Not one to raise his voice—unlike her—Annie’s father clamped his lips together. His silence had been worse than any punishment he’d doled out when she was a child, and she hated it just as much now.
They were partners. Equal in this endeavor. He had to stop thinking of her as a woman to be protected and realize that she could help him. Had helped him.
She turned in her chair to face him. “Isn’t that grand?”
His eyes dulled with disappointment and sadness. “You went to the saloon, didn’t you?”
She huffed out a sigh. At least the truth was out.
“Yes, I did. But before you say it’s not proper for me to go there, please hear me out. It was nearly deserted so early in the day, and I asked Mr. Cooper how much he wanted for the back room and told him how much handier it would be for him to have all his whiskey close at hand instead of here, and—”
Her father reached over and squeezed her arm. “Oh, my Annie. You torment me so. It’s not safe for you to be so bold.”
Like a child, she squirmed beneath his rebuke. But his eyes shimmered and his voice softened. “You are so like your mother.”
The old ache seeped into her chest. “Please be happy for us,” she whispered.
His gray eyes swept her face, and he raised one bushy brow. “How much?”
“That’s the strangest thing,” she said. “We were discussing it when Magistrate Warren and another man came in. Mr. Cooper abruptly said for me to name my price and give a note to the man he’d send for the whiskey crates.”
No need to mention being knocked unceremoniously into the pagan’s arms.
Her father rubbed his forehead. “We can give him what we pay for the livery stall. We can afford that much.”
Annie’s mind breezed through the figures. “We already rent the store. And you and I both know he should have included the back room to begin with. Let’s give him half what we pay for the livery stall.”
Her father leaned back in his chair and studied her with a calculating air.
“What?” she said.
“You are exactly like your mother.” This time he chuckled and stood to refill his cup. “Write the ticket and I’ll push all the crates closer to the back door so they’ll be handy for whoever comes to get them.”
Annie rushed to throw her arms around his neck, jostling his coffee. “Thank you, Daddy. Won’t it be wonderful? Almost like a real house.”
He cupped one of her shoulders in his big hand and set her at arm’s length. “Maybe we could fit a small cookstove in that cramped space.”
“I’m in no hurry.” She straightened her apron and gave him a sideways look. “Besides, I think my potbellied biscuits are quite good, if I do say so.”
He laughed and set his cup on the edge of the stove.
“Potbellied, are they now?” He patted his girth with both hands. “I will be, too, if I keep eating them like I did this morning.”
This morning.
Annie turned away to hide her sudden blush. Others had also savored her biscuits this morning, but thoughts of one man in particular made her heart flutter like Edna’s silken fan.
The dark-eyed drifter had managed to do much more than stir her anger.
Chapter 4
Caleb bypassed Main Street and pointed Rooster toward the river. If someone hadn’t beaten him to it, he’d bed down where he’d spent the previous night.
Campfires flickered in the trees along the bank, and cook smoke made his empty stomach groan. Laughter and happy voices floated downstream.
He grunted, begrudging such people their homeless pleasures. Or maybe they weren’t homeless. Maybe a campsite by the river was home enough if shared with family—like Springer Smith and his folks.
The Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.
Like a red-hot coal, the phrase scorched his thoughts. He didn’t miss the irony of having more in common with Christ now than he had all those months at the parsonage. The Women’s Society hadn’t let him miss many meals.
A moonless night shrouded the river, and he settled for an unfamiliar clearing when he saw that his spot had indeed been taken. He hobbled the horses, tied them together and looped a lead rope around his saddle horn. At least he’d feel it if someone tried to steal them. Or he’d be trampled to death by his startled mounts.
The open fire warmed his face and feet and offered an odd companionship, another voice to counter that of the river, making him feel not so alone. The remains of his jerky teased his stomach into true hunger, and he drank several tin cups of water from the cold river. Again glittering stars filled the sky, reminding him that not many such nights remained before storms gathered in the mighty Rocky Mountains.
Where to now? His stomach knotted at the thought of tending bar. He may not be saving souls anymore—not that he’d had even a single convert—but he couldn’t bring himself to encourage men along the road to perdition.
The sawmill was a possibility. The hotel? No. If opportunity didn’t show its face tomorrow, he’d return to the mercantile for supplies and ride north to Denver. He’d have a better chance of finding work in an established city.
But cities didn’t appeal to him.
Shunning prayer, he rolled to his side and closed his eyes.
Maybe Cañon City had a newspaper. He wrote well enough.
As soon as he thought of town, Annie Whitaker materialized in her long white apron, and he questioned his motives for thinking of staying. He could almost smell the fresh biscuits in her skillet as he saw her in his mind’s eye.
Maybe tomorrow she’d invite him to stay for breakfast.
He grunted. And maybe he’d walk on water. Stroll right across the swirling Arkansas without even getting his boots wet.
When he woke the next morning, Caleb discovered that pride was one thing, hunger another. He hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours.
His stomach twisted with a surly growl, and he sat up and rubbed his face. A jay scolded from a nearby thicket, and the river laughed over rocks and swirled through eddies, mocking his need.
