stopped and stared at the man limping up the path toward her. A logger by the looks of him. She sighed, looked down at the ground and waited. She hated meeting new people—especially men. There was always the staring, and then the profuse compliments about her beauty, and then—

“That basket looks heavy for you, miss. May I carry it for you?” She lifted her head and it happened—just as it always did. The man’s eyes widened. He stared, blinked and stared again. He gazed into her eyes, and she heard his breath catch. She frowned, but held back the refusal that rose to her lips. If he was Aunt Sophia’s friend she would have to accept his offer of help.

The man made a visible effort to collect himself and cleared his throat. “Truthfully, miss, I was wondering if there is work I could do in exchange for something to eat?”

So he was not known to her aunt. She opened her mouth to refuse, but his stomach rumbled, and she bit back her words. She hadn’t the heart to turn away a hungry man. At least he hadn’t complimented her to win his way, as the wealthy, elite men in Buffalo were wont to do. She ignored her unease and handed him the basket. “Follow me.” Not a very gracious response perhaps, but she was heartily sick of men.

The hems of her long skirts whispered against the wood as she climbed the steps, crossed the wide porch and entered the back door. The smell of the beef stew she had simmering over the fire filled the kitchen. The man’s stomach rumbled again. “Set the basket there on the worktable, then hang your jacket on one of those pegs and have a seat.” She swept her hand toward the smaller dining table against the wall. “I’ll bring you some food.”

“You’re most kind.”

The man removed his knit hat, winced and shoved it into his pocket, shrugged out of his plaid wool jacket and lowered himself into a chair. There was something careful about his movements. Was he injured? Is that why he was not working? Spring was such a busy time of the year for loggers.

She pushed aside her contemplations, took a knife, fork and dish from the hutch, crossed to the fireplace, ladled a large serving of stew onto the dish from the iron pot hanging from the crane and walked to the table.

The man glanced up at her, raised his hand and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He looked uncomfortable about it. But most loggers let their beards grow until they came to town. She placed the dish in front of him.

“Thank you.”

Her nod set the wisps of black curls around her face aflutter. She brushed them back off her forehead. “There is more stew should you wish it. I’ll get you some bread and butter.”

The logger offered quiet thanks for the food, and then there was the click of the fork against the dish. His prayer took away some of her unease, but still there was something odd about the situation. The man was begging food, yet the blue wool shirt he wore looked new, as did his jacket, pants and boots. Well, no matter. He would soon be gone.

She uncovered a loaf of bread and cut off two thick slices, grabbed the crock of butter from the basket he’d carried in for her, returned to the table and gasped.

The man jerked his head up, winced.

“You’ve a nasty wound on your head, Mr....”

“Ryder.” He lowered his fork to his plate and stood. “My apologies, miss. I thought there was only a lump, not a visible wound or I would not have subjected you to—”

She banged the bread plate down on the table and looked straight into his astonished gaze. “I am not a delicate flower that must be pampered and coddled, Mr. Ryder! I have seen wounds worse than yours. I was merely surprised by it. Now please sit down and eat your meal. That wound needs care. I will tend to it when you are finished.”

“You’re very kind, miss, but I can’t permit—”

She jutted her chin up a notch and stared at him.

A puzzled look flickered in his blue eyes. He gave a small nod. “Very well.” He sat, took a bite of the stew, then lifted a piece of the bread from the plate and dipped his knife in the butter.

Heat spread across her cheeks. Perhaps she had reacted too strongly, but she was so tired of men seeing only her beauty and none of her worth. She’d come back to Pinewood to escape that—at least for a little while.

Her long skirts flared out at her pivot, swishing over the tops of her shoes as she strode to the stove. She poured warm water from the iron teakettle into a large bowl, moved to the dry sink and draped a few clean cloths from the bottom shelf over her arm, snatched a small, covered crock from a shelf and walked back to the table.

The man crossed his knife and fork on his empty dish. “My compliments, miss. That stew is the best I have ever eaten.”

“There’s nothing like hunger to refine the palate.” He had praised her cooking. She smiled, set the crock and bowl on the table and glanced at him. He was staring at her with that look she so hated. Her hands tightened on the bowl of water. If he told her she was beautiful, she would—

“Callie dear, I’ve been thinking about—” Her Aunt Sophia swept into the room, stopped and stared. “And who are you, sir?”

The logger rose and made her a polite bow. “Mr. Ezra Ryder, at your service, madam.”

Her aunt’s delicately arched brows rose, her gaze shifted to Callie. She gave a small shrug. “Mr. Ryder asked if there was work he could do in exchange for a meal, Aunt Sophia.” She dropped one of the cloths into the bowl of warm water. “Is there something you needed? I was about to tend a wound on Mr. Ryder’s head.”

“Nothing that can’t wait, dear. Please be seated, Mr. Ryder.” Sophia came to the table, glanced at the man’s wound then took the chair opposite him.

She recognized the expression in Sophia’s eyes from her days of youthful escapades with her friends. A smile tugged at her lips. Her aunt would soon know all about the logger. She squeezed the excess water out of the cloth and held it on the lump at the crown of Ezra Ryder’s head to loosen the dried blood.

