Loving the Horseman

by Davalynn Spencer

  “Why didn’t you go home to your father?”

  “My parents are no longer living. The next best thing was a ranch out west.”

  Annie reached for the dozing mare’s forelock. “Do you still plan to leave here too? Come spring, like you mentioned earlier?”

  Not if she’d give him reason to stay. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not now, not yet. What did he have to offer? Life as a laborer’s wife?

  “I’ll look for another church and start over. Maybe take up a circuit and preach in the gold camps.”

  “Not another ranch?”

  She had him there, and he was framing an answer when she spoke again.

  “I saw the Bible on your bedroll. Have you made your peace with God?”

  He hooked his thumbs in his waistband. “You make it sound like I’m about to bite the dust.”

  Her laughter warmed his insides, melted the dread that had frozen in his chest. “In a way, you already have. You’ve died to yourself if you’re brave enough to try again.”

  He would not call himself brave, but the clear sense of her words breathed hope into him. Fanned the belief that God had indeed forgiven him and offered him a second chance.

  But would she?

  Annie pulled her mittens on, stepped back from the stall. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Confused, he waited for her to continue.

  “Where have you been the last two weeks? We’ve missed you at breakfast.” A slight blush tinted her cheeks, and she moved toward the barn doors.

  “I had to ‘make my peace with God,’ as you put it. Clear my head, get things straight.”

  “And you couldn’t do that at the mercantile?”

  Not when he thought only of her when he was there.

  Silhouetted in the open stable door, she stopped and spoke over her shoulder. “I was afraid you didn’t like my potbellied biscuits anymore.”

  The air cleared at her teasing tone, and he shook his head and held one hand against his stomach. “I’ve sorely missed them. But I’ll be back if you’ll have me.”

  Her luminous eyes caught him unaware. “And why wouldn’t I? You promised me a ride up the river.”

  As she walked out the door, he leaned against the stall and scrubbed his hands over his face and thickening beard. Back home he’d always stayed clean shaven. But here in the dry, colder climate, the beard kept him warmer.

  Warmer. He rushed into what he’d come to think of as his room and lifted the rolled quilt. Clutching it in his arms, he buried his face in a bright red star, inhaling Annie’s scent.

  Thank you, Lord.

  The cat rubbed against his leg and offered its sleepy opinion.

  “There’s hope.” He stooped to run his hand along its arched back. “Today I’ve been given hope.”

  He’d take Annie on that ride as soon as possible—if it didn’t snow. Because come spring, he’d be riding out on his own. The prospect pulled his gut in the opposite direction, but he’d known for several days that he was to return to the ministry. Would Annie wait for him if he rode a mining camp circuit? Or join him if he found another church far from Cañon City?

  Would her father let her?

  He laid the quilt on his bedroll and walked down the alleyway to where he’d earlier left his slicker and hat on a nail. The print shop had paper. He’d write to his seminary professors, see if the gold camps or other towns farther north needed a preacher.

  Maybe they’d give him another go.

  ~

  She knew it.

  Only she hadn’t.

  Annie hugged her cloak tighter. Caleb Hutton had been hiding something all right, but she hadn’t pegged him as a preacher. Her fingers tingled in her mittens—not from the cold December morning but from excitement.

  Excitement? Over the fact that Caleb was a minister?

  No, that wasn’t it. But what?

  She tucked her hands beneath her arms and slowed her pace.

  He didn’t strike her as a clergyman. But as she gave the idea greater consideration, what should a preacher look like, act like? Quiet, intelligent, gentle. She laughed. Her pastoral characterization fit Nell better than Reverend Hartman. He was intelligent and gentle, but she’d never classify him as quiet. The man exuded energy, joked with his small congregation, and flirted unashamedly with Hannah Baker, his bride-to-be.

  Come to think of it, Annie’s pastor from back home met all three qualities, but he was, well, boring.

  Caleb Hutton was anything but boring.

  The mercantile door opened to welcoming warmth. Her father and Martha sat by the stove chatting while Karl Turk picked through a notions box on the counter.

  Did her father even know the man was in the store?

