Loving the Horseman

by Davalynn Spencer

  “I’d be happy to.” He brushed her with a lingering glance. “If it’s not too treacherous, I’ll take you up for a look. That is, if your father doesn’t mind.”

  His comment warred against her earlier resolve. She’d not come to Cañon City to have her head turned by a wandering cowboy with no home or livelihood. But she had come to hear the mighty river roar.

  Lifting her chin to a dignified angle, she skimmed every eager note from her voice and aimed for detached and demure. “How delightful, but I’d have to wait until after Nell …”

  Annie allowed her remark to fade into the breeze and pinned her eyes on the razorback ridge stretching against the sky to their left.

  Caleb stopped and faced her. “You could ride Sally.”

  “Excuse me?” She eased her hand from his arm and hid it safely in the folds of her skirt.

  “My other horse.” Amusement lit his eyes. “She’s a gentle old girl and would serve you well.”

  “Oh.” Uncertain how she felt about him practically laughing at her and fighting her instinctive reaction to accept his offer, she turned back the way they had come.

  In one long stride, he fell in beside her. “I’ve had Sally since I was a boy. My pa gave her to me, and she’s been a faithful mount. Never bucked or bit, and fared better on the trip here than I had hoped.”

  Unpredictable didn’t begin to describe Caleb Hutton. Now the tight-lipped loaner was spilling history with a schoolteacher’s flair.

  She stopped and faced him, determined that he would not be the only one full of surprises. “Thank you for your kind offer to ride Sally on a river excursion. I think it is a splendid idea.”

  ~

  That night Caleb lay with his hands linked beneath his head, his lamp trimmed low, the light thinning into darkness where overhead framework faded into the haymow. The barn cat begged outside the stall door.

  He mulled over the pastor’s morning message, picking through the seeds he’d sown in the last five years. Not much had sprung from his meager plantings, and yet the quiet walk with Annie had set his dreams to spinning. But what did he have to offer a beautiful woman with mahogany eyes? A box stall in a livery stable?

  Again he saw the warm parsonage he’d left in Missouri. And Mollie Sullivan—far from warm as he compared her now to Annie. He’d had a calling and a home when he lost Mollie to someone of greater means. He was a fool to think Annie would give him a second thought when he had nothing.

  A scratching sound lifted his attention to the rafters, where a black-and-white feline walked the crossbeam like a high-wire performer. Without a sound, it leaped to the railing along the wall and dropped to the floor.

  He chuckled as it neared his bedroll.

  “Won’t the horses let you sleep with them?”

  The cat purred against him and pressed its head into his rough blanket, adding warmth from its small body. He missed the heavy quilts back in the parsonage, the colorful spreads pieced together by the Women’s Society. He’d never properly thanked them for their labors—another shortsighted sin.

  He’d thought only of himself in St. Joseph. Of marrying the prettiest girl in the congregation, of listing converts beneath his name, of counting the people who sat in the walnut pews of his sanctuary.

  His sanctuary. Not the Lord’s.

  He grimaced at his arrogance.

  When had he fallen from serving God to serving himself?

  The cat curled into a ball at his side and wrapped its tail around its face. He stroked its smooth back, ran his fingers through the soft hair.

  “Tell me what to do,” he murmured. “Not just for a warm hearth and a woman’s love, but for You. I’ll stay in this barn if it’s what You want. Just show me what to do, how to get back to the place I should be.”

  He trimmed the lamp on the crate until the wick smoked out, then rolled to his side. His eyes closed and soon he drifted across a ripening wheat field with golden heads bent beneath a scuttling breeze. He saw himself running through the field—running toward an aging man who stood open-armed, tears streaming down his face and into his beard.

  Caleb fell at the man’s feet but was lifted upright and embraced. Enfolded, Caleb let go of his remorse and resentment. Exchanged them for peace. And found the deep restful sleep of one who is forgiven.

  ~

  By the time Caleb broke ice on the water trough, fed the horses, and made his way to the mercantile the next morning, a crowd had already gathered around the potbellied stove. He removed his hat and stepped into the boisterous group helping themselves to fresh cinnamon rolls and arguing the merits of the recently elected president. Had he been in the states and not on the frontier, Caleb would have cast his vote as a citizen ought.