“How did you injure yourself, Mr. Ryder?”

Her smile grew. Sophia’s inquisition had begun.

“I was ambushed by two men intent upon relieving me of my...wages.”

Why had he hesitated? She frowned and moved the position of the wet cloth.

“Here in Pinewood?”

“No. I was attacked in Dunkirk on my way here.”

“Greed makes men do evil things.” The words left a bitter taste in Callie’s mouth. Her father was numbered among the greedy. Why else would he plan to sell her hand in marriage to the highest bidder? Her stomach knotted. She looked down, rinsed out the cloth then applied it to the wound again.

“Sadly, that’s true, Callie. And what brings you to Pinewood, Mr. Ryder? Are you seeking employment as a logger? Or a sawyer or teamster?”

“I came to visit a distant cousin...Johnny Taylor. But I was told by the clerk in the mercantile that Johnny and a man by the name of Arnold Dixon quit their jobs and headed west a few days ago.”

Johnny Taylor and Arnold Dixon. Thomas Hunter’s friends. The men who had so frightened Willa. Was Ezra Ryder of the same ilk? She frowned, turned the cloth over and again held it on Ezra Ryder’s bowed head. “What a shame your cousin didn’t know to expect you, and you made your journey in vain.”

“Yes, indeed.” The sympathy in Sophia’s voice belied the sharpened look in her eyes. “Were you close with your cousin, Mr. Ryder?”

“No, not at all. I know him only from when we were young boys, and my uncle brought his family to visit us on the farm. My visit here was to renew our acquaintance.”

There was something underlying the ring of truth in Ezra Ryder’s deep voice—something he wasn’t telling. Her shoulders tensed. She detested lies and subterfuge. And disdained the men that indulged in them. In her experience, they were many. She dabbed the softened blood from his hair, dropped the cloth in the water, dried her hands on the long white apron that covered her blue wool dress and opened the small crock.

“So you are without funds, and without a place to stay?”

“Thanks to those thieves, and my cousin’s leaving town, yes. That is why I inquired if there is work I can do in exchange for my meal...and perhaps a place to sleep?”

“I see.” Sophia glanced around. “I’m sure there is something...”

“The stables need a thorough cleaning.” A cheeky suggestion. It was not her place to interfere in her aunt’s business, but she didn’t want the man given work around the kitchen. It was her sanctuary. She clamped her jaw to keep from saying more, and smoothed the salve over the exposed gash.

“An excellent suggestion, Callie.” Sophia gave her a warm smile, then lowered her gaze to Ezra Ryder. “My groom suffers from rheumatism and can no longer care for the stables as he once did. You may clean them as payment. But you must do so as Joseph directs.”

“I understand, madam.”

There was politeness and acquiescence in Ezra Ryder’s voice, but not a hint of subservience. Sophia ran her gaze over his neatly trimmed hair. The man had recently been to an excellent barber. She frowned, held back the questions crowding into her mind and put the cover back on the crock and placed it on the table.

“Very well. There is a cot you may sleep on in the equipment room. You’ll find a mattress tick you can stuff with fresh hay in the tin cupboard, and— Yes, Mary?”

The maid in the doorway gave an apologetic smile. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Sheffield, but there’s a gentleman out front that wants a room.”

“Thank you, Mary. I’ll come right along.” Her aunt rose.

Ezra Ryder stood and made her a small bow. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Sheffield.”

Sophia nodded and stepped toward the doorway, paused and looked over her shoulder. “Callie, Ezra will need blankets. You’ll find some in the chest in my bedroom.”

Something akin to shock flashed in Ezra Ryder’s eyes at the subtle message of his servile position contained in her aunt’s use of his given name. It was followed by a flicker of amusement. A strange reaction for a man come begging. He glanced her way, caught her studying him.

“I’ll get the blankets.” She hurried through the door that led to her aunt’s private quarters, snatched three blankets from the chest at the foot of the bed and returned to the kitchen. He had donned his jacket.

“Here are the blankets—” She glanced up at him and his first name stuck in her throat. There was something about the man that commanded respect. “The Allegheny has flooded the fields out back and is only a few feet from the stables, but these should be sufficient to ward off the damp and the cold.” She handed him the wool blankets and stepped back.

He nodded, fastened his gaze on hers and smiled. “Thank you for your suggestion to your aunt that I might help in the stables. I’m grateful for the opportunity to earn bed and board. And thank you for tending my wound. It already feels better.”

She turned from the look of admiration in his eyes and began clearing the table. “The salve is made by the Senecas. It’s very effective. I’ll apply more in the morning.”

“I don’t want to trouble you, Miss... I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Conner. And it’s no trouble to dab salve on a wound.” She glanced up and again found that look of admiration in his eyes. “Try not to roll onto your back while you’re sleeping, or you’ll irritate that wound.”

A smile curved his lips and crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “I shall do my best, Miss Conner.”

