Loving the Horseman

by Davalynn Spencer

  Caleb pulled off his hat and took the pastor’s hand. “Thought I’d sit in on the whole service this morning.”

  Hartman slapped Caleb’s arm. “I’m glad to hear I haven’t driven you off.”

  Henry offered seating at their usual bench, but Caleb begged off on pretense of keeping an eye on the stable and stopped at the back row. He wasn’t quite ready to be so close to the pulpit.

  And the view was better from back here.

  Henry leaned toward Caleb and lowered his voice. “I do believe you’re keeping an eye on more than the livery.”

  Bertha pulled on Henry’s arm and Caleb pulled on his collar, surprised that the chapel’s woodstove put out so much heat.

  ~

  Annie had seen Caleb exit the livery. She’d wanted to cross to him right then and there and tell him that she knew there was something he wasn’t saying, and it had nothing to do with their secret about Nell.

  But ladies did not run after men in public—or anywhere, for that matter.

  She clutched her Bible and continued toward the church, failing miserably at ignoring how handsome Caleb looked this morning. With his long confident stride, clean white shirt, and low, tilted hat, he seemed so unlike the stubborn man who had refused to answer her questions.

  She paused at the steps to let her father and Martha go ahead. Once inside, she angled away from the door, and fussed with her reticule as she listened for a certain deep voice.

  The warm timbre sent shivers up her back as Caleb spoke to Pastor Hartman. She stepped in behind a young couple heading down the aisle and took the empty spot on the bench next to her father.

  During the sermon, it took all her concentration to focus on the message. Not that she dared look Caleb’s way, but her mind wandered. She kept stumbling over who and what he could be, and the possibilities scattered themselves throughout Reverend Hartman’s sermon on the parable of the sower.

  A hired gun? He wore no holster.

  A grieving widower? He wore no ring.

  A swindler, a bank robber, a gambler?

  She snickered, and her father cocked an eyebrow her way.

  Quickly she seamed her lips and rubbed her cheek, a trick she’d often used when hiding a joke from Edna. But it wasn’t enough to keep her mind from Caleb. He piqued her curiosity with his mysterious avoidance of anything to do with his past.

  The man had all but finished off an entire apple pie on his last visit to the store. He ate more than she and her father put together. Perhaps he was a farmer, missing his fields and family back home. Had he come for a share of fertile land in the Arkansas River Valley and been robbed? Was he a miner who’d had his claim jumped? No, his clothing and mannerisms said otherwise.

  Everyone stood, and Annie jerked to her feet, a flush rising to her face. The closing song drew her attention to the blessed tie that binds, but during the prayer she finally gave in and peeked over her shoulder. She couldn’t make out Caleb through all the bowed heads. Either his was also bowed or he’d slipped out already. The binding tie pulled to a disappointed knot.

  Annie drifted out the chapel door, a single drop in the human stream, her ears dull to the chatting voices until Martha Bobbins broke through.

  “You must come for dinner, dear.” The woman took hold of Annie’s elbow. “I’ve made a chicken pie and a lovely rice pudding for desert.”

  Annie looked to her father, whose eyes fairly brimmed with longing for both, she guessed.

  Laughing, she linked her arm with the little woman. “Of course we’ll come. Can we bring anything from the mercantile? Tea or coffee?”

  “No, I have everything. But we’ll need to hurry. I left the pie on the back of the stove to keep warm.”

  Hannah Baker, Cañon City’s bride-to-be, caught Martha’s eye as they descended the front steps.

  So much for hurrying.

  Wanting her heart’s soil to be fertile and not futile, Annie resisted the tug of envy. Fair Hannah could not be more than sixteen, yet here she was, engaged to be married to Pastor Hartman. An Abraham and Sarah romance, no doubt. Or was romance even involved?

  Annie watched the animated girl describe to Martha the precise placement of seed pearls that she wanted on her gown. Her flushed cheeks and the urgency in her voice betrayed a deep and earnest passion.

  Envy took a step closer, but Annie backed away.

