As if in response to his question, a sudden kick pushed against his hand. The little hoof lay low toward the mare’s hindquarters. Concern pulsed in Caleb’s temple as he answered his own question.
“Too early to say, Mama. That baby could turn round headfirst in no time. We’ll just have to pray for the right delivery, won’t we?”
There it was again—an old habit, resorting to prayer. This morning’s prayer at breakfast had widened the hairline fissure, let something leak through. Resentment was draining away as sure as the green from the cottonwood leaves.
“Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered. He tipped his forehead against the mare’s neck and pulled his fingers through her mane. “Forgive me for being so stubborn and hard-hearted. I don’t deserve anything more than a bed in a barn, after turning my back on You.”
A scuffling step jerked his head up. Annie Whitaker stood watching him, her face flushed, eyes wide. As she approached, her eyes softened and warmed, drinking in the scene. Her lips parted to speak but instead curved slightly as she slipped a hand over the stall gate and let the mare lip her open palm with a low whinny.
Caleb ducked beneath the horse’s neck and when Annie stepped back, he exited the stall.
“I knew she’d be missing the apples,” Annie said.
He stood close to her, against the closed gate. Her hair, mere inches from his face, enticed him with its sweet fragrance.
She dug in her pocket again and this time offered Caleb the wrapped licorice whips.
He grinned. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”
Her brows pulled together. “I told you, it’s Annie. You make me feel like an old woman every time you say ‘ma’am.’”
His fingers brushed against her palm, and he immediately wanted it to happen again. “Annie.” He popped a piece into his mouth and offered one to her.
She shook her head, and he could smell the sunshine in her hair again. “Those are for you. I have my own.”
“Deep pockets,” he said.
She caught the jest in his voice. “Only for apples and licorice.”
“So you’re barely making it, like everyone else around here, I expect.” He bit into another strip. “Except maybe the owner of the Fremont Hotel and Saloon.”
She stiffened at his remark and he faced her straight on. “What’s wrong, Annie?”
The rose in her cheeks had all but faded, and she pushed at the loose hair falling so appealingly against her neck. “What do you think of Nell?”
Her sudden change in tone and subject convinced him that he was right—that there was a problem with Cooper—but her lovely eyes focused on the mare.
“Is that her name?” he said. “Nell?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Annie nodded and rubbed the horse’s head.
“You were right about her eating more than the others,” he said, trying to figure out how to politely mention the fact that the mare would be foaling within two months.
“Do you know why?”
His hand itched to stroke Annie’s cheek, finger her russet locks. Instead he gripped the gate and watched the horse that stood half dozing under Annie’s loving attention. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Annie raised her beautiful eyes to him.
He cleared his throat. One hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, uh...”
His hesitation made her frown, and worry darted across her face.
“Is Nell all right?” She placed her hand atop his on the rail. “Is something the matter with her? We didn’t take care of our horses in Omaha, someone else did. Have we done something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” How should he put it? And how could he speak calmly with her hand on his in such an earnest, trusting gesture? He squeezed the rail and took a deep breath. “She’s eating a lot because she’s not the only one getting her food.” He watched to see if Annie gathered his meaning.
Her eyes flicked from his face to the mare and back again, and he saw the exact moment realization settled. With a gasp she jerked her hand away and covered her mouth.
“You mean...”
He nodded. “My guess is sometime around Christmas. You didn’t know?”
Light danced in her eyes, and her mouth bowed into a perfect circle. “Oh—that’s wonderful.” She leaned over the half door and kissed Nell on the nose. “You old darling. What a Christmas surprise you’ve brought us.”
Relief spilled out with Caleb’s pent-up breath. “At least your father will be surprised.”
His comment brought back her frown. “You are right about that.” She turned her back to the stall and leaned against the railing, folded her arms across her waist and gave him a calculating look.
Caleb knew conspiracy when he saw it.
“We can’t tell him,” she said. “Promise me you won’t let him know. He’ll sell her for sure, and it just wouldn’t be fair, not when she’s in a family way—” A becoming flush appeared on her cheeks, and she pushed away from the stall and paced the alleyway.
“It’s not going to be a secret for very much longer,” he said. “If he comes down here, he’s bound to figure it out.”
She stopped and studied Henry at his fire in the back of the barn. Then she whirled on him.
“Are you a veterinarian?”
Annie Whitaker didn’t sashay around the point. If he wasn’t careful, she’d drag every ounce of his past right up through his gullet.
“No.” He reached for the pitchfork.
“Then what are you?”
He walked back to the straw pile and forked a load, stalling for time and a decent answer. He wasn’t about to start lying, but he wasn’t ready to admit he’d turned from his calling, either.
“I told you. I’m good with horses.” He tossed the straw into the stall farthest from his inquisitor and stabbed the tines in the ground at his feet. Then he crossed his own arms and waited, daring her to press the issue further.