She stared at his smile, then leaned down and picked up the dishes she’d stacked. There was definitely something amiss. The man was too self-assured, too confident for someone in his situation. “Breakfast is at daybreak. Come along with Joseph. It would be well to eat before you go on your way.” The reminder of his temporary stay helped. There was something unsettling about Ezra Ryder.

He nodded, opened the door and stepped outside.

She listened to his uneven footfalls cross the porch and thump down the steps then shook her head and carried the dishes to the sink cupboard. Mr. Ryder was a handsome man with impeccable manners and a very charming smile. He was, also, a man with a secret. She had no idea what he was hiding or why, but she was certain he had not been completely honest. How she hated deceit! The social circle in Buffalo was rife with it.

She turned to the worktable, unloaded the basket and began the pudding she had planned for the hotel guests’ dessert tomorrow. She should never have mentioned the deteriorating condition of the stables. The sooner Mr. Ryder left the better.

* * *

Ezra scowled at the pain that shot down his leg. The boots of the men who had ambushed and robbed him last night had left their imprint in the bruise on his shoulder and on his right leg. The protest in his thigh when it took his weight coming down the porch steps confirmed that.

He paused and rubbed the ache to loosen the stiffened muscle, then flexed his sore fingers and smiled grimly at the memory of his fist connecting with one of his attacker’s jaws before something solid slammed against the back of his head and darkness took him.

One good thing. He’d already followed Johnny’s suggestion and purchased and changed into the rough clothes he’d wear for his visit here in Pinewood before he’d taken the stage from Buffalo. His city clothes and shoes would never have held up to the long walk he’d been forced to make from Dunkirk in the inclement weather. Thank goodness for the kindness of the teamster who had offered him a ride on his supply wagon or he’d still be slogging his way down the muddy, rutted road to Pinewood.

He scrubbed at the back of his neck to try and ease the dull throb in his head and started down the path to the barn. He would not forget Will Gladeon’s good deed. When he’d found a way to contact his bank in New York City, the teamster would be amply rewarded. As would Mrs. Sheffield and Callie Conner.

He frowned and kicked a stone out of his way. He would have to be cautious around Callie Conner. The young woman was stunningly beautiful, but she was also prickly and wary. He hadn’t been able to see her face with her standing behind him, but he’d felt her stiffen a few times while he was telling his tale. And the way she had looked at him when she handed him the blankets...

His frown deepened to a scowl. There was no doubt Miss Conner was suspicious of him. Evidently it would take more than Johnny’s suggested change of clothes to convince people he was a logger. He’d have to be careful. He had to stay in this village until he’d figured out a plan to get home to New York City, and the last thing he wanted was for people to discover he was a wealthy man.

The thought of the people of Pinewood learning the truth about his financial state soured his stomach. Still, there was no reason for that to happen. His trip here to Pinewood for a respite from the constant stream of people back home who pretended to favor him because of his money and position could still work. All he need do was allay the wary Miss Conner’s distrust.

What a shame your cousin didn’t know to expect you...

The thought he’d been holding at bay ever since Callie Conner had spoken those words crashed into his mind. Johnny had known. And that answered a lot of questions. Like how the thieves had chosen him to rob when he was dressed like a logger and others on the stage looked far more prosperous. Or why Johnny would quit his job and head west when he had expected his visit. Johnny and his cohort. Two men. Two thieves?

He sucked air into his tightened chest and limped forward. Johnny had told him to bring enough funds to carry him through his visit and pay for his return trip home as there was no bank in Pinewood. He had brought more than enough money to pay for two trips west. And Johnny had known the stage would make an overnight stop in Dunkirk.

He clenched his hands and set his jaw. Everyone wanted his money. Even family. And evidently some were willing to kill him to get it. His only protection was his anonymity. He couldn’t trust anyone.

Chapter Two

“I’ve finished the bread dough for tomorrow’s baking, Aunt Sophia. I’m going over and visit with Willa and Matthew for a little while.” Callie smiled and swirled her burnoose around her shoulders.

“That’s a lovely idea, dear.” Sophia rested her hand on her account book and lifted her head. “You’re working too hard.”

“I’m enjoying every minute of it. I never get to cook or bake at home.” She caught her breath, then gave a little laugh to cover her verbal slip. “You know how it is in the social whirl. There are always visits to make and parties to attend. Why, I don’t even own an apron!” She gave another little laugh, lifted her hand in farewell and headed toward the front entrance.

“Remember me to Willa and Matthew, dear.”

“I shall.” She let herself out onto the large porch and hurried through the pool of light created by the lamps on either side of the door to the steps.

A gust of wind flipped the sides of her burnoose backward and fluttered the curls at her crown. She pulled the attached hood forward and yanked the edges of the short cape back in place against the chill of the damp air. Cold, wet drops splatted against the back of her hands as she lifted her hems and picked her way across the muddy ruts of Main Street. She angled a look from beneath her hood toward the night sky. “Please, almighty God, not another storm. The floodwater is almost to the barn.”

The wind whipped her words away. Raindrops pelted her face. She ducked her head and ran up the walk to the parsonage, trotted up the steps to the shelter of the front porch and rapped on the door. Yellow light glowed in the window beside her, disappeared as someone crossed in front of the lamp inside. The door opened. She smiled at the silhouette against the light.