  While Hannah bombarded Martha, Annie’s father ambled over to visit with Henry and Mrs. Schultz. Annie’s breath froze in her chest.

  What if Henry mentioned Nell’s condition?

  She couldn’t bear to sell the mare now, not like this. Not with winter coming on and long dark nights ahead. O Lord, please.

  “He won’t say anything.”

  She whirled to face the man who had read her thoughts and answered her unspoken prayer.

  Reaching for her breath, she fingered her ruffled collar.

  “Are you sure?” she whispered, clutching her Bible to her chest.

  One side of his mouth twitched as if he fought a smile.

  “He might not even know.” Caleb dipped his head, holding her with his eyes. “He doesn’t pay the horses much mind. Seems to trust my care of them.”

  Annie ordered her pulse to stop pounding. Was it fear of discovery or the intimacy of Caleb’s rich voice that left her light-headed? Such a voice should not be wasted on livestock.

  “Oh, I pray so.”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw, and his eyes swept her face. She dipped her head and touched the small hat clinging desperately to her hair. Where was the anger that she’d last felt in his presence?

  He held out his opened hand, revealing two hairpins. “Looking for these?”

  Meeting his gaze, she found nothing but gentleness there. No mockery, no criticism. She reached for the pins and as her fingers brushed his palm he clasped her hand in his.

  “Truce?”

  His query drew the breath from her. Or was it the touch of his strong hand?

  She nodded, helpless to do more, and he released her fingers as quickly as he had closed upon them.

  “Come along, dear,” Martha piped. “And you too, young man. There’s chicken pie a plenty to go round. You know what they say: the more the merrier.”

  Annie’s Sunday suit squeezed tightly as she fought for a steadying breath. Now she must face much more than a truce with Caleb Hutton. And not just casual biscuits around a potbellied stove, but an intimate meal with Martha and her father.

  ~

  Caleb offered his arm. For three beats of his heart, he watched indecision cloud Annie’s eyes. When she finally rested her fingers in the crook of his elbow, his pulse nearly broke and ran. With one hand, she again lifted her skirt as they crossed the dusty street, and he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her across.

  They walked behind Daniel and Martha, and once on the boardwalk, Annie withdrew her hand and stopped at the mercantile.

  “I’m going to drop off my Bible, Daddy. I’ll only be a moment.”

  Martha kept her place on Daniel’s arm, and while they waited, the couple peppered their quiet words with youthful laughter. Caleb moved away to study the new stoves displayed in the window, envisioning a small pot belly in the box stall’s outside corner.

  True to her word, Annie returned before he could plan an argument for Henry about the stove, and the foursome continued along the boardwalk toward the west end. He offered his arm and Annie accepted.

  As they passed the Fremont Saloon, she tensed, raised her chin, and stared straight ahead. The others walked by the ornate doors with no indication of concern. What had Jedediah Cooper done to make Annie react so strongly to even the man’s establishment?

  At the next corner they strolled north, and Martha led them to a rock-lined path and a small cabin with a stone chimney. White lace curtains peeked through the front window, clinging to their place against the rough logs and chink that framed them.

  “Come in, come in.” Martha held the door wide wit
h a smile to match.

  The aroma of baked chicken and pie crust set Caleb’s mouth to watering. The amply set table in the center of the room vied with church dinners he’d long forgotten.

  An unusual contraption hugged one wall, draped in long silky folds with silver pins along an unsewn edge. Must be Martha’s latest project.

  A large braided rug covered the tiny cabin’s floor, but by Caleb’s living standards, the homey room was a palace.

  He hung his hat on a peg by the door and noted that Martha had set the table for three in expectation of the Whitakers. She whisked an additional plate and utensils from a shelf, quickly balanced the small round table for four, and insisted everyone be seated.

  Following Daniel’s prayer, Martha served each guest from the Dutch oven dominating the table’s center.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Caleb said. “I’m hungry as a horse.”

  A frown notched Annie’s brow.

  “Speaking of horses, Caleb,”—Daniel leaned over his dish and breathed deeply—”have you noticed anything unusual about our mare that would keep someone from buying her?”