  “Can I help you, Mr. Turk?” Annie stuffed her mittens and scarf behind the counter, laid her wrap over a crate, and scowled at her father. Either he was going deaf or he was so hopelessly smitten with Martha Bobbins that he had ears for no one but the seamstress.

  Turk grumbled and poked through the box.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Annie’s voice raised on the last word, and she tied on an apron as she watched the lumberman’s thick fingers fail to catch on any item.

  “A razor,” he mumbled. “But I can’t find one in all these do-dads and baubles.”

  “Oh, the razors are over here.” Turning to the shelf behind her, she threw one last glance at her father. He caught it and erupted from his chair as if burned by spilt coffee.

  Red-faced, he hurried to Annie’s side. “Razors, you say. I got a fine assortment in on the last shipment.” He winked at Annie and pulled a long box from the shelf.

  She frowned as if scolding a spoiled child, but there was no use staying mad at her jovial parent. It was impossible. Besides, her own spirits were so light she fairly skimmed across the rough floorboards.

  Gathering her cloak, scarf, and mittens, she headed toward Martha who was washing her cup in the dishpan.

  “You don’t need to wash your dishes here.”

  “Oh yes, I do.” Martha clicked her tongue and shook her head. “If Daniel hadn’t been so caught up in our conversation, he would have known Mr. Turk was here.” She dried the cup, set it aside, and pushed a few stray hairs beneath her cap. Looking at Annie like a shy school girl, she blushed. “I didn’t even hear the bell myself.”

  Annie laughed and hugged the little woman’s rounded shoulders. “Never you mind. It all worked out.” She poured herself some coffee and added sugar. “I think he’s quite taken with you, Martha.”

  The seamstress blushed even more and pulled at an invisible thread on her skirt. “Do you mind, dear?”

  “Not at all.” The older woman’s nervousness was endearing. “I think it’s wonderful. My father has been alone far too long—even with me and my sister.” As she uttered the words, her soul trembled at the thought of living by herself in the storeroom, but she stuffed the worry down.

  Martha held her in a knowing gaze. “Did you find your young man?”

  Annie’s lips pulled at the corners. “I gave him the quilt.” Dare she share her secret with Martha, tell her that she was losing her heart to a wayward preacher-turned-cowboy?

  “I really must be going.” Martha lifted her wrap from a chair and snugged it around her shoulders.

  Annie followed her to the door in time to hear Mr. Turk mention Christmas trees.

  “I brought several down from my last trip to the Greenhorns. They’re out behind my place by the river. If you don’t mind spreadin’ the word, I’m sellin’ ‘em for two bits a piece.”

  People would sell anything. Imagine, charging money for a sapling or cut tree top. Yet how splendid to have a tree for Christmas, festooned in popcorn garland and round red cranberries. Well, maybe black choke cherries here in the Rocky Mountains.

  “I’ll take one, Mr. Turk.” Martha turned to Annie’s father and softened her voice. “Could you drive my buckboard down and pick it up for me?”
>
  “I’d love to have one for the store window too.” Annie watched her father calculating the tree’s cost against the opportunity to visit his sweetheart. She turned to Martha. “Will two trees fit on your wagon?”

  “I believe they would.” Martha dug a coin from her reticule and handed it to Karl. “Twenty-five cents, paid in advance.”

  He smiled and tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll set one out as soon as I get home.”

  “Well?” Annie eyed her father and caught the glint in his eye as he dug in his pocket for a coin.

  “Make that two trees, Turk. I’ll be by after I walk Miss Bobbins home and stop at the livery for her buckboard.”

  Annie almost envied her father. She hadn’t ridden in a buggy or even a buckboard since their arrival in town last summer. And she had so wanted to visit the great canyon upriver with Caleb. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  “I’ll mind the store while you’re gone, but don’t dally.” She gave her father a playful pat on his shoulder as he shrugged into his coat.

  “I managed to get the mail out, so that’s one less worry for you. I’ll be back shortly.”

  That wasn’t likely, but she’d not begrudge him a change of pace after the daylight-to-dark hours he put in.