“Callie! What a lovely surprise. Matthew has gone to pay a sick call, and I was wishing for some company. Come in,” Willa said, then stepped back, a welcoming smile curving her lips and brightening her blue-green eyes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Calvert.” She laughed, scrubbed the soles of her shoes on the braided rug in front of the door and stepped into the warmth of the small entrance hall. “It still seems so strange to think of you as a married woman, Willa. And a mother.” She hung her burnoose on a peg by the door and pushed the curls back off her forehead.

“I know. It’s hard for me to believe at times it happened so quickly. But when Matthew grinned at me...” Willa laughed and led her to the chairs by the fireplace in the sitting room. “Well, let’s just say my resolve to never marry—”

“—disappeared like the mist over the river when the sun comes up.” She finished Willa’s sentence as they’d done for each other since they were old enough to talk, and both of them dissolved into giggles.

“Exactly.” Willa gave her a quick hug. “It’s so good to have you back in Pinewood, Callie.”

“It’s good to be back. It’s...comforting.” She stretched her chilled hands out to the warmth of the fire. “I thank God every day that Rose went to live with her daughter the day after I arrived. It made everything work out perfectly. Aunt Sophia has never questioned my stepping in to temporarily fill her need for a cook at the hotel.”

“You mean you haven’t yet told Sophia the reason for your unexpected visit? You’ve been back for over a week.”

Guilt tweaked her conscience. She gave a reluctant nod. “That’s why I came over tonight. I need your advice, Willa. Aunt Sophia mentioned today that she will have to start seeking a cook to replace Rose, and that will take away my excuse for prolonging my stay and—”

“—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.

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.

He adjusted the wick on the first lamp to a steady flame, hung it back on its hook over the worktable and moved to lift down the second lamp.

He certainly had broad shoulders for a lean man. She eyed the narrow space between his body and the stove, changed direction and walked around the other end of the table.

“Bringing in firewood and starting the fire brought back memories. It made me feel right at home.” He gave a soft, low chuckle that made her want to share the memories. “When we lived on the farm, I did those chores for my mother before I headed out to the barn to help my father.”

She set the coffeepot on the front stove plate where it would heat rapidly, and let her mind form a dream of such a life.

Light swayed side to side on the wall in front of her, shadows danced, then steadied. He’d hung the second lamp. She heard him step toward the dining table and let out a quiet breath of relief. He’d be out of the way now. She could start breakfast.

She turned toward the worktable, collided with his solid body and bounced backward toward the stove. He shot out his hands, grabbed her upper arms and yanked her back toward him.

“Sorry. I should have warned you I was behind you. I was after the lamp on the shelf. You didn’t burn yourself?”

She gazed up into his blue eyes warm with concern and shook her head. “No. You caught me in time.” Heat from his hands passed through her sleeves and warmed her skin, spread out into a shiver. She held herself from leaning forward to breathe in the blend of fresh air, hay, horses and witch hazel that clung to him.

“You’re trembling.”

His eyes darkened. His gaze dropped to her mouth, jerked back up to her eyes. His brows knit together. His hands lifted from her arms and cold replaced the warmth. She shivered and stepped back.

“I think you were more shaken than you realize. Perhaps you should sit down and rest a moment.”

She shook her head, avoided his eyes. “I’m fine. And I’ve work to do. The guests will be wanting their breakfasts. Some of them like to leave at first light.”

Speaking of the commonplace settled her shaken nerves. She checked on the coffee, stepped to the pantry and gathered the dry ingredients for griddle cakes, placed them on the table and walked to the door. She draped her cloak around her shoulders, snatched the basket off its peg and stepped out onto the porch.

The sky was brightening in the east. Dawn was on the way. She’d have to hurry. She moved down the steps and headed for the buttery to get eggs and milk and bacon. Her steps lagged by the door. She glanced down the pathway where Ezra had come striding to her to ask for food and her mood went as gray as the sky in the west.

Why did he let them think he was a logger? What was he hiding? Mr. Ezra Ryder was most certainly a liar. She’d best not forget that just because he had a disarming smile and told charming tales of living on a farm.

* * *

Ezra turned at the sound of quick, light footsteps, spotted the tall, slender woman hurrying through the stream of sunlight coming in the barn door and stepped out of the stall. “Good morning, Mrs. Sheffield. May I be of service?”

Surprise swept across Sophia Sheffield’s face. “You’re still here, Ezra?”

He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment. “The stalls are cleaned, but I have not yet finished cleaning the barn.”

“Well, gracious, I didn’t mean you had to set the whole barn to rights in exchange for a meal and a night’s sleep.”

“We made a deal, Mrs. Sheffield. And I am a man of my word.” Would it work? Would she allow him to stay?

“Hmm.” Sophia gave a small nod and stepped to the stall on her left, peered inside and moved on to the next.

He thought of his head groom at home, tamped down his amusement and stood quietly and waited. It was odd being on the other end of such a decision—made one want to squirm. He’d be a little more patient and understanding of job applicants from now on.

“Where is Joseph?”