  Annie sucked in her breath and choked on the morsel in her mouth.

  Caleb flinched at the barbed looked she threw him over her napkin. So much for their truce. Her heart would break if her father sold Nell, especially with the foal on the way. And she would blame him.

  He rested his hand at the table’s edge. “Why sell her, sir?”

  Daniel harrumphed around a mouthful, then swallowed. “Well, I imagine by this point, you’ve seen how much she eats.”

  Caleb glanced from Daniel to Annie’s warning glare and back.

  “I expect it’d be hard to sell her now, so close to the snow coming. You might get a better price if you wait until spring.”

  Daniel chewed on Martha’s chicken and Caleb’s reply, his white brows pulling together. “Duke Deacon said he’d think on buying her.”

  Annie’s head snapped toward her father. “We can’t sell her.” Apparently startled by her own abruptness, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin and softened her tone. “Did the freighters really say they wanted her?”

  Daniel’s tender glance at his daughter eased the creases at his eyes. He shook his head. “I know you love her, though why, I’ll never understand. But she’s too expensive a pet, Annie girl. And she’s built for pulling a load.”

  Martha eyed her guests and diverted the approaching storm. “Wasn’t that a most uplifting sermon this morning?” She winked at Caleb. “What do you think, Daniel?”

  The man’s countenance softened further as his eyes met Martha’s. “Indeed it was. Love your neighbor as yourself.”

  “That wasn’t it at all.” Annie balled her napkin. “It was the parable of the sower.”

  Daniel laughed and his belly bumped the table’s edge. “So it was, Annie. So it was.”

  Martha flushed pink and worried a chicken piece on her plate. Things had definitely changed between Annie’s father and the seamstress, and Caleb wondered if Martha would be changing her name as easily as she’d changed the topic of discussion.

  His gaze shifted to Annie, who stared at a spot on the white tablecloth above her plate. Her fitted green jacket set off her hair in flaming contrast, and two tortoiseshell combs held it off her face, exposing the tender skin at her temples. Maybe the pins he’d returned to her weren’t as important as he’d thought.

  “There’s plenty more.” Martha lifted Daniel’s empty plate, heaped on creamy chicken and vegetables, then reached for Annie’s.

  “No, thank you,” she said, returning from her reverie. “It was wonderful. Really quite good, but I cannot eat another bite.” She pressed one hand against her narrow waist and tucked her napkin beneath her plate. “It’s so nice outdoors, I think I’ll walk through the garden while you and Daddy finish.”

  Martha waved a hand. “Oh, it’s hardly a garden. Just a few rose bushes that attract more deer than honeybees.”

  Annie scooted her chair back and took her plate to the sideboard.

  Daniel missed the brooding in his daughter’s eyes. Caleb did not. He was the reason for their somber expression.

  “Believe I’ll do the same.” He sensed a rare opportunity to talk to Annie alone. “Again, thank you, ma’am. This was a fine feast.”

  Martha tilted her head modestly, but her fingers had already found their way to Daniel’s free hand lying conveniently near her on the table.

  Caleb set his plate atop Annie’s in the dishpan and quickly followed her outside, eager to apologize to her once again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Annie looked up from a fading rose at the cabin’s corner to see Caleb making his way toward her, a sober look on his face.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head and turned back to the rose, plucking at the dying petals. “It’s not your fault.” Her finger snagged on a thorn and she jerked her hand back. A red bead formed on her fingertip. Squeezing it, she commanded the tears that pricked her eyes to hold their place.

  Caleb reached for her hand, unpocketed a blue bandana, and held it against the wound.

  Feeling foolish for such a careless act, she tried to pull away but he held her fast—firmly yet gently. His eyes roamed her brow, her cheeks, her lips, as if charting every inch of her face. A flutter caught in her throat and she feared that she echoed the rose’s once deep pink.

  “I could have said bear.”

  Curious, she tipped her head.

  “I could have said I was hungry as a bear.”