  As soon as he opened the door, Martha tucked her hand in his arm and together they headed up the boardwalk.

  Annie checked the fire, added a chunk of coal, and set about clearing the window display to make room for the tree.

  She removed lamps and basins and dry goods from the heavy oak table and set them on the counter. As she leaned into the table to shove it against the far wall, a shadow paused at the window and she looked up.

  Jedediah Cooper hovered like a hawk ready to sweep down on its prey.

  Her blood chilled.

  He moved to the door before she could lock it. The bell tolled ominously, and she hurried behind the counter and reached for the broom.

  “I was afraid the mercantile was closed when I saw your father stepping out with the widow Bobbins.” Cooper’s voice slid around the words like snake oil as he closed the door and loosened the muffler from his neck.

  Annie’s fingers tightened on the broom handle and she raised her chin. “How can I help you, Mr. Cooper?”

  His lips curled in a sly smile, and he raked a hungry leer across her bodice. “Don’t be so formal, Annie. By all means, call me Jed.” With great aplomb, he pulled the gloves from his hands one finger at a time. “You may help me, Annie, by considering an update of our arrangement for your occupation of the back portion of this fine establishment.”

  Annie’s chilled blood heated to a boil. She drew a slow breath, hoping to prevent red anger from surging into her face. “We already reached an agreement, Mr. Cooper. You agreed to our offer before my father and I took over the storeroom six weeks ago.”

  Cooper laid his gloves on the counter and slowly made his way around the end, where he breached her sanctuary. She backed away, never taking her eyes from him, mentally measuring the distance to her escape.

  “All agreements are subject to change, Annie. Didn’t I mention that?”

  He lunged for her. She shoved the broom in his face, but he fended it off, sending it over the counter.

  Annie bolted for the door. Her fingers gripped the knob and turned. He grabbed her from behind, one arm cinching her waist, a hand over her mouth. As he whirled her around, her hand swung the door open, clanging the bell.

  “Not so fast,” he breathed against her neck. Stale tobacco from his coat sleeve vied with his whiskey-laced breath. Her stomach lurched.

  “We’re meant to be, Annie. I knew it when you fell into my arms that day at the Fremont. So soft and warm.” He spread his fingers to crush her nose as well. She kicked at his legs, striking his shins with her boot heels, and dug her fingers into his smothering hand.

  Was that what he intended? Cut off her air until she passed out and then—

  His throaty laugh twisted through her. “And a fighter you are. That’s good. I like my women feisty.”

  Reaching up, she groped for his face and dug her nails into his cheek. He swore and twisted away, hefting her up like a sack of flour. Past the counter, the chairs. At the stove, she flailed for the coffeepot, but knocked it to the floor.

  “You must show me what you’ve done with the back room, Annie. Have you made it more comfortable?”

  She clawed at his beefy fingers. O God, help me! Her lungs screamed for air and her vision blurred, darkening at the edges.

  Keep fighting.

  Squeezed against him, she felt the growl deep in his chest before she heard it. Before he pushed through the curtain and into the darkened storeroom.

  With a final shove, she twisted until his ear brushed her face and then bit down as hard as she could.

  He screamed and slugged blindly at her, hitting her in the temple. He threw her on her bed, her head at the foot, and followed her down, pinning her with his weight. Another inch, and her skull would have cracked on the brick lying beneath the bedclothes. If she could reach it, pull it from the blankets, she’d have a weapon.

  As if reading her mind, he crushed both her wrists together in one meaty hand and licked his lips.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Caleb thanked Milner, the Cañon City Times editor, whom he left sifting through notes on a cluttered corner desk. He tucked a folded weekly and extra note paper into his waistcoat and exited the print shop.

  Across the street in the next block, Jedediah Cooper stood on the boardwalk in front of Whitaker’s Mercantile. The dandy pulled at his cuffs, looked both ways along the street, and walked into the store.

  Caleb’s neck prickled as if lightning were about to strike. He didn’t want that man anywhere near Annie, landlord or no. Maybe he should pay a visit to the mercantile himself. Come to think of it, he hadn’t told Annie about his ride up the river. And he was running short on supplies. Needed a cake of soap. Crackers, canned peaches. A needle and thread.