“He went to the apothecary to get some ointment. His back is troubling him.”

“I see.” Sophia turned to face him. “You’ve made an excellent job of cleaning these stalls, Ezra. You said you were raised on a farm?”

“Yes.”

“And did you handle the horses?”

He smiled and nodded. “I did indeed, madam. My father always said I had a gift for handling them.”

She nodded, gave him a speculative look. “Would you be interested in staying on to help Joseph? I would pay you a fair wage in addition to your meals. And you would keep your sleeping quarters in the equipment room.”

He hid his elation with a small bow. “I would be most appreciative of the opportunity, Mrs. Sheffield.”

“Then you will help Joseph with the horses as well as cleaning the stalls, but mind you, my guests’ horses must be fed and cared for as their owners dictate.”

“I understand.”

“Very well. You may start your employment by hitching Star to the shay and bringing it to the back door. Come to the kitchen when it’s ready.” She turned and walked away, the dust motes disturbed by the hems of her long skirts dancing in the sunlight as she neared the open doors.

He listened to her soft footfalls hurrying toward the hotel and let his smile free. He’d done it. His hard work had earned him employment with Sophia Sheffield and, more importantly, the opportunity to get to know Callie Conner. The way she had looked this morning... He yanked his thoughts from the memory, spun on his heel and headed for Star’s stall.

* * *

Callie stiffened at the opening of the door. It was too soon for Sophia to return from her trip to the post office, and Joe never came to the kitchen except for meals. It had to be Ezra. Presumptuous of him to enter without knocking. Warmth climbed into her cheeks at the memory of him holding her so close earlier. If he thought...

She turned from stirring the stew simmering over the fire, the spoon she’d been using held like a weapon in front of her. “Aunt Sophia!” She glanced at the basket on Sophia’s arm. It was empty. “You’re back early. Is something wrong?”

Her aunt placed the basket on the table, removed her bonnet and looked across the kitchen at her. “I chanced to meet Doctor Palmer on my way to the mercantile. Charlotte Deering had her baby early. She had a rough time of it.”

Concern shot through her. “Is Charlotte all right? And the baby?”

“Thankfully, yes.” Sophia draped her shawl over a chair and smoothed back her hair. “Doctor Palmer decided to check on her last night on his way home from a call at the Hoffmans. She’d been in labor all day and was weak and exhausted. The baby was in the wrong position. She never could have birthed it on her own. He said it was a near thing, but he was able to save them both—though the baby is only a little scrap of a thing.”

“Thank the good Lord Doctor Palmer chanced to stop by.”

“Yes. He says Charlotte has to stay in bed until she mends or she could bleed to death, and that she has no one to do for her or her little ones. Charley’s gone downriver with the rafts.”

Tears stung her eyes at the thought of the young woman’s plight. “Perhaps we could bring Charlotte and the children here and I could care for her. She could have my bed and—” Shock turned her mute when Sophia shook her head. Her aunt was the most generous person she’d ever known. Why would she refuse?

“I offered to bring Charlotte and the children here, but Doctor Palmer said it would not be safe to move her. So, I told him I would send meals and see the chores are taken care of meanwhile. But we must hurry. Charlotte is alone with those small children. What have you on hand?”

She should have known. She smiled as Sophia joined her and glanced down at the pot of food hanging over the fire.

“That’s venison stew. And there’s bread and apple butter. And I’m sure the children would like some doughnuts.” She pointed to the crusty, brown rounds draining on the slotted rack resting atop the dishpan she used to mix the dough for bread.

“Wonderful. The stew should help Charlotte regain her strength. And those little ones— Yes, Cora?”

“There’s two gentlemen want rooms, Mrs. Sheffield. And Mr. Betz is wanting to leave. He’s got Mr. Totten holding the trolley out front for him.” The maid scuttled back to her work.

“Oh, bother!” Sophia scowled and headed for the hallway that led to the front of the hotel. “Gather the food into a basket, Callie—and don’t forget oatmeal and a bit of sugar. Sweetened oatmeal water might keep the baby alive until Charlotte is able to nurse him. Oh, and take extra broth from the stew. Get as much of it into Charlotte as you can.”

“Me?”

Sophia paused at the door, turned to look at her. “Why, yes. I cannot leave the hotel. Now, hurry, dear. Ezra will be bringing the shay for you any moment. Tell him I said he’s to wait and bring you home. He can occupy himself doing any heavy chores. And don’t hurry, dear. Wait until you have those children in bed for the night before leaving. I’ll manage supper. It won’t be the first time.”

“But—” she stopped, shook her head and picked up a large, wicker basket off the floor at the end of the fireplace.

“What is it, dear?”

“Nothing really. It’s only that I thought Ezra would be gone by now.”

“Oh. He did an excellent job on the stalls. I’ve asked him to stay.”

Chapter Five

Callie clutched the hastily assembled bundle in her arms and hurried down the path. If she were quick enough, she could climb into the shay before Ezra could secure the basket on the shelf in back and come around to assist her. Since it was certain he would. The man’s manners were faultless. But, after this morning, she was leery of letting him hand her into the vehicle. Not that he’d done anything wrong. Far from it.