  “Lincoln won by a landslide,” boasted Jeb Hancock, a tall freighter from Illinois. His chest swelled more than the last time he’d been in the livery, and if Caleb had been a betting man, he would bet his week’s wages it had everything to do with the election.

  “Yesiree, got us a good ‘un this time,” Hancock boasted.

  A stumpy miner jostled to the front and grabbed two rolls. His crumpled hat and ragged canvas coat bore witness to a played-out claim.

  “It’s the end, I tell ya, the end.” He shoved one roll in his mouth and the other in his pocket and headed for the door.

  “Good riddance,” Hancock called over those who crowded the stove. “Naysayer.” He swiped his buckskin sleeve across his mouth and downed his coffee dregs.

  Annie stood at the back counter watching the commotion with concern. When Caleb caught her eyes, she brightened and seemed to relax. Or was his imagination showing him what he wanted to see?

  It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

  Caleb edged his way closer to the old stove. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning.” She retrieved a covered plate from the sideboard and handed it to him. “You almost didn’t make it in time. Martha brought only two pans of cinnamon rolls.”

  Her welcome soothed like a beloved hymn. “You saved this for me?”

  She took his hat and hung it on the peg holding her cloak. “I think half the town followed their noses in here this morning.”

  A sliver of hope wedged into Caleb’s chest as he pulled the checkered napkin from the plate. The spicy aroma set his mouth to watering, and he accepted the fork she offered.

  “I kindly thank you, Annie.”

  Blushing, she busied herself smoothing the creases from her apron. “You’ll have to stand, I’m afraid, but it shouldn’t be long. Milner, the editor, will no doubt be leaving soon since the newspaper comes out today. As will Karl and Kristof Turk, Hobson the barber, and Mr. Smith, who, I understand, has finally hired the Turk brothers to raise a cabin for his family.”

  Caleb remained at the group’s edge, inhaling Martha Bobbins’s handiwork and Whitaker’s coffee. The men talked politics and claim jumpers, comparing both to an upcoming turkey hunt competition sponsored by Jedediah Cooper. The saloon owner snagged a roll, waved it above his head, and vowed a twenty-dollar gold piece to the man who shot the biggest wild bird.

  “More than a hundred men have already laid out the two-dollar entry fee,” Cooper boasted. “But any of you could be the winner. Don’t be left out.”

  “Not in here.” Daniel Whitaker raised his voice above the cheers. “You’ll not be doing your business in the mercantile. Take it elsewhere.”

  Caleb caught Annie’s pained expression and glanced at Cooper. Something had happened, something unpleasant. The room’s temperature spiked.

  God help Jedediah Cooper if he’d been inappropriate with her.

  “Caleb?”

  Her tone pulled him from morbid thoughts. She was staring at the fork gripped in his hand like a weapon.

  He relaxed his fingers a bit and cut another bite from the frosted, cinnamon-laced coil as big as a horse’s hoof. Turning the other cheek was a worthy rule to follow, but not where a woman was concerned. If Cooper offended Annie, Caleb woul
d not be turning a cheek or an eye away from him, regardless of how ingenious the man appeared to be.

  “Is something the matter?” She touched his arm as lightly as her voice touched his ear.

  The gesture fired through his body like heat roaring from Henry’s forge. Sweat beaded at his hairline.

  Martha’s bubbling laughter drew Annie’s attention, and Caleb silently thanked the woman for her timely rescue. He moved back, as far as possible from the stove, afraid that he’d already filled the cramped room with stable perfume.

  Chairs scooted across the floor, some snagging on the braided rug. Tin plates clattered into a dishpan on the stove, and Daniel Whitaker met his customers at the front counter where he accepted their coins and thanks and wished them a good day. Martha busied herself with the dishes, and Annie ground coffee beans and filled the pot with fresh water.

