“You!” Jacob Strand laughed. “And did you buy the note on her father’s house, as well?”
He looked at him.
Strand’s laughter died. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils twitched as if smelling danger. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ryder—Ezra Foster Ryder—of New York City.”
Strand stiffened. “Ezra Ryder. Of New York City? Are you—” He cleared his throat. “Are you the Ezra Ryder who owns the Ryder Custom House?”
He dipped his head.
“And the American Founders Banks, and the Founders Insurance Company?”
“That’s correct.” He let Strand think about that a moment, then spoke in a calm, quiet tone. “You know, it is never a good idea to use one home as surety on another—it puts them both in danger.”
Strand’s face paled. “My King Street property...”
“My King Street property until you pay off the indebtedness.”
He heard Callie’s gasp, but kept his gaze fastened on Strand.
“And Conner’s property?” Strand’s voice had lost its confidence. The man was defeated and knew it.
“Mr. Conner’s home has been freed of all encumbrance.”
He turned. Callie was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. His heart sank. “It’s time to go home, Callie. Sophia is waiting.”
He took her arm and led her up the aisle, her parents following. Her silence, and the paleness of her face, tore at him. He guided her through the first set of double doors to the second set, led her through them and out into the sunshine.
She stopped, drew a shuddering breath and pulled her arm from his grasp. “You lied.” There was a world of hurt in her voice.
He clenched his hands to keep from reaching for her. “No, Callie. I never lied.”
Her eyes accused him. “No, you only deceived me. I suppose in your world there is a difference.” She started down the brick walk.
He grabbed her arm, stepping close. “Callie, please. I can explain—”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp. “I’m certain you can, Mr. Ryder. Men like you always have an explanation for the sly, self-centered and dishonest things they do! Well, I am not interested in your convenient, mendacious explanation. Why would I believe it?” She started down the walk, turned back, her chin high, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “And, so you will know—I intend to purchase Aunt Sophia’s note from you. I will earn the money somehow. I have no desire to be beholden to you or any other man who thinks they can buy or manipulate a woman!”
“Callie, that’s not—”
Her chin jutted higher. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Ryder, I’ve a stage to catch. I’m going back to Pinewood—alone.” She whipped around, strode past Strand’s fancy phaeton and climbed into her parents’ carriage.
Her mother followed her. Her father stopped beside him, cleared his throat. “Well, it seems you have a...fondness for my daughter, Mr. Ryder. I shall expect you to call upon me soon. We have matters to discuss.”
He stared at the nattily dressed older man, read the avaricious gleam in his brown eyes, pivoted on his heel and strode to the bay, working to keep control. It wouldn’t do to punch his future father-in-law. And that’s what the man would be, for he had no intention of letting Callie walk away from him—not after he’d seen that love for him in her eyes.
He grabbed the reins, mounted the bay and rode off toward the bank. He had more business to take care of.
Chapter Twenty
He hadn’t even tried to stop her or change her mind—hadn’t followed her to the carriage and demanded that she listen to him. He’d just gotten on that horse and ridden away. And now he was gone. Somewhere. Probably on his way back to New York City.
Callie rubbed at the ache in her temples, stepped into the kitchen and crossed to the stove. The stage was slow, but she still had arrived in Pinewood yesterday. Ezra should have easily beaten her home from Buffalo riding horseback, but he hadn’t. He was not at supper last night. And Joe hadn’t seen him.
The sick, hollow feeling that had kept her tossing and turning and pacing through the night intensified. She blinked her puffy, tired eyes, shook down the ashes, adjusted the drafts to clear away the wisps of smoke, caught a spill afire and lit one of the lamps above the work table. The lamp swayed, its golden circle of light chasing shadows on the wall the way it had the day he’d pulled her close to keep her from burning herself.
She swallowed hard and threw the spill in the stove, added wood to the glowing embers. The woodbox was almost empty. She clenched her hands and turned away.
Must everything remind her that he wasn’t there? And why should she care? What did she expect? She pressed her lips together, swiped at the curls on her forehead and carried the iron teakettle to the pump at the washstand. Ezra had never said he cared for her. He’d never even said he thought she was pretty! And when he’d arrived at the church, he’d only said he’d come to bring her home. She’d assumed it was because he loved her—because she so wanted that to be the reason. And because of that sprig of pussy willow.
Tears gushed from her eyes like water from the spout. She released the pump handle and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. He’d often said he was indebted to Sophia for her kindness in giving him a job when he’d come begging. She should have known that’s why he’d come to rescue her from Jacob Strand—for Aunt Sophia. It wasn’t because of her at all. And she didn’t want it to be. She was glad he was gone. She was simply concerned about the note he now held on the hotel. How would she ever earn enough money to pay it off? And how much time did she have? She’d overheard enough conversations between Jacob Strand and his friends to know there was a time limit on loans, and that it was important to pay them off before that time was up. And where would she send the payment? To one of the banks Ezra owned?
She squeezed the metal handle, longing to slam the teakettle down on the stove, but she couldn’t have that satisfaction. Agnes and Sophia were still abed. And why was she so discomposed anyway? She didn’t want Ezra Ryder around her. The man was a liar! They were well rid of him.
