The old man chuckled and handed him an old horse blanket. “This’ll help keep your undershirt dry. I’ll go watch the horse.”
“Thanks.” He grinned, threw the blanket across his shoulders to dangle down his back, and stepped to the door.
Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating two people hurrying up the porch steps of the hotel. Callie and—he squinted through the rain—that man. The one he’d seen her with before. Only this time he was holding Callie by the elbow. The smile she gave him was the same. His stomach tensed, his hand tightened on the bucket handle. Who was that man? And what was he to Callie?
He watched as the man lifted an umbrella over his head, trotted down the steps and hurried away. Callie stood looking after him, a bemused expression on her face, then removed her cape, shook it and went inside.
He frowned, ducked his head and ran to the trough to fill the bucket. Tomorrow he would try and find out who that man was. If you wanted to make a deal, you had to find out who was standing in your way. This situation was no different. Except he’d never before felt as if a horse had kicked him in the stomach.
Chapter Seven
He was doing it again. Ezra jerked his gaze back to his plate. He couldn’t stop looking at Callie. Ever since he’d taken his place at the table this morning, he would draw his gaze from her to the others or to his plate or his cup, and then, there he was, looking at her again. It was always difficult to keep from drinking in her beauty, but today there was a sort of happy glow about her that hadn’t been there before. It was mesmerizing. And disturbing.
And she was humming. The soft, liquid notes seemed to flow out of her straight to his stomach. He was beginning to feel as if he’d been kicked by that horse again. He stabbed a piece of sausage, brought it to his mouth. What had happened to make her so happy? Had it to do with that man she was with yesterday? The sausage turned sour. He frowned, swallowed the meat and lifted his cup. Empty.
“Is something wrong, Ezra?”
He glanced across the table at his employer. There was a cautious, questioning look in Sophia Sheffield’s eyes, the kind men had when they felt something unsettling in a deal they’d made. Had Sophia sensed his interest in Callie? Foolish question. How could she not, with him sitting there acting like a besotted schoolboy? He dredged up a smile and set his cup on the table. “I’ve no coffee.”
“I’ll get you more.” There was no answering smile.
“I’ll bring it, Aunt Sophia.” He glanced over at Callie, admired the natural grace of her movements as she laid down the fork she was using to turn sausages in a frying pan and reached for the coffeepot at the back of the stove.
“No. I’ll get it, dear. You’re busy with breakfast for my guests.”
He looked back at Sophia, found her gaze steady on him. She rose and walked to the stove, blocking his view of Callie. On purpose? He frowned and took a bite of fried apples. His employer’s friendly manner had fled. Obviously, Sophia Sheffield’s kindness to an itinerant laborer did not extend to his becoming enamored of her niece. He discarded his plan to get information about the man from her.
There had to be a way to find out who the fellow was and, more importantly, what he was to Callie, without giving himself away any more than he already had. He held back a frown and took a bite of his potatoes, sorting through other possibilities. This afternoon he was going to the mercantile to add a new shirt to the necessary things he’d bought on account now that he had employment. Perhaps he’d see the man in the store and could ask someone about him. Or perhaps the man would be in church tomorrow—with Callie.
That thought turned the potatoes as sour to his tongue as the sausage. He lifted his coffee and took a swallow, all but scalding his mouth and throat. Blast! He’d forgotten Sophia had just refilled his cup. He sucked air through his gritted teeth, then coughed.
Joe slanted a wry look at him. “Hot, was it?”
He managed a grin. “Hot and strong—just as I like it.”
Joe chuckled, then turned toward Sophia Sheffield. “Got some bad news. That patch young Daniel put on the barn roof last summer has held up right well to the snow and ice and rain, but we’ve sprung another leak down at the far end. Rain’s dribbling in around the base of the cupola, too. Drops hit me square on the top of the head last night. I reckon a good daub of pitch will take care of it ’til the weather clears and the shingles can be replaced.”