  Caleb pulled a low-back captain’s chair away from the stove. His vengeful thoughts about Jedediah Cooper surprised him, but he stopped short of repentance. No man dared lay an unwanted hand on Annie Whitaker, and he didn’t mind being the one to ensure that.

  He didn’t mind at all.

  Because he was losing his good sense to the spirited young woman, even though he’d sworn never to let such a thing happen again.

  The brass bell sang out as the last customer left, and Daniel returned to the stove, where he chucked in a black lump from the coal bucket and adjusted the damper. He sat with a hefty sigh, rubbed his hands across his aproned girth, and shook his head.

  “Martha, you’ll make a fat man of me yet.”

  Martha laughed and splashed at the sideboard, dunking plates in the rinsing pan and handing them to Annie who dried them and stacked them on a shelf.

  “Oh, Daniel, you are good for my heart.”

  Caleb glanced up from his disappearing breakfast and caught a boyish grin on the older man’s face. He winked at Caleb and smoothed his mustache.

  Three bites finished Caleb’s cinnamon roll, and his plate had barely emptied when Annie’s hand entered his view, open and waiting.

  His first thought was to take it and kiss her fingers, but with her father watching and his lips sticky from the frosting, he settled for a smile.

  Her eyes lingered. Oh, Lord, how could he bear to see her every day, knowing he had nothing to give her but a broken heart and broken vows?

  The bold truth sobered the warmth right out of him. He wrapped both hands around his cup, planted his elbows on his knees, and stared at the braided rug beneath his feet. His eyes followed a red strand that wove through the pattern and circled halfway around the rug before giving way to a dark brown. Maybe he needed to give way himself, leave now rather than wait until spring. Denver was a three-day journey, and he’d saved enough to stake himself for a few weeks.

  “You joining the hunt?”

  The question brought Caleb back to the moment, and he caught Whitaker watching him over a tin mug.

  “No, sir. I don’t own a rifle.”

  Whitaker’s mustache twitched and his eyes narrowed. “A cowboy like you with no gun?”

  Too late Caleb recognized his blunder. The man had more on his mind than a turkey shoot.

  “I have a side arm, for snakes and such. But I’ve never been a hunter.”

  Whitaker leaned on his knees, as much as his belly allowed, and threw a cautious glance toward the women. Then he lowered his voice and looked Caleb dead in the eye.

  “What do you do? And don’t tell me you’re good with horses. You’re hiding something, son, and if you’re taking an interest in my Annie—which I can see that you are—you’d best be telling me now rather than later.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Whitaker’s stare burned like hot iron.

  Caleb cleared his throat. He hadn’t hidden his affection for Annie any better than he’d hidden himself from the Lord.

  He could simply leave. Like he’d left his church in St. Joseph. Or he could take his chances and come clean. Annie and her father deserved that much and more, after all they’d done for him.

  “I was a preacher.”

  The confession set Whitaker back in his chair, but he never took his eyes off Caleb. One white brow cocked like a pistol hammer. “That explains it.”

  Exposed, Caleb started to rise.

  Whitaker stopped him with a quick hand. “You’ve got a way with words as well as horses. I heard it when you prayed over breakfast that day, and I hear it when you talk to Annie.” He looked up as the women went into the back room, then he refilled his coffee cup and offered more to Caleb. “What happened?”

  Caleb breathed easier with Annie and Martha out of earshot. He thought of the old man in his dream who looked nothing like Daniel Whitaker, but maybe there was a connection. Maybe confession was a stop on the journey home.

  “I pastored a small church back in St. Joseph, on the edge of town. About forty people.” He pulled the hot coffee through his lips, uneasy at talking about himself. “I wasn’t any good. No converts. Just the same people every Sunday, living the same lives.” He cut a look toward Whitaker. “Except one.”

  Might as well spill it all.

  “She wasn’t living the life I thought she was. Then she accepted a wealthy banker’s proposal—a man who also happened to be on the deacon board.”

  Whitaker reached for the coal bucket and added another piece to the stove. “Over yours, I take it.”

  Caleb cringed, feeling the fool again.

  “So you left.”