The pounding headache that had sent her early to bed last night throbbed. She set the teakettle on the front stove plate and grabbed the skirt of her apron, pressed the fabric against her eyes to stop another rush of tears. She would not cry over a man the likes of Ezra Ryder. She would not!
Bootheels struck the porch floor.
She froze.
The latch clicked. The door squeaked open.
“I must be early. I don’t smell any coffee brewing.”
Her heart pounded furiously. She wanted to run and hide in her room. She wanted to run into his arms and sob out the fear that had gripped her—the fear that she would never see him again.
“Something wrong?”
“Smoke.” It wasn’t really a lie. The smoke had made her eyes smart...more. She lowered her hands, smoothed down her apron and watched Ezra unload the stovewood he carried into the woodbox. Anger replaced the hollow emptiness. How could he look and act so normal, when she was so...not normal?
“What are you doing here?” The words did not come out as cool or as steady as she’d tried for. She lifted her chin. “Not that you don’t have the right. You own the hotel now. Until I can earn the money to buy back Aunt Sophia’s loan.”
His back stiffened. He brushed bits of bark and dirt from his shirt, turned and started toward her, his gaze fastened on hers. Her breath caught at the anger darkening his eyes.
“My name is Ezra Ryder, Callie—not Jacob Strand. And frankly, I do not care for you ascribing the man’s selfish and underhanded motives to me. I do not own this hotel. Your aunt owns it—free of encumbrance. I presented her with the cancelled note and a signed relinquishment of collateral when I arrived late last night. As for what I’m doing here
...”
She held her breath, hoped.
“...I’m doing my job.”
She dug her fingernails into her palms, breathed deep against the sudden, rending pain in her heart. Her foolish, foolish heart that refused to listen to her head. “I hardly think a man of your financial accomplishments needs work.”
“That’s true. However, I did need work when I arrived.” His gaze softened. “If you remember, I’d been robbed of everything. I was injured—I had nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep and no way to contact my business manager for funds.”
His business manager. There’d been no mention of him when he came. She clenched her hands. “And so you lied to me.”
He shook his head. “And so I asked you for the meal and bed I sorely needed in exchange for work. And your aunt provided me with those things and gave me a job when I needed one. I would be the worst sort of ungrateful wretch if I simply walked away from my responsibilities. Besides, Joe needs help. The work is becoming too much for him. I can’t leave my job until there is someone hired to replace me.”
His gaze bored down into hers, and she could not deny the sincerity with which he spoke. But, oh how much easier it would be if he weren’t so kind and generous. If he weren’t so considerate of Joe, and grateful and thoughtful of her aunt. It undermined her resolve.
“As for you, Callie Conner...”
Her heart skipped.
He stepped closer, leaned down. Flames in the depths of his blue eyes flickered like the lighthouse beam at Dunkirk that flashed its message of warning into the dark. Danger...danger...danger...
Her knees quivered and her mouth went dry. She stepped back, felt the worktable and groped for its support.
“...You should go back to bed and let Agnes prepare breakfast.”
His voice was low, soft. His breath warmed her cheek. She looked into his eyes, so close, so— His palm cupped her face, his thumb brushed across her cheekbone and her determination to resist him dissolved into a formless wisp of nothingness.
“You look tired.”
She closed her eyes, drew on her inner strength and slipped sideways along the table, opened her eyes and stepped around the end to safety on the other side. “I’m fine. And I’ve work to do.”
She walked the long way around the table to fill a large bowl with water. The space between the stove and worktable was too narrow to be comfortable with him standing there, and he showed no signs of moving. She put the filled bowl on the table, set a basket of potatoes beside it and wished he’d stop looking at her, and that the horrible need to cry would go away.
“I know there isn’t time now, Callie, but I want to explain why I didn’t tell you about myself.”
His voice was as warm as his touch had been. She steeled herself against it, snatched up her paring knife and a potato and began to work. The teapot hissed out steam. She ignored it. She was not going to go to the stove and chance getting that close to him again. If only he would leave her kitchen—leave her life.
“Will you come for a walk on the deer path with me at dusk?”
The image of him picking that sprig of pussy willow flashed into her head. Her throat clogged with the tears demanding to be released. Walk with him? On the deer path? Never! She would not ever walk there again. She cleared the lump away and put all the coolness in her voice she could muster. “There is no reason for you to make me any explanation, Mr. Ryder. I would not believe it. And, that, of course, means there is no reason for a walk.” She took a chance and looked up at him. “Now, if you’ll please allow me to work...”
He held her gaze with his, then when she thought she could bear it no longer, he dipped his head.
“As you wish, Callie, but I’m not going to give up. I need to explain, and you’re going to listen. Tonight or next week or next month, it makes no difference. I’m a patient man—and a persistent one. One day you will agree.”
“Your patience will do you no good.” She dug her fingernails into the potato, fought to keep her voice steady. “There is no acceptable explanation for deception, Mr. Ryder, and I’ll not listen to yours. Go back to New York City.”
