Читать книгу Courting Miss Callie - Dorothy Clark - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Her eyes burned from her sleepless night. Callie tied her apron on, stepped to the fireplace and lifted the large bowl of risen bread dough off the warm hearth. She squeezed her eyes shut to bring moisture into them, dumped the dough out onto the floured worktable and gave it a punch to deflate it. Hopefully, Sophia wouldn’t notice the faint circles under her eyes.

She separated the dough, shaped and slapped it into the pans she had waiting and covered them with a towel. Sophia would welcome her into her home permanently if she asked, but, in spite of Willa’s reassurances last night, it was not that simple. The words she’d overheard her father speak to her mother three years ago haunted her.

“My dear Mrs. Conner, we have produced an exceptionally beautiful daughter, and the young men in Pinewood are noticing. I believe it is time we moved to Buffalo and introduced Callie to the social circuit. One of those wealthy men will pay handsomely for her hand and our financial future will be secure.”

She sighed, shook down the ashes in the stove and added kindling and wood to the embers to heat the oven. Were her parents in financial stress? It didn’t seem so, but how could she know? She had learned from overhearing bits and pieces of conversations between the wealthy businessmen who traveled in the social circuit that things were not always as they appeared. And then there was the rift between her mother and Sophia to consider. She did not want to cause greater estrangement between the sisters.

She adjusted the damper on the stove, walked to the door, put on her cape and stepped out onto the porch. Moisture dripped from the eave, but it had stopped raining. She crossed to the rail and looked up at the still dark sky. “Most gracious and loving God, I do not wish to be selfish in my actions or disobedient to You or to my parents, yet my heart—” She closed her eyes to hold back a rush of tears. Her heart was not to be trusted. It wanted its own desires. She took a breath and forced out the words she dreaded to say. “May Your will be done, dear God. Amen.”

She sighed and opened her eyes. There was a dull gleam of yellow light visible at the small window of the equipment room in the barn. Ezra Ryder was awake. Joe would be bringing him for breakfast soon.

She laid her problems aside and headed for the kitchen to make batter for griddle cakes.

* * *

Ezra fingered the three-day growth of beard on his face, scowled and ran his thumb along the edge of the hoof trimmer. If he could get hold of some soap—

“Kinda desperate, are ya?”

He turned and gave Joseph a wry grin. “You might say that.”

The elderly man nodded and limped toward the end wall. “There’s somethin’ over here that’ll serve yer need.”

Something to help him shave? He frowned and trailed after the groom.

“Lift that stuff aside.”

He stared down at a scarred chest piled with stable paraphernalia. Clearly, Joseph had misunderstood his intent for that hoof trimmer. What was the man thinking? Well, his was not to reason why. He was here at the largess of Mrs. Sheffield, and Joseph was his boss. He eyed the gnawed corner of the chest lid, slapped at the pile of burlap bags on top of an old, torn buggy seat to scare off any mice, then lifted the seat to the floor.

Joseph opened the chest, leaned his stooped body over and began rummaging through the contents. “Now where— Ha! There it is!” He hauled a wood case out of the chest and closed the lid. “One of Mrs. Sheffield’s guests left this a couple years back. I put it in here to keep, but he never come for it. I reckon you might as well have the use of it.” A chuckle rumbled out of the groom’s sunken chest. “It’ll save ya cuttin’ yer face up tryin’ to shave off them whiskers with that hoof trimmer you was eyein’.”

Ezra smiled and took the polished case into his hands. “It would have been an awkward, bloody affair all right, but to be rid of this itching on my face would have been worth it.”

He balanced the case on his flattened palm and flipped the latch. The lid opened a crack, and a faint scent escaped. He sniffed. Witch hazel? He shoved the top up and gaped at the items in the case. A shaving cup, brush and soap, straight razor, strop and mirror, the corked bottle of witch hazel, small towels, scissors, a comb and a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes that rivaled the ones on his washstand at home, all tucked neatly away in their own compartment. His mouth slanted into a wide grin. Queer how circumstances changed your perspective. It felt like he held the riches of the world. “Thank you, Joseph.”

“Joe’s good enough.” The elderly man headed for the stalls ranged along the side wall. “I heat water for washin’ on the old brick forge in my room at the other end of the barn. There’s still some in the pot. You’d best hurry with your shavin’, it’s ’bout time for breakfast.”

* * *

Callie jerked her gaze from Ezra Ryder back to the worktable and wielded the knife she held in a crisscross pattern, dicing the apples she’d peeled and cored. He’d caught her staring. Foolish of her, but gracious the man was handsome without those dark, stubbly whiskers hiding half of his face. And he was younger than she’d thought.