  Whitaker’s look was more compassionate than judgmental, but Caleb didn’t want the man’s pity. He wanted the man’s daughter, and that was becoming more unlikely by the minute.

  “I figured those people needed a real pastor. Someone older with more experience. I sent word to the seminary, and I’m sure they’ve replaced me by now.”

  Whitaker leaned back in his chair, balancing his cup against one leg. “So who called you to preach?”

  There it was—the question Caleb had dodged for half a year until recently. The question for which he knew the answer but not the reason it hadn’t worked out.

  He met Whitaker’s eyes and caught Annie’s fire in them.

  “God called me.”

  “And do you suppose God changes His mind about that sort of thing?”

  Seminary lectures scrolled through Caleb’s memory, but Whitaker’s question made them personal. “No, sir.”

  “You’re familiar with the eighth chapter of Romans, the twenty-eighth verse?”

  He was. It lay like a banked ember awaiting rediscovery. “We know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

  The called.

  The words scorched Caleb’s soul.

  “You can’t outrun God, son. I’m no preacher, but I for sure know that much.”

  Annie came in from the back room, and the flame in Caleb’s chest burned deeper. Her eyes lit on his with a smile. What would she think if she knew the truth?

  He shoved his hat on. It wouldn’t be long until she did.

  He needed distance. Perspective. Air.

  He set his cup to the dishpan. “Thank you, ladies.” He turned to Whitaker. “And you, sir.” Then he left the store before he crumbled to ash in front of them.

  Cold air slapped his face and bit through his shirt as he made his way back to the livery. He shoved through the door and the temperature rose noticeably. Fire blazed in Henry’s brick furnace against the hiss and tap of the blacksmith’s work. Everywhere—extremes.

  Caleb grabbed the pitchfork as he walked up the alleyway. “Mornin’.”

  Henry’s hammer paused in its dance against the anvil and he looked at Caleb. “And a good one it is.”

  For some.

  “After I finish the stalls, I’ll be heading out for a while. Be in this evening.”

  Henry took a step back and craned his neck toward the spare harnesses and tack hanging against the last stall.

&nbs
p; “Everything is mended and soaped,” Caleb said. “Finished Saturday night. The Turk brothers and Hancock are already gone.”

  Henry took to his work. No frown, no affirmation. “Fine by me.”

  Caleb reached for the wheelbarrow and pushed it into the alleyway. He could never tell what Henry was thinking unless the man came right out and said it plain.

  Caleb should take lessons.

  Nell whiffled a low greeting as he opened her stall door. “Missing Annie, are you?” The bulging mare tossed her head as if she understood and rumbled deep in her chest.

  He knew the feeling.

  By noon the stalls were cleaned with fresh bedding laid for all fifteen horses and mules inside. He saddled Rooster and hand-fed Sally a fistful of oats. “Maybe next time, ol’ girl.” He rubbed the bay mare’s shoulder, truly hoping for a next time. “If the way is easy and Annie doesn’t change her mind, we just might be taking another ride before the big snows fly.”

  Or he might be riding on out of town alone, snow or not. He hoped to have some direction after his trek today.

  He buttoned his waistcoat and turned up his duster collar against the cold, then mounted the gelding and rode through town half expecting Annie to be sweeping the boardwalk in front of the mercantile. As he passed by, he saw her busy inside with a customer. Just as well.

  The river ran low and easy enough to cross, but he kept to the north side and Rooster took quick to the trail. Slate blue clouds hunched over the distant ridges, threatening a storm. A soaking might be part and parcel of his day. He needed a good drenching, something to wash away his indecision and wring out the uncertainty in his soul.

  He skirted the brick-colored granite guarding the canyon across from the Indian encampment. Mountain Utes, he’d been told, wintering near hot springs that seeped close by and living off deer that fed along the river.

  Beyond the red monolith, the canyon tightened to a narrow green valley that hugged the river with cottonwood clusters, bushy grass, and spiny fingerlike cacti. A wide creek spilled from cedar-scattered hills on the south side and joined the river in liquid laughter.

  A merry heart doeth good like a medicine. He’d give all his earnings for merriment or at least the understanding of what was weighing him down.