She laid the bundle on the seat, gripped the dashboard, placed her booted foot on the small iron rung and stepped up. Ezra’s actions had been innocent enough—even heroic, saving her from a possible burn. And he had made no attempt to take advantage of the situation—as her wealthy suitors would have done. For that she was grateful. Still, the thought of her hand in his was unsettling. The man made her nervous. Which was odd, since she had no such reaction to the wealthy men courting her. Indeed, she had become quite adept at escaping their advances without causing offense. Her father had cautioned that she was not to offend the suitors he permitted to call. After all, it might lower their bid for her hand.

The bitter thought stole the luster from the sunny day. She frowned, shook out her long skirts, settled herself and lifted the bundle onto her lap. The shay trembled as the weight of the basket hit the shelf and the attached straps were tugged tight around it. Ezra’s boots crunched on the gravel. A flutter rippled through her stomach. She stole a sidelong glance as he stepped to the hitching post. There was no sign of a limp. And the swelling on his head was gone—though the scab of the healing gash was visible at his crown. What was the truth about Ezra Ryder? He was no more a logger than she. Why did he lie? He turned toward the shay, the freed reins held in his hand, and she jerked her gaze from him. Heat crept into her cheeks. And of what concern were Ezra Ryder’s doings to her? She had troubles enough of her own to ponder. She straightened in the seat and pulled her burnoose close about her.

The vehicle dipped left as Ezra stepped up, ducked beneath the hood and took his seat. His shoulder brushed against hers. She scooted as far right as possible in the narrow space and looked straight ahead, wishing that Sophia had ordered the carriage brought around instead of the smaller shay.

“Ready?”

She glanced over and met Ezra’s smiling gaze. Another flutter tickled her stomach. She must have been feeling more confined since her arrival than she realized if the prospect of a simple ride to the country brought such a reaction. She pressed the bundle hard against her abdomen to stop the sensation and nodded. “Yes.”

He made a clicking sound and shook the reins. Star moved forward and the shay rolled along the graveled way to the entrance to Main Street and stopped. “You’ll have to direct me, Callie. All I know of Pinewood is the wooden walkway between Cargrave’s Mercantile and your aunt’s hotel.”

She looked away from his smile. There was something of the little boy in it that made her want to trust him, and she’d trust a liar as far as a pig could fly. “We go left, then turn right onto Oak Street.” She gestured across the road a short way up Main Street from the hotel. “It’s there, beyond the gazebo.”

A wagon loaded with bundles of thick, wood shingles rumbled by, headed toward Olville. She held herself immobile as Ezra flicked the reins and urged Star out onto Main Street in the wagon’s wake.

Olville. In the concern and bustle over Charlotte, she’d forgotten about Sophia’s trip. Relief stole the tension from her body. Sophia would not be going to Olville today, and the Citizen was only printed on Fridays. She was safe for another week.

Star’s hooves thudded against the drying mud of the roadbed. The shay swayed around the corner onto Oak Street, rumbled past the gazebo in the park on the corner. She shifted her gaze to the left side of the street, spotted the Hall home ahead and smiled. She’d spent a lot of time in that house when she was young. She and Willa and Sadie coming to play with Ellen—or to get Ellen to come off on an adventure with them. Her smile turned into a sigh. So much had changed. Sadie had moved to Rochester. She now lived in Buffalo. And Ellen was in Buffalo, too, staying with her Aunt Berdena. But they had little in common now, only their memories. Ellen was after a rich husband and loved every minute of the social whirl, coveting the attentions of the wealthy men drawn by her blonde beauty. She was welcome to them. Including Jacob Strand. Especially Jacob Strand. The man was beyond—

“There’s a bell hanging on the porch of that small building. Is that a schoolhouse?”

She started, drawn out of her thoughts by Ezra’s question. “Yes, it is. My friend, Willa, was the schoolmarm until a few months ago.”

He looked her way. “She lost her position?”

“She got married.” Amusement rippled through her. Willa, who had trusted neither men nor God and vowed she would never marry, was the first of the four of them to do so. Matthew Calvert had come to pastor Pinewood Church, and his love and lopsided grin had brought the wall of defense around her friend’s heart crashing down as surely as the walls of Jericho had tumbled at a shout. Now, Willa was Matthew’s wife and mother to his charges—the young son and daughter of his late brother.

Envy rose, fastened a choking grip on her heart. She was happy for Willa, truly she was. But, oh how she wished she could marry a man like Matthew. An honest man who would love her for herself. Not one of the rich men who took one look at her and professed undying love. Liars! They didn’t even know her. If they did, they would know she was not impressed by their wealth or their arrogant boastings and would not be bought. Pain shot up her arm. She glanced down. Her fingers were buried in the bundle of old sheeting. She took a slow breath and relaxed her grip, dipped her head toward the dirt road that wound up the hill on their left. “We’ll turn here.”

* * *

Ezra looked from the spidery shadows on the dirt road to the bare limbs of the huge trees that cast them. What a beautiful, shaded lane this would be in the summer. Too bad he wouldn’t be around to enjoy a ride with Callie then.

