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, relaxing. “We were discussing it when Magistrate Warren and another man came in. Mr. Cooper abruptly told 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 and kicked at a stray coal chip on the rug. “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.”
She hugged him again. “I’m in no hurry.” Straightening her apron, she 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 silk fan.
The dark-eyed drifter had managed to do much more than stir her anger.
CHAPTER SIX
Caleb bypassed Main Street and pointed Rooster toward the river. If someone else 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 Caleb’s 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 jerked beef teased his stomach into true hunger, and he drank several tin cups of water from the cold river. Glittering stars again filled the sky, reminding him that not many such nights remained before storms gathered against 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 saw mill 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. There’d be a better chance finding work in a more established city.
But cities didn’t appeal to him.
He slid into his bedroll and, shunning prayer, rolled to his side and closed his eyes.
Maybe Cañon City had a newspaper. He wrote well enough.
The river’s whispering current lulled his weary mind, and soon he saw Annie Whitaker in her long white apron, fresh biscuits in her skillet.
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.
The next morning, 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 for food and work.
He palmed his jaw. Just 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.
Few people walked the streets, and he gave more notice to the buildings and store fronts. 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’d thought—faced off one against each other. Turning around, he 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 pulse raced. He jingled the few remaining coins 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. Swallowing, he opened the door.
The smell hit him full force, just as he’d hoped. 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 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’d give 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 raised his white brows.
“Said they were full up. No room in the bunk house, didn’t need any more hands.” He tried the coffee again and managed a scalding swallow.
“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 that time, Caleb had the church.
Now all he had was a kind look from the storekeep.
He shook his head. “If I find something here in town, I’ll stay the winter, then head for Denver come spring. But 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 just 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 chamber maid.”
This time, a distinct snort rose near 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’d 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 and 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 mend matters with 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. St. Joseph.” Caleb fought off the vision of the stone church he’d left behind. “I have a way with horses, sir.” But not people. 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 yellow mare 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 call it fine? “I’ll do that, first chance I get.”
Annie moved to the stove and picked up the skillet. A whiff of fresh bread floated past his nose, 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 gave her a tender smile.
Caleb looked into eyes the same color as the sweet molasses and nodded, afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he tried to express his gratitude. “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.”
His heart curled up like a pup on the hearth. Maybe he’d get 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, all the way to her quivering insides.
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 in front of 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.”
Embarrassed by her father’s complement in a stranger’s presence, she adjusted the plate on her lap and tamped down her longing for a table. And a house.
“Thank you, Daddy, but I do believe you are prejudiced.” She swirled a biscuit bite in molasses.
“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’ 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 swept his hand through the air 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 this 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 bowl full set aside for a 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.” Not that it was any of his business.
“Unpacking stores? I can help if you need.”
His sincerity gave her pause, but she turned away from his scrutiny. “No. Thank you.”
She set the coffeepot on the stove and fled through the doorless opening into what was now her new home. Backing against the dividing wall, she fanned her apron in her face, feeling she’d barely escaped from—what?
She surveyed their few belongings and the scant space. They’d been so eager to leave the livery before Cooper changed his mind that they’d hauled everything to the store before Annie had time to clean the long-neglected room. Dusty cobwebs laced the ceiling corners, and even more dust covered the window sill. The entire room needed a good sweeping and washing down, but she’d not pick up the broom with Caleb Hutton around.
Booted steps headed for the back, and she stooped near a carpet bag. Tin dishes clinked together in the wash pan on the sideboard. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed her father stuffing mail in letter boxes behind the front counter. No one else had come in, so it had to be Caleb washing his plate.
She paused in her hasty riffling through the satchel’s contents and imagined him scrubbing the sticky syrup. He must not be married, for surely a man with a wife simply assumed that a woman tended to the dishes. Even her father hadn’t helped in the kitchen, always relying on his sister and daughters to complete such mundane chores.
First an apology. Now a helping hand. Who was this Caleb Hutton?
And why did he catch her fancy?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caleb paid for his breakfast and few supplies, thanked Whitaker again for the tip about the livery, and headed that way. He’d check with the blacksmith before he stopped at the printing office and the sawmill.
If given a choice, he’d take livestock over letters and lumber any day, though his life had been fairly equally divided between the first two.
Loving the Horseman Page 5