He palmed his jaw. Only one day’s growth. Not enough for a razor unless it was Sunday. But it wasn’t. And even if it was, that didn’t matter anymore.
He pulled on his boots, stirred the fire to dead ash, then saddled Rooster and rode into town.
The Whitakers would be up and around by now, feeding that potbellied stove so they could feed stragglers like him. He imagined Annie rolling out dough and lining her cast-iron skillet with perfect biscuit rounds. And smiling at him like she had yesterday morning before he’d made a fool of himself.
He wondered if he’d ever find his way around words again. What would it take for Annie Whitaker to grace him with her good food—and her warm smile?
Few people walked the streets, and he gave more notice to the buildings and storefronts. A bank. An assay office. A printing office. He’d check there first.
Right after he ate.
He stopped at a corner and twisted in his saddle to eye the other end of town. A few small cabins huddled this side of the white clapboard building across from the livery.
He snorted. If the clapboard was a church, there sat two callings—or so he had thought—faced off one against each other.
He turned back around, heeled Rooster’s side and let the gelding amble along until they came to the mercantile. The sun was a good half hour above the horizon, and smoke spun from the store’s chimney. He stepped off and flipped the reins around the rail, hoping for the same greeting he’d received the previous day but doubting he’d get it.
His mouth watered, and his heart raced. He jingled the few coins he had left in his pocket, figured he had enough for hard tack and a can of beans. Some dried beef, maybe ground coffee.
He caught his reflection in the
window. Discouragement stared back, cold and calloused. He swallowed and opened the door.
As he’d hoped, the smell hit him full force. Annie Whitaker stood at the back, working at a long counter. Her father sat in his chair near the stove, coffee in hand. He raised his cup in welcome.
“Come on in, son. Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
Caleb cleared his throat and removed his hat.
Annie looked up with a question that soured to a frown. He’d apologize if she gave him the chance.
He nodded at Daniel. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Whitaker stood, poured a second cup and handed it to Caleb as he took a chair.
“Thank you kindly.” He hung his hat on his knee and smoothed his hair back, knowing he had to look a sight after two nights by the river, sleeping in his shirt.
“Thought you’d be cuttin’ cows at the Lazy R by now. You change your mind?”
Caleb sucked in a breathy taste of the hot brew, trying not to burn his mouth.
“I didn’t, but they did.” He glanced toward Annie, who had turned her back. “Other men must have read that ad in the paper and beat me to the job.”
“That right?” Whitaker said, raising his white brows.
“Said they were full up. No room in the bunkhouse, didn’t need any more hands.”
“Hmm.” Whitaker scratched his clean-shaven cheek. “So you heading back home?”
Home. If Caleb knew where that was, he’d gladly head that way. When his pa died, the bank took their small acreage, and at the time, Caleb had the church.
Now all he had was a kind look from the storekeep.
He shook his head. “I’ll try to find something here in town and stay the winter, then head for Denver come spring. If nothing turns up by tomorrow, I’ll leave the day after.”
“Got your sights on gold?” The older man eyed him over his tin mug.
“No, sir. I’m not of a mind to dig for shiny ore. But I’ll do about anything else if it’s honest work.”
A clear “ha” sounded from beyond the potbellied stove, and a grin spread across Whitaker’s face.
Caleb glanced from father to daughter. “The foreman suggested I check at the saloon or motel, but I’m not much on pouring whiskey, and I doubt I’d make a very good chambermaid.”
This time, Caleb heard a distinct snort from the sideboard. Whitaker’s stomach bounced as he stifled a laugh, and Caleb couldn’t keep a twitch from his lips. Caught in the swift current of gaiety, which he had not experienced in a very long time, he leaned closer to Whitaker. “Do you need someone to help sweep the front walk?”
Any moment the skillet would fly.
Annie spun in a skirted flurry and stomped to the stove with a batch of freshly cut biscuits. She slammed it down, adjusted the damper and skewered Caleb with a glare.
“I can handle the sweeping myself, Mr. Hutton, as you so clearly pointed out on your last visit.”
Caleb saw his opportunity. He stood. “About that, Miss Whitaker. Please accept my apology. It’s biscuit making at which you excel. I meant no disrespect.”
She balled her fingers on her hips and kept her chin in the air, but her face softened. Dashing a russet strand from her forehead, she mumbled some epithet and whirled away.
Caleb dropped into his chair, realizing it was going to take more than a compliment about biscuits to win over Annie Whitaker.
“What do you really do, son?” her father said with a twinkle in his eye. “What did you do back in— Where are you from?”
“Missouri. Saint Joseph.” Caleb fought off the vision of the stone church he’d left behind. “I have a way with horses, sir.” But not people. And especially not women.
“Have you inquired at the livery? Henry might put you to work.” Whitaker paused, and an idea clearly crossed his ruddy features. “You could bunk there if you don’t mind a stall. I happen to know there’s one available—it’s only a little warmer than where the horses are, but there’d be a roof over your head come winter.”
Caleb nodded and eyed the biscuits browning on the stove. “I’ll look into that. Thank you.”
