The dream had unsettled him and it hung with him still, especially after today’s inquisition by Daniel Whitaker. He didn’t begrudge the man’s watchful eye for his daughter, but he’d cut near to the quick.
It didn’t take a seer to know the dream dealt with a kind of homecoming. Trouble was, Caleb didn’t know where home was because he didn’t have one. Hadn’t had one since he left his parents’ place for school and the ministry.
The farther he rode, the more carefully Rooster chose his footing on the roughening trail. An occasional piñon pushed up through the rocky soil, holding its own in the rugged landscape.
The hills pulled themselves into straight-walled battlements, red rock layers jutting out like planks at a saw mill. Scrub oak and juniper jammed rocky crevices.
An unforgiving land, it seemed.
Perfect for an unforgiving heart.
Was that it? Had he not forgiven Mollie and the deacon? Himself? God?
The canyon suddenly narrowed. Granite walls rose hundreds of feet in shades of pink and gray and ochre, and beside him the river raised its voice, complaining loudly where boulders blocked its path.
Just like him.
His complaints were silent, but they were complaints nonetheless, shouting in his soul, drowning out his meager gratitude.
He startled at a sudden movement and yanked Rooster to a stop. Had the four deer not been leaping up the barren rock face, he would not have seen them—three does and a young buck. Stunned, he watched them climb the tawny granite on unseen footholds, loosening bits of gravel and bounding up to the treeless rim rock and out of sight.
Effortlessly.
He maketh my feet like hinds’ feet, and setteth me upon my high places.
Those live coals kept falling into his mind, like a glowing, burning rockslide. Everywhere he looked, he saw Scripture played out before him. Had the Lord hobbled him in one spot so all Caleb could see was what He wanted him to see?
The realization struck him like a blow. He’d always believed those lofty places to be forested hilltops, lush with knee-high grass and gentle streams. He looked up again at the forbidding rock wall, almost doubting he’d seen the deer scale its face and leap to the top.
Almost.
“He makes my feet like hinds’ feet.” Rooster swiveled his ears at Caleb’s voice, pulled at the reins, and reached for a grassy cluster struggling through the smooth river rocks.
“It’s Your work, isn’t it?”
Caleb laughed at the sudden clarity. It was all God’s work—the spiritual condition of his former parishioners, his calling, his climb through imposing circumstances. All he had to do was surrender. Come home.
His eyes stung and the rushing river blurred before him as he pulled Rooster around and headed back downstream.
The sunlight thinned, and he looked behind him to a roiling gray cloud clambering over the canyon walls. A feathery flake settled on his hand, another on his leg. A sudden gust funneled through the canyon and tugged at his hat. He screwed it down tighter and touched his heels to Rooster’s side, urging him along the rocky path.
By the time he made the cottonwood clearing, the cloud had dropped and dusted the trees and grass in a sugar-fine powder. Only on the river did the snow melt and mix with the silver water.
At the edge of town, Caleb quickened Rooster to a lope on the empty street. He dismounted at the stable, led Rooster inside, and stripped the saddle. Then he ran the gelding into the corral where Sally sheltered beneath the livery’s long eaves. Rooster joined his trail partner and together they stood slack-eared, rumps against the building, watching the snow. Silence blanketed the town, the stock pens. All lay still beneath the settling white.
Grateful for his accommodations, Caleb went inside.
He’d spend the next few days listening. Not complaining. Not licking his wounds, but looking to the wounds of his Lord and listening for His voice.
~
As she did every morning, Annie rolled the pin across the floured dough, cut eight large biscuits with a baking powder can, and laid them in a greased skillet. Gathering the leftover dough to roll again, she looked for the third time over her shoulder at the front door.
Where was he?
Caleb hadn’t been back for breakfast since Martha Bobbins brought cinnamon rolls, and that was days ago. Was he waiting for more of the same? Were Annie’s “potbellied” biscuits no longer good enough?
Had he been toying with her when he mentioned taking her to ride up the river?
Had he left town?
Tears pooled against her lashes, and she swiped the drops away with a floured hand. She’d been too busy to visit Nell—and thus see about Caleb. It seemed there were always several customers in the store at once, laying up for the coming holidays. And by the time her father closed each evening, it was dark and cold and she couldn’t bring herself to make the trip to the livery alone.
She recalled the Sunday stroll near Martha’s home, that gloriously golden day that left her thinking more frequently of Caleb, reminding her that there was so very much she didn’t know about him.
Edna would say Annie had lost her grip falling for a man of no means. What future could she possibly have with someone she knew so little about? But oh, the gentleness with which he’d tended her thorn-pricked finger and tucked her hand inside his arm.
A tear escaped and spotted the flour-dusted board. Again she swiped her face, irritated that a man would make her cry. Despite her resolve, she stomped her left foot hard against the floorboards. Her heart tore just as her finger had, but no one stood by to stop the bleeding.
The brass bell sang, and hope flashed only to die at a lilting voice.
“Good morning, dears.” Martha pushed her bonnet back and bustled to the stove, where Annie’s father prodded coal chunks with a long poker, settling them just so on last night’s banked coals. She laid a hand against his bent shoulder and a kiss upon his cheek. The blood rushed to his face, and he glanced at Annie as if caught committing the unspeakable.