* * *
Annie narrowed her eyes. She’d heard Caleb Hutton asking forgiveness for something, so what was it? Was he hiding some terrible deed and lying to them. One thing she knew for sure: he was as stubborn as Edna ever had been. By his rigid chin and the wide stance of his feet, she guessed he had a passel of younger brothers and sisters and knew all the tricks to avoiding a direct question when he didn’t want to give the answer.
His broad shoulders and steady gaze nearly weakened her determination, but she averted her eyes just in time. She had more important things to consider than his disarming looks. She needed a vet for Nell, or at least someone who knew what to do when the time came.
He may not be an animal doctor, but Caleb Hutton knew more than he was letting on. Much more than a livery hand, or horse handler, or whatever he chose to say about himself.
Still water runs deep, Daddy had said a hundred times.
If that was true, she was squared off against a bottomless ravine.
Nell stomped and pulled Annie’s attention from the mysterious man in the alleyway. How did he know so much about horses? And how did he connect to the sorrowful Caleb in her dream? Suddenly she wasn’t quite sure who she was talking to. That feeling of suspicion about Caleb Hutton arose in her again.
Annie scoured her pockets and found two more apple rings. Nell lipped them from her palm and nestled her nose against Annie’s shoulder. “You poor dear,” she cooed. “Don’t you worry. We’ll find someone to help you.”
“I don’t think she’s worried,” Caleb said. At that instant, Nell tossed her head, nudging Annie off balance. She stumbled back into a hard chest and strong hands—the second time in as many days she’d found herself thrust into a man’s arms.
Only this time, she had to admit, was much more...pleasant. The very thought made her feel even more off balance.
“Whoa, there,”
Caleb said, laughter edging his voice.
“Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.” Gathering her footing and her pride, she fisted her hand around her pocketed clutch of goose down.
His expression quivered with mirth.
Her left foot itched to stomp the hard-packed dirt, but she held it firm. “I need to get back to the store. Daddy will worry if I’m gone too long.”
She stepped around him and refused to look up until she reached the livery door.
“You won’t tell him, will you?” she asked over her shoulder.
“No,” he said, his mouth knit up in that ridiculous lopsided grin. “I won’t tell him. But Nell will, eventually.”
Annie huffed and jerked her head around, dislodging her hair. A thick strand fell over her shoulder and she hurried through the wide doorway, refusing to stoop for the traitorous pins.
Once she made it past the corral, she glanced back to see Caleb bent over, picking up the pins from the dirt. He caught her eye before she looked away and escaped to the boardwalk.
By the time she reached the mercantile, Annie had fumed up enough steam to wilt an entire garden of Aunt Harriet’s daylilies. She knew no more about Caleb Hutton than she did before her visit to the livery. She slammed the door harder than she intended, and her father’s and Martha’s shocked expressions warned her to calm her billowing emotions.
Caleb Hutton’s stubbornness was stouter than her father’s coffee. She paused, looked out through the door glass and drew in a slow, deep breath. She mustn’t give away Nell’s secret. Not yet.
“I must be going, Daniel.” Endearment flavored Martha’s tone. “Thank you for the coffee and company. You’ve done my heart a world of good.”
Annie forced herself to walk calmly to the back wall. Her father offered Martha his hand and smiled as the little woman stood and faced him.
“You are a dear,” she said. Then she gathered the folded canvas and her reticule and addressed Annie.
“I didn’t get my lace and buttons, but I’ll be back tomorrow with your curtain.”
Guilt wedged under Annie’s festering irritation, and she burned with chagrin. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have been gone so long.”
Martha fluttered her fingers over her shoulder on her way to the door. “I shall return, dear.” She paused and sent a secret look to Annie’s father. “For more of that coffee, Daniel. I may even find some cinnamon rolls while I’m rummaging around my kitchen.”
The bell sang much more sweetly upon Martha’s departure than it had at Annie’s arrival. She regarded her father’s changed countenance. What had transpired while she was gone? He was as peaceful as she was agitated.
“Daddy?”
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking onto his toes, deep in thought.
“Daddy?” She moved closer and touched his arm.
“Annie, girl, you may have been right after all.”
Fear suddenly skipped from her stomach into her heart, surprising Annie. She wasn’t ready for her father to make any sudden changes—in spite of what she’d said earlier. It was enough that they’d uprooted and moved to Cañon City.
“Daddy, what happened here?”
His eyes twinkled with a secret, and Annie’s pulse quickened. One secret between them was enough, especially when it was her secret. She planted her hands on her hips and assumed her most commanding posture.
“Daddy, what are you talking about? What’s going on between you and Martha?”
Exactly like Caleb had earlier, her father turned his back on her. He reached into the coal bucket, opened the stove door and planted two small pieces inside. It wasn’t even cold in the store. After closing the door and adjusting the damper, he addressed her with controlled grace. “I enjoy her company, that’s all.”
He walked purposefully to the front counter.
“She’s a fine woman, that Martha. A fine woman.”
Yesterday Martha Bobbins had been a “confounded woman.” Today she was “fine.”