“And when you get there, look in on the big palomino and tell me why she’s nearly eating me out of my profits. I’m wanting to sell her.” He glanced at his daughter. “But Annie thinks she’s a pet and sneaks dried apples to her every night after we close up.”
Annie peeked over her shoulder, worry etching her fine brow. Fine brow? Since when did Caleb notice a woman’s brow? Or think of it as fine?
“I’ll do that, first chance I get.”
Annie moved to the stove and picked up the skillet. Warm sourdough wafted through the room, and Caleb nearly had to holler to cover his stomach’s impatient rumbling. Then she delivered two deep plates with biscuits floating in dark molasses.
One for her father and one for him.
“Thank you, darlin’,” Whitaker said with a tender smile.
Caleb looked into eyes the same color as the sweet molasses and nodded, afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he tried to express the gratitude he felt in that moment. “Miss Whitaker.”
She met his gaze without anger, false humility or the coy flutter at which Mollie Sullivan had so excelled. Strong and confident, but kind, she returned his look, as if willing to meet him on level ground.
“It’s Annie,” she said.
His heart curled up like a pup on the hearth. Maybe he had a chance for a fresh start after all.
* * *
Annie feared she’d drop the plate if Caleb Hutton didn’t take it from her right that instant. His dark scrutiny unsettled her, as if he saw through her bravado and into her quivering heart.
As unexpected as snow in summer, his apology had all but doused her anger. What kind of man apologized to a woman he didn’t know? In front of her father, no less?
A good man.
She stepped back, flushed with heat from the stove. Loose hair stuck to her forehead and neck, and she retreated to the counter where her own plate waited. Dare she join the men in her condition?
Turning her back, she stretched her apron hem between her hands and flapped it before her face. What she wouldn’t give for one of Edna’s painted silk fans.
She drew a deep breath, pushed her hair off her neck and with plate in hand walked calmly to the chair farthest from Caleb Hutton.
“You’ve outdone yourself again, Annie girl. We should have opened a café instead of the mercantile.”
After adjusting the plate on her lap, she swirled a biscuit bite in molasses, embarrassed by her father’s compliment in Caleb’s presence. “Thank you, Daddy, but I do believe you are prejudiced.”
“He’s right,” Caleb said between bites. “’Course then there’d be no place to get supplies.”
He smiled her way, or as close as he could come to a smile with his mouth full. She dropped her gaze to her plate and wondered what Edna would say at this point. Oh, she knew what her sister would say. She’d bat her thick lashes, wave the remark away with a milk-white hand and say, Oh, you shouldn’t carry on so. They’re just plain ol’ sourdough biscuits.
“Thank you, both,” Annie managed without looking up.
“If word gets out about your cooking, we may have to set a table in here.”
Her father’s words sparked hope, but they had no room for a table. Besides, they didn’t have a real cookstove yet, and she couldn’t do more than biscuits, pan gravy, eggs or beans and coffee on the old iron hunk they did have.
“Maybe I’ll paint a sign—Annie’s Potbellied Biscuits, Five Cents.” He held up a hand as if displaying the imaginary notice for all to see.
Caleb’s mouth curved up on one side. “Potbellied biscuits?”
Annie felt the flush return to her neck. “It’s
the stove, Mr. Hutton. The potbellied stove, and I dare say I don’t think I’d care to spend the day cooking over that boot-warmer.”
“Caleb, ma’am.” He cast an earnest look her way. “I’d be pleased if you’d call me Caleb.”
Her father suddenly stood with his plate and cup and made for the front counter. “I never did sort yesterday’s mail,” he scolded himself. “I must be getting old and forgetful. You two go on without me. I’ll just be killin’ two birds with one stone over here.”
Forgetful, my eye. Annie speared the last biscuit piece. She’d be having a few words with her father after Caleb Hutton left.
Thankful she hadn’t sat next to him, she slid a glance his way and noticed how seriously he consumed his food. As if his life depended on it. Instantly remorseful, she realized that he might very well depend on what she served. Where else in Cañon City would he find a meal, other than the Fremont Hotel, which always had more patrons than tables and chairs?
She laid her fork in her plate. “There’s more, Mr. Hut—Caleb. Would you like a couple more biscuits?”
“Thank you.” He gave her a sober look and a nearly clean plate. “They really are good.”
At the counter, she opened two biscuits, covered them with thick syrup and, for no reason she could name, plucked an apple from a bowlful she was saving for pie. She cored and sliced it with a paring knife and fanned it out next to the biscuits. On her way past the stove, she lifted the coffeepot.
“More coffee?” She held out the plate and watched his reaction.
His eyes found hers. “You sure you can spare this apple?”
“We have plenty. Apple trees grow around here nearly as well as skunk cabbage.” She filled his tin cup and, straightening, smoothed her apron with one hand. “If you have everything you need, I’ll be in the back room unpacking.”
“Unpacking stores? I can help if you need.”
His sincerity gave her pause, but she turned away from his scrutiny. “No. Thank you.”
The Cowboy Takes a Wife Page 5