Annie gave her father a sly wink before turning away to stifle yet another onslaught of tears bent on escape.
She’d soon be the only unwed Whitaker in her family, other than Aunt Harriet. Edna’s last letter had announced her engagement to Jonathan Mitchell, just as Annie had expected. And she’d wager her last speck of baking powder that her father and Martha would be announcing a similar pledge. Some things were simply too clear to ignore.
“Annie, your coffee smells heavenly. Might I have a cup?”
Before she could answer, her father snatched a mug from the sideboard, filled it with the hot brew, and added sugar from a covered bowl. The spoon pinged against the sides as he stirred the coffee. Obviously smitten, he tapped the spoon on the edge and handed the cup to Martha with open adoration.
Annie pounded the extra dough and squeezed it through her fists, guaranteeing it to be tough and heavy. She would not cry. Why shouldn’t her father show such affection for the seamstress? Martha had brightened his life in a way that Annie and her sister had never been able to, even though he loved them dearly. And Annie had wanted this for him since the moment she’d first realized Martha had feelings for him. His happiness should be her first concern.
“Where is your young man?”
Martha’s unexpected question sent a stinging dart through Annie’s chest. She blinked hard, mashed the final biscuits into the skillet, and carried it to the stove. Her young man? Hardly. For all she knew he had settled into a fancy Denver hotel, or found work on another cattle spread between here and there.
Or been robbed and murdered.
She sucked in a breath at the wicked thought and caught Martha’s questioning gaze.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“Quite.” Annie s’s spine stiffened. “I have no young man. But if you might be referring to Mr. Hutton, I’ve no idea where he is.”
“Oh my.” Martha’s sweet face sobered. “I’m so sorry to have upset you.”
“He hasn’t been back since the day you brought your wonderful cinnamon rolls.”
Martha’s emotions warred visibly—pleasure over Annie’s compliment and regret over news. She looked to Daniel. “Do you think he’s left?”
Annie’s father stroked his mustache, dipped his brows, and looked everywhere except at Annie—a sure sign that he was thinking how best to answer.
Did he know something she did not?
She sat straighter and held him with an unwavering glare.
“I imagine he’s just been busy at the livery.” He raised his cup to his lips and peeked at Annie above the rim as if giving her a secret message.
No one need tell her twice.
She jumped to her feet and hurried into their private quarters, where she yanked the star quilt from her bed and rolled it into a tight bundle. Then she grabbed her scarf and mittens, pulled on her woolen cloak, and paused by the stove.
“Martha, do you mind watching the biscuits for me? I have an errand that I must run immediately before business picks up and I can’t get away.”
Martha’s eyes darted from Annie to her father and a rosy tint warmed her cheeks. “I would be happy to, dear. Take your time. Daniel and I can handle everything.” She reached over and patted his arm. “Isn’t that so?”
He coughed and shifted in his chair. “Of course we can.” Then he followed Annie to the door.
“Be careful, Annie girl.” He patted the quilt and leaned nearer. “And listen with your heart.”
She had half a mind to ask him exactly what it was that he knew, but she didn’t. “I will, Daddy.”
Then she bolted out the door.
The boardwalk rang beneath her heels as she strode toward the livery. What if Caleb wasn’t there? What if he really had left? And what would people think of her carrying a quilt to the stable?
She glanced about at the few people out so early, all men. Those who caught her eye nodded or touched their hat brims in a respectful greeting. Most were businessmen on their way to work. A few were miners down from the camps for the winter. But since when did she care what others thought?
Squeezing the bundle against her waist, she hurried on.
The boardwalk ended at the bank building, and she hiked her skirt as she stepped down to the dirt. No dust blew in the street today, just the dry cold that was so unlike Omaha’s damp winters. Her breath advanced ahead in a cloudy puff.
Five horses occupied the corral at the livery, their breath rising white from soft muzzles to vanish above their ears. Her steps slowed as she approached the wide doors opened only inches. Delivering a quilt had seemed like a good idea back in the mercantile. Now she wasn’t so sure. What would she say?
She stopped and tugged her scarf higher against her chin. Then gripping one door’s edge, she pulled it open and slipped into the stable.
A smoky tang struck her lungs, and for a moment fear clutched her throat. But the steady ping, ping, ping of metal on metal reminded her that Henry’s blacksmith shop filled the back of the stable. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she saw him at the anvil with his back to her, just beyond the last stall. Her shoulders relaxed, and she faced the box stall where she and her father had once lived. The door was swung wide, and she stopped on the threshold. A black-and-white cat curled tightly on a bedroll lying atop a thick layer of straw. A Bible lay close by. In the near corner stood an upturned crate with a basin, pitcher, and oil lamp, and on one wall hung a saddle, blankets, and bridle.
It might all be Caleb’s. Nothing betrayed the owner, other than the plain white pitcher and basin he had bought from the mercantile. But if he’d left, he’d leave those behind.