That left Annie as the confounded one—confounded over the feelings growing in her heart for one mysterious cowboy.
Chapter 8
Caleb shoved the pitchfork beneath a soiled straw pile and tossed it onto the wheelbarrow. Pungent warmth rose from the heap.
November nights had been considerably colder, but by sunup each day he worked up a sweat cleaning stalls and tossing hay from the loft. And if Henry had the fire stoked and blowing, it felt like near summer in the livery by noon.
The last time he’d been to the river, he’d found ice forming along the banks and Springer Smith treading dangerously close to it. He hoped the family had better shelter by now, something more than a campfire and a tent. Wintering along the Arkansas would be unbearable.
Cañon City needed a boardinghouse, someplace where families or single men could afford to stay.
Like himself.
He moved to the next stall, raked out what needed to be raked and added it to the wheelbarrow. Thank You, Lord, for warmth and work and good food each morning at Whitaker’s Mercantile.
Annie’s image came to mind, as it did so often now. He laughed aloud at the ire he’d raised in her by refusing to give her any information about himself.
He was doing it again—thinking about Annie when he’d told himself not to.
Truth was, everything brought Annie to mind. Just the thought of her drew him like a bear to a beehive—a dangerous delight. No matter what he did, his mind’s eye envisioned Annie Whitaker with her flaming hair and luminous eyes and persistent questions about his past.
The woman pressed in where she had no right to go.
He dug into the pile of fresh straw in the alleyway and sent a heaving pitch against the far wall and all over one of Deacon’s draft horses. Caleb shook his head and jabbed the fork in the dirt, then climbed in to brush off the big gray horse.
So why didn’t he simply tell her the truth?
Because it’s none of her business.
The horse stood calmly as Caleb pulled straw pieces from its thick mane. The irony of his work set his teeth on edge. Sunday or not, the animals required care and their needs came before his.
He stepped through the gate and looked to Henry’s furnace staring from the end of the alleyway, cold and empty. The anvil lay dutifully quiet on this day of rest for everyone except the former preacher.
The past two weeks Caleb had slipped into the church after the singing and stood near the door, ready to bolt if confronted. Reverend Hartman was near his own age, and his straightforward sermons rang a familiar note. It was almost a comfort.
Both Sundays Caleb had left during the closing prayer and managed to avoid Hartman, the Whitakers and Martha Bobbins, who clung to Daniel’s arm like a foxtail to a dog. But today he planned to stay and face the fire.
The fire of repentance or the fire in his heart for Annie—he wasn’t sure which.
He hung the pitchfork on the wall and hauled in water from the hand pump. His new basin and pitcher rested on an upturned crate in his stall, and he washed his hands and face. He changed into his clean pants and shirt, thankful that he’d stopped by the barber’s the day before for a haircut.
If he wasn’t careful, gratitude might become a habit.
He reached for his Bible and found the passage he’d read last night by lamplight. Wither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?
An honest question that Caleb hadn’t been willing to answer.
He couldn’t hide from God forever. Not even in Cañon City, at the edge of nowhere. It’d be a long winter if he kept running from the church folk in town, especially since he wanted to get a lot closer to one in particular.
Clattering hooves, creaking buggy wheels and the cur
ious snorts of his stablemates told him people were gathering across the road. His gut twisted, anticipating Annie Whitaker fresh as a spring flower in her Sunday dress and bonnet.
He buttoned his waistcoat, dusted off his hat and walked the line for one last check. Nell dozed with a back leg cocked forward, her distended belly looking painfully tight. There could be two inside—double the problem if Annie was right and her father wanted nothing to do with another horse to feed. He brushed his shirtsleeves and wished he had a nicer overcoat than his duster. The chill nipped clean through his thin shirt, but he couldn’t wear his work coat to the meetinghouse. They’d run him off for sure.
A woman’s clear laughter sang from the boardwalk. Annie? He hurried through the doors to spot the source of the melodic sound, something deep within him insisting it must be her.
Annie walked beside her father, her head tilted back in an unguarded moment. Daniel wore a grin beneath his white mustache and a smiling Martha Bobbins on his arm.
The threesome stepped into the street, and Annie hitched up her deep green skirt as they crossed, revealing high buttoned shoes and an unintended glimpse of dark stockings. Caleb’s chest warmed with a flash, and his need for a coat vanished.
“Mornin’.” Henry Schultz’s hearty welcome caught Caleb staring.
“Henry.” He pulled on his hat brim. “Mrs. Schultz, ma’am.”
He fell in with the couple as they made their way up the steps and waited behind them when they stopped before the pastor.
Hartman stood at the door, greeting each congregant individually, and he offered his hand to both Henry and his wife.
“Good to see you this morning. Bertha, don’t you look lovely.” An honest smile accompanied his words, and he shared one with Caleb, as well. “You’re early.” Laughter sparked in the parson’s gray eyes.
Caleb pulled off his hat and took the pastor’s hand. “Thought I’d sit in on the whole service this morning.”
The Cowboy Takes a Wife Page 8