  Laughter eased the tightness in her shoulders, and she relaxed her hand in his. He continued to hold it after the bleeding had stopped.

  “It’s not your fault. Daddy has wanted to be rid of Nell ever since I talked him out of selling her in the first place. But I don’t want to let her go. I love her soft breath on my face, the way she nuzzles me for the apples …”

  Catching herself, she withdrew her hand and looked away. What was it about Caleb Hutton that made her want to trust him with such personal details? Feeling exposed, she regretted leaving her hat indoors and nervously fingered the new combs in her hair.

  “We left everything familiar back home, and when we bought the horses in Denver, it was as if our traveling family expanded. I had more to care for than just myself and my father.”

  Her mouth was running away with her but she couldn’t stop herself.

  She clasped her hands at her waist. “How could I have known that she was …”

  Embarrassment warmed her face and rushed into her hairline.

  “I’ll talk to those freighters the next time they come to the wagon yard. Spring is the time for buying a horse. They’re not looking to make as many trips out until then anyway.”

  She peeked at his face, looking for the truth to support his words and found it lying quietly in his dark eyes.

  He stuffed the bandana back in his pocket and, offering his arm, gestured toward the narrow lane that bordered other cabins. “Care to walk?”

  Hooking her fingers in his elbow she allowed him to lead her away from the roses.

  They strolled up the lane, where transplanted cottonwoods marshalled the path, their falling leaves laying an amber carpet. Wood smoke painted the breeze, and Caleb cleared his throat and threw her a sidelong glance. “Which is worse?” he asked. “Telling your father about the coming foal before it arrives or waiting until it gets here?”

  A heavy sigh slipped out. “I’ve asked myself the same thing a hundred times. I’m just afraid.”

  He stopped abruptly, surprise and doubt mingling in his scrutiny. “I find that hard to believe, oh you of the broom and the biscuits.”

  His boldness startled a laugh where once it would have elicited a scowl. “You are taking a fearsome chance with that remark, Mr. Hutton. A fearsome chance.”

  Placing his free hand atop hers, he resumed their stroll. “I can’t imagine you afraid of anything on this earth, Annie Whitaker. I’ve seen a fire in y
our eyes that I’m certain lies deeply banked within your spirit.”

  Poetry? Annie doubted her sister’s beaus spun words as charming as this horseman at her side.

  Though he wasn’t a beau. At least not hers.

  Befuddled, she studied the ground ahead. Her right hand burned hotter than her left, covered as it was by his calloused fingers. Strength flowed from him—steadily, faithfully, as if he drew upon some hidden source. His prayer so long ago at the mercantile suggested an intimate knowledge of God. Did he share her faith?

  Each time they were together, something new came to her attention—his humility, candor, humor. What was he? Saddle tramps didn’t talk like that—or pray like that. This man had a way with more than just horses. So what was he hiding?

  “Have you been upstream?”

  Caught in her puzzlement, she took a moment to reorient. “Upstream?” She cocked her head to look up at him. “As in upriver?”

  Amusement pulled his mouth on one side. “Yes, upriver. Have you ridden up the river, into the canyon above town?”

  “Not yet.” Disappointment pinched. The very thing she’d dreamed of in Nebraska still hadn’t occurred. As far as she knew, the Arkansas River didn’t roar any more than the lazy Mississippi, at least not near town.

  “I plan to take some time off tomorrow—if we don’t get any new freighters—and ride up past the Ute encampment. Take a look at the canyon the town is named for.”

  Envy danced across her mind. “Daddy says the canyon narrows down to the width of the river. At least that’s what someone told him.” Again, someone else—a man— doing what she wanted to do.

  Her responsibilities at the mercantile had given her little free time before dark, and only a fool ventured out at night. But even during the day, who would go with her into the canyon? Daddy would never let her ride unattended, but neither would he take time off from the store to ogle the scenery.

  Caleb cast a questioning look her way. Evidently her hidden frustration was not so hidden.

  A pump handle squeaked behind one of the cabins, mocking a whine that she struggled to reach her throat. “When you get back, you’ll have to tell me all about it.”