Sophia shook her head. “You’re not to climb up on that roof with your rheumatism paining you so, Joseph. It’s not safe. Daniel’s at the lumbering camp, of course, but I’ll hire someone—”
“I’ll do it.” His offer drew Sophia’s attention. She swept her gaze over his face, then looked down at his hands. A tiny frown creased her forehead. He glanced down at the healing blisters, his reward for chopping firewood at the Deering farm the other day, and realization struck. It took more than clothes to look like a logger or laborer, and his hands, probably a few other things, had given him away. That was why Sophia and Callie were wary of him. They didn’t believe his story—though he had told the truth as far as he went.
“Have you ever repaired a roof, Ezra?”
Sophia looked doubtful. From the corner of his eye he saw Callie hand a platter of potatoes and sausages to the maid to carry to the dining room, then turn their way. The doubt and distrust in her eyes made up his mind. He’d have to go a little deeper into his story. He focused on Sophia and nodded. “My father had a lame leg. Once I was old enough, whenever there was a need, he’d tell me what to do and send me up to the roof to make repairs.”
“But you’ve not done such work since you were young?”
It was a statement, posed as a question. He stole another sidelong look at Callie. She was standing so still she seemed not to be breathing. He took heart that his answer mattered. “That’s right. My father died shortly after my twelfth birthday, and the farm was sold to satisfy debt.”
He crossed his fork and knife on his empty plate, buying time. How much should he tell? “We moved to the city, and it fell to me to support my mother, sister and brother. I found employment with an insurance broker delivering messages and carrying moneys to the bank. The broker had problems with his eyes and he taught me how to keep the accounts. I’ve worked in the insurance business ever since.”
He stopped, and hoped that was enough truth to erase Callie’s mistrust, because he wasn’t going to tell her he now owned the insurance company. And two banks. And a shipping line—
Callie’s skirts rustled. He looked up as she came and stood at the end of the table. “If you’re a businessman, Ezra, why were you dressed as a logger when you came? And why did you let us believe it?” There was a challenge in her voice.
He sifted through the facts, chose what to share. “My cousin suggested I would better fit in with his cohorts if I dressed as a logger for my visit. And after I was set upon by those thieves I had no choice—they took everything but the clothes on my back.” He studied her face, read tentative acceptance in her eyes and continued.
“The driver of a supply wagon gave me a ride on the road from Dunkirk, and when we arrived in Pinewood, I found my cousin had left town. I had nowhere to go, and in my wounded condition I needed a place to rest out of the weather. I saw your barn and thought perhaps I could sleep inside.” He held his gaze steady on hers. “I was headed there when I saw you holding that basket of food.” The doubt left her eyes, and he knew she was remembering their first meeting.
He looked at Sophia and smiled. “And now, I’m a stable hand.”
“And a good one you are. Got a way with horses.”
He jerked his gaze to Joe, grateful for the unexpected diversion.
The elderly groom thumped him on the back and shoved away from the table, looking over at Sophia Sheffield. “Businessman or not, I never seen the likes of the way Ezra calmed tha
t skittish horse during that storm last night. Sweet-talked him right into that stall while the lightning was flashing and the thunder was rumbling. He knows his way around a barn, too—sees what needs doing, and sets about getting it done. Right now, that’s leaks in the roof.”
Joe’s hand clamped on his shoulder. “Finish up, Ezra. We’ve got to get that pitch daubed on while the sun’s shining. There’s no telling when it’ll decide to rain again.”
“I’m finished.” He rose, glancing at Sophia.
She nodded. “Be careful on that roof, Ezra.”
“Yes, do be careful. We don’t want to have to nurse you through another injury.”
His pulse jolted. He shifted his gaze back to Callie. There was warmth in her smile. It looked as if his chances of getting to know her better had just improved. Now if he could only find out about that man...
* * *
An account book lay open on the secretary desk in front of her aunt, sunlight from the window lighting its pages. A tiny frown pulled down Sophia’s naturally arched eyebrows.