She stole another look at him through her lowered lashes. He had a sort of stubborn-looking chin, but a nice mouth. And truly lovely eyes. The corners crinkled a little, like he was ready to smile. Heat spread across her cheekbones. Just what was she doing, admiring Ezra Ryder’s good looks? She hated it when people did that to her.

She buttered a deep bowl, tossed in enough of the chopped apples to make a thick layer, sprinkled them with sugar and a dusting of cinnamon, then added a layer of the diced bread.

“There any more coffee, Callie?”

She laughed, dusted the bread crumbs from her hands, and turned to lift the coffeepot from the back of the stove. “One of these mornings I’m going to surprise you and say no, Joe.”

She grinned at his answering chuckle, and poured the hot coffee into his cup. “Would you like more coffee, Mr. Ryder?”

“Mr. Ryder?” Joseph dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and fixed a quizzical look on her. “Why’ve you gone all niminy-piminy for? We don’t use last names ’mongst us workers, and he’s workin’ here. His name’s Ezra.” He returned to stirring his coffee.

She glanced at Ezra Ryder. His dark brows were raised and his blue eyes were bright with awareness. He shot a look toward Joseph then returned his gaze to her. “I would appreciate another cup of your excellent coffee...Callie.”

“As you wish...Ezra.” Heat shot into her cheeks. She poured his coffee, spun on her heel and hurried to the stove, set the coffeepot on the side to cool and glanced back at the table. Ezra was gazing at her with an odd, unreadable expression on his face.

She finished layering the remaining apples and bread crumbs into the bowl, put the cover on, then slipped the bowl into the oven. The temptation to look at him again tugged at her. She fought it down and busied herself cleaning off the worktable.

“Good breakfast, Callie. See ya at supper.” Joe’s chair scraped on the floor. She glanced toward the table, watched him pull on his battered felt hat and limp toward the door.

Ezra drained his cup and rose.

“Wait, Mr.—Ezra. Your wound needs more salve.” She lifted the small crock down off the shelf, grabbed a cloth and carried them to the table. “You’ll have to sit down.”

She avoided his gaze, opened the crock and stepped behind him. “The swelling has gone down some, and the gash is already healing over. It looks much better this morning.” She spread some salve on it, wiped her fingers on the cloth and closed the crock.

Muted shouts came from outside.

“What’s that?” Ezra surged to his feet and grabbed his jacket.

“They’ve started rafting.” She pivoted, grabbed her cloak and turned to the door. He reached around her and opened it. She rushed out onto the porch and hurried over to the steps. “Look!” She pointed to a pair of rafts of lashed-together logs floating down the flood-swollen Allegheny, then looked at him. His face was a study in amazement.

“I’ve never seen such a thing. Those rafts are huge!” He shrugged into his jacket, took her cloak from her and held it open.

“It’s quite a sight. I’ve missed seeing them since we moved away.” She stepped beneath the cloak, felt the warmth of his fingers on her neck as he draped it around her shoulders. Smooth fingers, not rough or dry or callused.

“You don’t live in Pinewood?”

“No. We moved a few years ago. I’m visiting Aunt Sophia.”

“I see.” He stepped up beside her and peered out over the rippling water. “What are those shanties in the middle of the rafts?”

“They’re for cooking and sleeping. See the smoke coming out of the chimney stacks?” She brushed back a curling tendril being stirred by a rising breeze and cast a measuring look at him. “Daniel says people pay to go along on the trip. They take advantage of the opportunity to ride the rafts to Pittsburgh and then head west.”

“Brave souls.”

Brave souls? What a strange comment from a logger.

He glanced up toward the brightening sky and moved to the top of the steps. “I must get to work and earn my bed and board. Thank you for breakfast.” He dipped his head in a polite bow, walked down the steps and headed for the barn.

His limp wasn’t as pronounced this morning. She stood staring after him a moment, then turned and went inside to clean up the breakfast dishes and check on the pudding she’d put to bake in the oven for dinner. She was certain now that Ezra Ryder was a liar. All loggers and lumbermen knew about rafting the winter’s stockpile of logs down river to market when the spring floods came. Why didn’t he?

* * *

“Mmm, that roasting chicken smells delicious, Callie. And what is that you’re peeling? Rutabaga?”

“Yes.” Why didn’t Ezra leave? She drew her gaze from the window and smiled at her aunt. “I thought I would cream them with some carrots for supper.”

“That sounds tasty. What’s so interesting outside?”

“Nothing really. It’s turned into a lovely spring day.” She cut a thick slice from the rutabaga and diced it into a pot full of water.

Sophia strolled to the window and looked out. “Ezra is watering one of the horses. I must say I’m surprised. I expected he would eat his free meal, sleep the night in the barn, have breakfast this morning and be on his way. That’s what most of the itinerant workers who come begging for food do.”