Hope sank. No hat or coat lay about that she recognized, but it still could all be his, sparse as it was. Her gaze lit on the Bible. Did he have one?
“Looking for someone?”
The deep voice sent her off balance and she stumbled forward into the stall. A strong hand caught her arm and steadied her, and she turned to see a bearded man with dark laughing eyes.
Gathering her wits and clinging madly to the quilt, she took a deep breath. “Caleb.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “You were looking for someone else?”
“No! I mean… No.”
What would Edna do in this situation?
Annie pulled her overly warm scarf away from her throat. Never mind Edna.
“Where have you been?”
His sudden grin made her wish she’d not been so bold. He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. A two-week growth hugged his jawline and gave him a rugged, almost dangerous look. “You were worried?”
Frustrated, she lifted her foot for a good stomp but thought better of it. Easing it back to the straw-covered floor, she thrust the rolled quilt at him.
“Here. Maybe you can use this.”
He caught the bundle before it fell and his expression shifted to surprise. “Thank you.”
She stepped forward as if to pass, but he remained in the doorway. “Excuse me, but I came to check on Nell.” Annie held her ground, inches from him, close enough to feel his warmth.
His gaze traveled to her lips before returning to her eyes, and his breath dusted her face.
What would she do if he kissed her?
What would she do if he didn’t?
“Thank you,” he repeated softly. He leaned closer.
Her breath caught.
“Nell is doing just fine.”
Heat flooded Annie’s cheeks, and she hurried past, gratefully turning her back on Caleb as she made for the mare’s stall. A soft nicker greeted her, and she regretted having no treat for the mother-to-be. She’d left the mercantile in such a hurry that she hadn’t thought to bring dried apples or a few carrots.
Annie held her cheek against the mare’s warm head and stroked her thick neck. “You poor dear. Just look at you.”
The horse’s belly hung like a bulging grain sack, distended and heavy with promise. Yet for all her size and distortion, Nell seemed calm and unconcerned.
Footsteps whispered behind Annie, and she sensed Caleb’s closeness.
“I owe you an explanation.” His voice was low and rough as ground coffee.
He moved closer, leaned over the stall gate and combed his fingers through Nell’s mane.
Annie’s pulse quickened as she remembered her father’s words: Listen with your heart. She swallowed. Listening with your heart meant opening your heart. Was she ready to open her heart to Caleb Hutton?
Or had she already done so without realizing it?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lilacs bloomed in winter with Annie so close that Caleb could bury his face in her hair. The desire nearly overwhelmed him, but he concentrated on what he needed to say rather than on what he yearned to do.
“I’m not who you think I am.”
She looked at him, doubt and expectation dueling for dominance. “And who do I think you are, other than what you’ve led me to believe?”
She wasn’t going to make it easy, but then she wouldn’t be Annie if she did.
“I left out some things.” He uttered a silent prayer for clarity. “I’m a preacher. Or at least I was.”
A short intake through her nose. Her eyes rounded and she turned to the mare.
He leaned against the stall gate. Nell flicked her tail and craned her neck over the railing toward Annie’s coat pocket.
“No apples today, girl.” Annie’s gentle tone shot hope through Caleb’s chest that she’d show him as much kindness, even though he didn’t deserve it. She kept her eyes on the mare as she stroked the broad head. “Why did you say you were good with horses, a ranch hand?”
A fair question. He propped his right arm across the stall door and
angled himself to see her reaction. “Remember when Abraham told Pharaoh that Sarah was his sister?”
Annie’s fine brow creased at the bridge of her nose.
“It was true,” he continued. “Sarah was Abraham’s sister. But it was only half the truth.”
“So you’re saying that you told my father and me only half the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He cleared his throat and pushed from the door, facing her squarely. No more hedging. He’d run from a broken heart and broken a vow in the process. If he wasn’t man enough to tell Annie Whitaker the whole truth, face-to-face, then he wasn’t man enough for anything.
“My father was a veterinarian and wanted me to follow in his profession. Taught me much of it as I was growing up.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as tight as a barrel band. “But I believed, at the time, that I was called to preach the gospel. My father conceded and helped pay my way through seminary.”
“So you really do have a way with horses.”
The scent of leather, fresh hay, and horses hung in the barn’s still air, stirring images from his youth. His tension eased a bit, and he gave her a brief nod.
“My first and only church was in St. Joseph, Missouri. A small congregation. No new converts, but good people. Faithful. Except for one.”
Her reaction offered no clue to her thoughts, but he pressed on.
“I offered myself to a woman who later chose a wealthy deacon instead. Rather than stay and face them from the pulpit, I convinced myself that the congregation needed an older pastor, one with more experience and wisdom.”
He paused, dread curdling in his stomach. “I left. Turned my back on God and preaching and headed west to cowboy on the Lazy R.”
With this final confession, the tension in his neck and shoulders escaped like air from the smithy’s bellows.
Annie had removed her mittens and threaded the fringe from her loosened scarf in and out between her fingers. Her eyes met his, free of scorn or derision. “And like Jonah, you ended up where you didn’t want to be.”
Her comparison surprised him, but he was grateful she hadn’t called him a coward and stomped out of the barn.
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