He lowered his gaze, shifted it to the right. The rough ride over the rain-gouged gullies in the road had shaken Callie’s hood back a bit, exposing her exquisite profile. He had a sudden urge to make her look at him, talk to him. She’d been quiet since they’d left the village. “It’s a nice day. The sun is quite cheering, though there’s still a chill to the air.”

“Yes.” She glanced his way, then tugged her hood forward.

He frowned and shifted his gaze back to the road. Polite and brief. Clearly, Callie did not care to engage in conversation with him. Why? Was it her initial suspicion of him? Or had she sensed his intent this morning when he’d thought about kissing her? His tenacious side reared, formed a list of questions she would have to answer with more than a yes or no. He wasn’t a successful businessman because he backed away from a tough opponent. And the first step to making a fair and beneficial deal was to get your adversary to talk with you. He tugged gently on the right rein turning Star into the sharp curve ahead. “This road is getting pretty bad. How much farther do we have to go?”

“I don’t— Oh!”

Callie bumped hard against him as they rounded the curve and the front wheels dropped into a wide washout running diagonally across the road. He shot his arm out to brace her as Star lunged forward and the shay rocked up and over the other edge.

“Whoa, Star!” The shay shuddered to a halt. He dropped the reins and twisted toward Callie, their faces almost touching in the small enclosed area beneath the hood. His heart jolted against his ribs. “Are you all right?” He searched her face, looked into her eyes. So close...

She gave a little nod, and the death grip she had on his arm released. He sucked in air, drew back and worked to get his pulse under control as she straightened and slid as far as possible toward her side of the seat. She turned her head toward him. Her gaze fastened on his, but shifted away before he could read her expression.

“Once again, I must thank you, Ezra. That is the second time today you have saved me from possible harm.”

“No thanks are needed.” Her violet-blue gaze touched his again, then slid away.

“Nonetheless, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, and your...concern for my well-being.”

Her soft voice held an undercurrent he could not decipher. He rose and backed out of the shay, away from temptation. “I’ll just check for any damage, and then we’ll be on our way.” He glanced at the wheels, ducked down to look over the undercarriage, then walked to her side and did the same.

She leaned out and turned her face toward him. “It’s a good thing you strapped the basket down tight. There would be a frightful mess if the lid had come off the pot of stew.”

His lips quirked. It had taken an almost accident, but at last she had addressed him voluntarily. “Not to mention the waste of your excellent cooking.” He ran his hand along a spoke of the wheel to keep himself from stepping forward and kissing her.

“Is anything broken?”

“It doesn’t appear so. I believe it’s safe to go on.”

“It shouldn’t be far. Aunt Sophia said the Deering farm is the first one on this road.”

Her voice held a different tone. He straightened and looked at her. She smiled. A genuine, friendly smile that was unbelievably sweet—not at all like the heretofore cool and polite curve of the lips she’d given him. And her eyes, her incredibly beautiful violet-blue eyes, had lost their guarded look. There was a warmth, a trust in their steady gaze. It was tentative to be sure, but it was there. What had changed? No matter. The change was something to build on. He’d figure out the reason for it later. He brushed his hands free of dirt and gave her a wry grin. “I’ll try not to wreck the shay and spill the stew before we get there.”

He’d not heard her laugh before. It was like music. Lord, I don’t know what the future holds. But, whatever it is, please, let me never disappoint this woman.

He walked back around to his side, climbed in and urged Star forward, keeping a tight rein on the growing wish to take the sweetness that was Callie Conner into his arms.

* * *

Ezra carried the cot and blankets into the barn, went back into the equipment room and brought out the tonsorial case and his jacket. He snatched the broom from where it stood propped in the corner and went back inside and destroyed the cobwebs clinging to the beams in the ceiling. The thought of a spider dropping down on him while he slept held little appeal. And he wasn’t going anywhere. Not after today.

Callie was so beautiful. So unspoiled. Could it be true? The woman affected him like no other he’d ever met.

He yanked the dusty, scarred chest into the center of the small room, manhandled the tin cupboard out of the corner and swept down the walls, including the halters and harness equipment hanging from pegs. They’d been sorely neglected. He’d start oiling them when he’d finished cleaning the barn. He stomped a scurrying spider and started sweeping the floor. Dust swirled in the dull light of the lantern.

He’d never in his life seen a sight that could equal the beauty of Callie Conner standing in that doorway this morning with her violet eyes shaded by her long, black lashes, her delicate features warmed by the golden light of the lantern and her hair— Whoo! Her hair.

He puffed out a breath and swept with new vigor. He’d been so stunned by the sight of her with those black, silky curls around her face and tumbling over her shoulders he’d dropped that whole armload of firewood. Shocked himself. And her, too. She’d whirled into that other room and slammed that door faster than a blink.

He coughed, shot the pile of debris he’d swept up out into the barn area and hurried out the door to catch a breath of dust-free air. Callie Conner was an enigma. Every other woman he knew would have taken advantage of that moment. And the moment later on, too, when he’d caught her to keep her from burning herself on the stove. He’d been so tempted by her.