She diced the rest of the rutabaga into the pot and picked up another one to peel. “I don’t believe Ezra Ryder is an itinerant worker, Aunt Sophia.”

Her aunt’s brows rose. “Whatever are you talking about, Callie?”

She frowned, chopped the peeled rutabaga in half, then cut it into thick slices. “Don’t you find something...odd about him?”

“Odd? In what way?” Her aunt donned an apron, joined her at the worktable and began slicing the cleaned carrots.

“Well, in little things.” She glanced out the window. Ezra and the horse were gone. She went back to dicing the rutabaga. “For instance...his clothes are all new, and of good quality.”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, I noticed that. But logging is a rough business, and if he had finished a long job perhaps his clothes were worn, and he bought new ones.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps. His boots are new, also. And he hesitated when he said the men robbed him of his wages.”

Sophia met her gaze. “You don’t believe he was robbed?”

“Oh, yes.” Her hands stilled. “There was anger in his voice when he spoke of it. And his wound bears witness. But I don’t believe he was robbed of wages.” She picked up the last slice of rutabaga and diced it.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” She furrowed her brow and stared into the distance. “Perhaps of his possessions...or money from some source other than logging or like occupations.”

“But there would be no reason for him to lie about that.”

“I suppose not.” She added wood to the fire in the stove, then set the pot of rutabaga on to cook. “But Ezra is hiding something.” She thought back to that moment on the porch when he had helped her into her cloak and his hands had brushed against her neck. “He is not a laborer, as he allows us to believe.”

“And why do you accuse him of shamming, Callie? What would be his purpose?”

“I don’t know, Aunt Sophia. I only know it’s so. His face is not tanned from the weather. His hands are smooth, not rough or callused. His speech is educated, and he has impeccable manners. Ezra Ryder is not who he pretends to be.”

“You may be right, though I still cannot think of why he would go to such elaborate measures to get a free meal. Nor does it matter to me. But you do. And I have taken advantage of your generous nature for too long. Why, you’ve been so busy cooking and baking for my guests, you haven’t even had time to visit your friends.”

Her heart sank. Please, Lord. I’m not ready to face going home. “I don’t mind, Aunt Sophia. I enjoy cooking.”

“Even so, you should have time to enjoy your friends before you must leave for home.” Sophia added the carrots she’d sliced to the pot of rutabaga and removed her apron. “I’m going to Olville tomorrow and place a notice for a cook with Mr. Percy at The Citizen.”

* * *

Who was Daniel? Callie’s brother? Her suitor? Ezra frowned and threw the last shovelful of manure and soiled bedding onto the wagon at the end of the open stall. Whoever Daniel was, he must be a logger. And someone who rated high in Callie Conner’s opinion, if the fondness in her voice when she spoke of him was any indication. He scraped the shovel along the planks in the stall gathering the last of the detritus into a pile, scooped it up and tossed it into the wagon. Perhaps Joe would know about Daniel? But if he asked, Joe would know of his interest in Callie.

His interest in Callie.

He braced his folded arm on the shovel handle and stared into the distance. It was true. He was drawn to Callie in a way he’d never experienced with other women. There was something different about her. Something real and honest. But what chance would an itinerant stable hand have of gaining Callie Conner’s respect, let alone regard? Perhaps he should ask Mrs. Sheffield for the money to mail a letter to Thomas. He could repay her with interest once his funds came, and then he could take a room in the hotel and— No.

He set his jaw, tossed the shovel in the wagon then led the horse pulling it forward until the box was in front of the next stall. “Whoa. Good girl.” He patted the solid shoulder of Mrs. Sheffield’s horse, then climbed the ladder to the loft and forked fresh bedding down into the stall he’d just cleaned. He did not want Callie Conner to know about his wealth. He’d had enough of women pretending to care for him because he was rich. He would simply have to take his chances.

He climbed down, put fresh hay in the rack, then untied the guest’s horse from the snub post in the center of the barn and led him to the watering trough. At least he could be the best stable hand Mrs. Sheffield had ever had.

The horse lifted his head, snorted. “Had enough, boy?” He led him into the clean stall. “There you are, fellow, fresh hay to eat.” The horse stretched his head forward, pulled a mouthful of hay from the rack and started munching. He trailed his hand over the arched neck, patted the sturdy shoulder, then stepped out of the stall, closed the door and moved on to the next. If he hurried with mucking out the stalls, he’d have time to groom the horses before supper.

He went to open the barn door wider and let in more light, glanced toward the hotel and frowned. Callie was standing on the porch laughing with some tall, handsome, well-dressed man. Daniel? No. Daniel was a logger. And, from the looks of things, he had no hold on Callie Conner’s affections. It seemed Miss Conner might be interested in wealthy men after all.