Callie’s heart sank at the concerned look on her aunt’s face. Was Sophia in financial straits as well? Was nothing ever what it seemed? Her secure feeling evaporated like morning dew. She took a firm grip on the tea tray in her hands and turned to go.
“Callie?” The velvet of Sophia’s gown whispered softly as she rose and came to her sitting room door. “Tea? How lovely. Come in, dear.”
She forced a smile and shook her head. “I didn’t realize you were busy and thought we might chat. I’ll come back later.”
“Not at all. I’m doing nothing pressing, only checking my accounts.” Sophia took the tray from her hands and carried it to the small stretcher table flanked by two Windsor chairs. “I had to secure a loan in order to make extensive repairs after that fire two years ago, and I hope to pay off the remaining debt this year. I want to replace that troublesome barn roof next spring.” Sophia gave a delicate sniff. “Mmm, ginger cookies. They smell delicious.”
“They should. You’re the one that taught me to make them.” She gazed about the room and her laughter died. This was her true childhood home. “I learned so much from you, Aunt Sophia. Mother was so often away with Father...”
She shook off the memory and ran her hand over the curved back of the settee that sat at a right angle to the fireplace. A smile warmed her heart and curved her lips at the sight of the needlework frame in front of it. “Do you remember the sampler you were making that I ruined by ‘helping’? How old was I? Six or—”
“You were five. And you did not ruin the piece. It hangs over my bed.” China chinked as Sophia set their places and poured tea into the cups.
“So, you were able to save the sampler?” She moved to the stone fireplace, lifted one of the pair of chalk pigeons that stood on the mantel and felt a rush of triumph. She’d not been allowed to touch them as a child.
“Callie Rose Conner, I treasure that sampler.”
She tossed an astonished glance over her shoulder. “With my oversized, childish stitches in it?” Her mother would not have kept such a disgraceful piece in her house.
“Because your oversized, childish stitches are in it.” Sophia sat and picked up a cookie, then took a bite. “Mmm, these are good. You have surpassed your teacher, dear.”
She blinked and turned to look out the window to hide a sudden onslaught of tears. How foolish to be so moved over her aunt saving her childish gift of help.
“Something interesting outside, dear?”
“Ezra is preparing to climb off the barn roof. Oh, my!” She spun away from the window.
“What is it? Did he fall?” Sophia surged to her feet and hurried toward her.
“No, but he might. He’s dangling over the roof edge, feeling for the ladder rung with his feet. And he has a bucket in his hand. If he loses his grip, or misses that rung—” She pressed her hands against her stomach, feeling sick.
Sophia peered out the window. “It’s all right, dear. He’s safely on the ladder.”
The tension fled, leaving her knees weak. She blew out a breath and took her seat at the table, thankful for the hot tea that would calm her stomach. She took a swallow.
Sophia resumed her seat, and gave her a searching look. “That was quite a strong reaction. Do you care for Ezra, Callie?”
“Well, of course I care about him.”
“That’s not what I asked, dear.”
She looked into her aunt’s eyes and discarded any further evasions—they wouldn’t work. But what should she answer? She was unwilling to admit, even to herself, the strong draw Ezra Ryder had on her emotions. To acknowledge it would be to give it power. “I believe I could, should I permit myself.”
“I see. You have reservations about him, then.” Sophia lifted the plate and offered her a cookie. “Is it that he is a mere laborer with no wealth or social position?”
“Certainly not! That is the last thing I care about.”
“Then what is it that causes you to hold your affections in check?”
She waved away the cookies, rose and went to the window. The ladder was gone. “That is what I came to speak to you about.” She turned back to face her aunt. “Do you think Ezra was telling us the truth this morning?”
“Yes...but I feel his story is incomplete.”
Her hope sank like a rock in still water. She’d been wishing that Sophia would tell her her suspicion was nonsense. “So you, too, sense that he is hiding something—not being honest with us?”