The women he knew would have encouraged him to kiss them. Of course, they knew he was wealthy. It was so good to not have that problem. To not have to wonder if it was you or your money a person was interested in. Not that Callie had shown any interest.

He dunked a grooming cloth into the watering trough and strode back into the equipment room. A few quick swipes and moonlight streamed through the small window to mix with the lantern’s glow. He ran the cloth over the dusty chest, shoved it back against the wall and did the same to the tin cupboard.

Perhaps that’s why Callie hadn’t encouraged him. Perhaps she thought he was just a poor, itinerant worker with nothing to offer her. She had certainly seemed friendly toward that well-dressed man he’d seen her with on the porch. She hadn’t smiled at him like that. Until later on. After their near accident in the shay. He’d been sorely tempted to kiss her then, too, with their faces so close, and her holding on to his arm. If she had shown any encouragement at all he’d have given in and pulled her into his arms. But she had slipped away from him to her side of the seat.

Perhaps she hadn’t encouraged him to kiss her because she was promised to someone.

An odd mixture of anger, helplessness and frustration struck him at that thought. He threw the wet rag over a nail in the wall, grabbed up the tonsorial case and put it beside the lantern sitting on a thick plank shelf that had held old horseshoes. He manhandled a short, thick log into the room, upended it beneath the shelf, plunked a bucket on top and felt some better after the physical exertion. Another cloth draped over the bucket’s handle completed his personal grooming area.

Or maybe Callie was exactly what she seemed—a woman totally unaffected by her beauty, and free of guile.

The way she’d been with those children today. And the sight of her cuddling that tiny infant...

The frustration swarmed back. He pivoted on his heel, strode to the cot and carried it back into the cleaned equipment room. One thing was certain, he was not going to leave the Sheffield house until he found out the truth about Callie and his growing attraction to her. And now, thanks to Sophia Sheffield, he would be able to maintain his disguise as a laborer. She had given him the perfect excuse to stay.

* * *

It was useless. The longing in her heart wouldn’t let her sleep. She never should have held Charlotte Deering’s tiny newborn. But she’d been unable to resist. Callie tossed back the covers, grabbed her dressing gown from the foot of the bed and pushed her feet into her slippers. She needed something warm and comforting—like the strong arms of a husband who loved her. But she’d have to settle for a cup of tea.

She shrugged into the dressing gown, fastened the ties and walked out into the kitchen. Moonlight streamed in the windows, made a dark shadow of the open doorway to Sophia’s private quarters. She tiptoed over and pulled her aunt’s door closed, stopping before the latch clicked into place and woke her. She was too vulnerable to hide her feelings in a chatty conversation.

A twist of the damper in the pipe and another to open the bottom draft brought the embers in the stove to life. She grabbed the lifter, quietly set aside the front plate, then reached for some wood. There were only a few pieces in the bottom of the box.

The image of Ezra standing in the kitchen with his arms full of stove wood snapped into her mind. Would he bring more in the morning? Or would he decide to move on in spite of her aunt’s offer of steady work? Who knew what to expect of Ezra Ryder, except for good manners?

She added three small sticks of wood to the glowing embers, ladled water into the iron teakettle and set it over the fire. Caring for the Deering children today had awakened the longing in her heart for a family of her own. And holding that tiny newborn... Tears flooded her eyes. It was going to be a long night.

The silk of her dressing gown whispered softly in the silence as she placed the china teapot on the worktable and crossed to the shelves on the wall. She reached for the tin of tea, paused and stepped closer to the window. A small square of yellow lantern light glowed through the silver of the moonlit night. The equipment room window. Ezra was awake. What was he doing at this late hour?

She frowned, took down the tea and walked back to spoon some into the teapot. He’d worked hard today. Whatever else Ezra was lying about, there was no gainsaying the fact that he knew what was needed on a farm. She’d caught glimpses of him out the window, tossing hay to the cows and carrying buckets out to the pigpen. And then he’d found a hen’s nest...

She put down the spoon and rested her hands on the table, remembering the way he’d come to the house and lifted Lily into his arms, took little Asa by the hand and went back out to show them the baby chicks. And the way he’d coaxed them into eating supper by telling them silly stories about animals until they forgot to be upset about their mama not getting out of bed.

Did Ezra have children of his own? Is that why he’d been so relaxed and natural with the Deering children? The men she knew were uncomfortable around two- and three-year-old toddlers. She placed the lid on the tea tin, carried it back to the shelf and peered out the window. The barn loomed in the darkness, the moonlight casting an argent sheen on the gambrel roof. There was no lantern light glowing in the small window. He’d gone to bed. Did he have a wife somewhere wishing he was home with her?

The thought sickened her. She didn’t want to believe it. But it was certain the man was hiding something. Why not a family? Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity to kiss her this morning. Or in the shay.

It was the first time in her life she’d wanted a man to kiss her...

Oh, how foolish was she, letting a liar reach her heart. She knew better than that. And it would stop right now. The silk dressing gown billowed out around her as she turned from the window and went to pour the water for her tea.

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