He walked around the table, stood so close she could feel the warmth radiating off him, see the flicker of those tiny sparks smoldering in the depths of his blue eyes.
“That will never happen, Callie. All I want is here in Pinewood. I’m not leaving.” He turned and walked to the door, gave her another look that shook her to her toes. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
She held her place, waited for the door to close behind him. The latch clicked. She dropped the potato and knife onto the table, ran to her bedroom and closed the door. She hurled herself onto the bed and buried her weeping in her pillow.
* * *
“Good morning, boy.” Ezra scratched beneath the big bay’s black mane, stroked the proud, arched neck. “You need a name. How about...Reliable, because you surely proved to be so on our night ride to Buffalo.”
The bay nickered, tossed his head.
“Seems like he’s agreeing.”
He glanced at Joe, smiled his gratitude for the man’s extension of friendship. Things had been strained between them since he’d come back from Buffalo and told Joe who he really was. “Seems that way, so Reliable it is.” He slipped a halter on the bay so he could lead him out to the watering trough. “Do you know this Otis Gordon fellow Mrs. Sheffield has hired to take my place helping you?”
Joe nodded, leaned back against a stall. “I know him. He’s a good hand with horses. I reckon he’ll be taking my place, and I’ll be the one doing the helping.” He scrubbed a gnarled hand over his stubbled chin, narrowed his eyes at him. “Truth is, it’s been that way with you—you’ve just been too kind to say so.”
“Joe, that’s not—”
“Yes, it is. You been doing the work around here, Ezra. I’ve been helping out when Mrs. Sheffield called on you to do something else. With this rheumatism crippling me, I can’t keep up with all the work there is to do around this place anymore. And I ain’t blind nor dumb—I can read the writing on the wall.”
He looked at the elderly groom, saw the frustration and worry in his eyes. “It’s a lot of work all right.” He chose his next words carefully, heeding Sophia Sheffield’s warning that Joe would have no part of anything that he thought had a whiff of charity about it—even if he was dead wrong—and he would be. “Do you know anyone else like Otis? You know, someone who’s good with horses? I’m going to need someone.”
“You? What for?”
“I’m going to build a place.”
Joe nodded. “I figured you was going to stick around. Still, you’re the best hand with a horse I’ve ever seen—you don’t need no help.”
He grinned. “Thank you, Joe. I take that as a real compliment coming from you. But, I’m going to be returning to business, and I won’t have time to care for Reliable and the carriage mare I bought.” He led the bay toward the open doors, taking hope when Joe followed.
“That phaeton of yours ain’t nowhere near as fancy as the one that Strand fellow had—except for that purple color.” Joe grinned, and his eyes danced with a teasing light. “That’s right pretty.”
And he’d bought it because he thought Callie would like the color. It reminded him of the dress she’d had on the night of the Seneca festival dance. He shoved the memory aside and pulled his face into a mock scowl. “It’s called plum.”
Joe’s grin widened. “Looks purple to me.”
“As I was saying...” He loosed his grip on the halter and let the bay drink. “I want someone I can trust to take good care of my horses. I thought about offering you the job, but I don’t want to take you from Mrs. Sheffield. I owe her a lot and stealing her head groom would not be fair to her.” He stroked the bay, kept his expression mildly curious as if waiting for Joe to supp
ly him with a possible name. His charade wouldn’t fool the canny old man, but it would save his pride and allow him to accept the offhand offer on his terms—if he wanted to.
The elderly man studied him, then nodded. “Like I was saying—I been reading the writing on the wall. I can’t take care of this big barn and all the guests’ horses and rigs the way it should be done anymore, and me and Mrs. Sheffield both know it.”
Joe stepped forward, ran his gnarled hand over Reliable’s broad back. “I figure I could care for a small stable and a couple of horses with no trouble.”
“Then you will come to work for me?” He had no trouble looking relieved. He’d been afraid Joe would say no.
“Soon’s I’m sure Otis can handle things here, and you need me.”
“Good.” The bay lifted his head, blew. “C’mon, boy, let’s get you back in your stall. I’ve got to clean my things out of the equipment room before Otis comes.”
“You moving into the hotel?”
There was amusement in Joe’s voice. He fixed his gaze on him. “I am. Why?”
“Cause Miss Callie ain’t going to like that, and she can be right spirited and stubborn as I recall. Course, I’ve seen you being a mite stubborn, too.” Joe chuckled low in his throat and led the way back into the barn. “This is gonna be right fun to watch.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“What has you so upset?”
Callie spun about and frowned at Willa sitting so calm and serene in the chair by the window. “I’ve been telling you, Willa! Have you not been listening?”
“Of course I have.” Willa held Joshua’s shirt sleeve a little closer to the sunlight coming in through the small panes and took another stitch in the tear. “You told me that Ezra came to Buffalo and stopped your wedding to Jacob Strand just in time—for which I assume you are grateful?”
“Well, of course I am. I detest Jacob Strand!” She batted her long skirt out of the way of the tea table leg and strode toward the entrance door at the other end of the room.
Courting Miss Callie Page 17