Sophia nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I believe he is hiding something, yes. But I also believe he is being honest in what he tells us.”
“Subterfuge. I detest that, Aunt Sophia. It colors every conversation of the elites in Buffalo.” She wrapped her arms about her torso and turned back to stare out the window. “They are underhanded in their dealings with one another. There is always some hidden purpose for the things they say and do. They are either trying to gain more wealth, or to increase their social standing by buying the grandest house or the fanciest carriage or—”
“—the most beautiful wife?”
“Yes. And I’d rather be a spinster than marry a deceiver. I cannot abide a liar.” And I refuse to fall in love with one.
* * *
Bells tinkled a warning. Ezra stopped as two women emerged from a millinery shop and threw curious glances his way. He touched the rolled brim of his knit hat and stepped aside to allow them space to pass.
The older woman dipped her head in response. A small smile curved the younger woman’s lips. She gave him a coy glance over her shoulder as she turned and followed her mother into the dressmaker’s shop next door.
He looked down at his blue wool shirt, coarse twill pants and heavy loggers boots and smiled. There was no sign of wealth to be read in his appearance. That young woman had been interested in him. And the friendly nods and smiles he’d received from the people he’d passed on the wood walkway were genuine as well. Their smiles weren’t given in the hope of currying favor with a rich man. Nobody knew. To them he was only another laborer.
He whistled a few notes as he strode to Cargrave’s Mercantile, then sobered and looked up and down the opposite side of the road in the hope of spotting the man he’d seen with Callie. He’d had no luck thus far.
He frowned, stepped into the recessed entrance and opened the door. Bells jangled. He nodded to those who looked his way, stepped to the dry goods section and eyed the shirts piled on a shelf. Wool shirts, in blue and green and red. He may not be able to purchase a suit that would compete favorably with that man’s attire, but he could manage a new shirt. He was heartily sick of the one he was wearing, and, since last night, it smelled of horse.
He reached for a green shirt, then paused as he caught sight of two other shirts farther along. H
e fingered the cotton, rather coarse to his touch, but a vast improvement over the wool, especially with warm weather coming. He chose the light gray one over the brown and held the shirt against his shoulders. It was broad enough.
The bells tinkled. He glanced toward the door. A handsome man dressed in a brown suit, a brocade waistcoat, and a spotless white cravat entered. It was him.
“Good afternoon, Reverend.”
The chorus erupted around him. Reverend? Callie’s friend was a man of the cloth? He frowned, and carried the shirt to the counter.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” The man glanced his way, gave a polite, friendly nod, then strode to the window in the center of the wall of glass boxes that formed the post office.
“This all for today?”
He pulled his gaze back to the clerk. He could get some writing supplies and send that letter requesting funds home, but he wasn’t one to back away from a deal just because the going was tougher than he expected. “Yes, that’s all. Put it on my account, please.”
He set his jaw, picked up his shirt and walked out of the store, not even casting a sidelong glance at the man. He’d seen enough to know he was in a hard battle for Callie’s affections. But it was a battle he meant to win.
Chapter Eight
How was she to concentrate on today’s sermon? The man was so...so there. She simply found it impossible to ignore him the way she could other men. Callie held back a frown and smiled and nodded to those already seated as she followed her aunt, escorted by Ezra, down the center aisle. What was Sophia thinking asking Ezra to sit with them in her private pew? It had been bad enough when they’d met him on the porch on their way inside. Simply knowing he would be in the building had discomforted her. And, now—
She stiffened as her aunt stopped. Ezra opened the pew door and bowed. Oh, no. Manners dictated he be the last to enter, and she was not going to sit beside him. She stepped forward. “Allow me, Aunt Sophia. I know you like sitting near the aisle.” The twilled silk of her gown whispered softly as she gathered her full skirt, stepped into the box and sidestepped along the wood seat before her aunt could reply.
Courting Miss Callie Page 7