  Rubbing his left elbow, he jabbed a finger through the thinning material. A new shirt. Might as well get one now.

  He adjusted his hat and stepped off the boardwalk. A couple strolled past the Fremont Saloon and Hotel, and Caleb held them in his gaze. He’d walked behind that miniature woman and her burly escort a few weeks ago.

  What were Martha Bobbins and Daniel Whitaker doing out on the town so early in the day?

  The pin pricks worked from Caleb’s neck up into his scalp.

  Without looking, he rushed into the path of an oncoming buckboard. The horse reared, the driver pulled up and hollered.

  Caleb reached for the startled animal’s bridle and offered a gentle word as he rubbed the horse’s neck. “Sorry about that,” he told the driver.

  “Watch where you’re going.”

  Caleb stepped back as the angry farmer drove on, then ran across to the opposite boardwalk. The mercantile’s door stood open.

  He thought of his Colt revolver tucked beneath his bedroll as he stepped inside.

  Annie’s broom had fallen in front of the counter. He leaned it against the edge near a pair of men’s gray gloves. No one sat at the stove, but the coffeepot lay on the floor, its contents spilled. His gut galloped into his throat.

  He softened his steps and crossed the worn floorboards as if approaching a wounded animal. A scuffling behind the curtain drew a vow that if Annie was in harm, Caleb would be wounding whatever animal he found there—man or beast.

  His fingers curled into fists.

  Annie would not invite a man into her sleeping quarters, especially with her father gone. A flash of Mollie Sullivan on her beau’s arm stabbed at Caleb’s memory, and he clenched his jaw. Annie was not Mollie, but he readied himself to find either of two equally horrifying possibilities and pulled the curtain aside.

  Like a giant slug, Cooper’s body covered Annie. One hand held her wrists above her head, the other pressed against her mouth. Fear screamed from her rounded eyes, loude
r than Caleb’s hammering heart.

  He’d never wanted to kill another human being. Until now.

  Cooper must have seen Annie’s eyes lock on Caleb, for the man glanced over his shoulder. Caleb jerked him to his feet, spun him around, and smashed his fist into Jedediah Cooper’s sputtering explanation. Blood spurted from the man’s nose with the first hit. The second opened a dark gash above his lip.

  The third dropped him to the floor, out cold.

  Annie pushed up on her elbows, gasping for breath, her face ashen.

  Caleb’s chest heaved with murderous emotion, his fists opening and closing. He held Annie’s eyes with his own until she flung herself into his arms. Pressing her to his chest, he buried his hands in the thick hair tumbling down her back. His voice climbed from a deep, dark place, nearly unrecognizable. “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head, fighting to control her sobs.

  “No,” she whispered. “But if you hadn’t come …”

  Bile rose in his throat.

  With a steadying breath, she relaxed somewhat. “I begged God to help me.” Tears welled anew and spilled into rivulets down her reddened cheeks. With a trembling hand, she swiped them away. “I never dreamed He’d send you.”

  A breath convulsed suddenly in her chest. “How did you know?”

  Hesitant to let her go, Caleb guided her through the curtain to the chairs at the stove and settled her into the closest one. “Give me a minute.”

  He cut two lengths of twine at the counter, tied the curtain back with the shorter one to keep an eye on Cooper, and bound the man’s wrists with the other. Then he pulled another chair close to Annie and reached for her hands.

  “I was at the printing office. On my way out, I saw Cooper walk in here. Then I saw your father and Martha on the boardwalk. It didn’t set right with me.”

  She clutched his hand like a drowning woman grasping a rope. “Daddy will never forgive himself for leaving me alone. It could spoil everything for him.”

  Puzzled, Caleb studied her face, looking for explanation, waiting for her to voice it.

  “Daddy and Martha.” Letting out a deep sigh, she pulled her hands away and twisted her hair into a knot at her neck. “I fully expect them to …” Her gaze fell away. “They haven’t yet made a declaration, but Mr. Cooper said …”