Abraham nods, a furrow in his brow that speaks of concern, but I’m already turning away. Whether I can feel the heat of his stare on my back or am only imagining the sensation, I’m unsure, but it stays with me until the stables are out of sight. Only once I reach the center of town where the brick-building printer resides does my pulse slow to normal.
I stop in front of the building, knowing my father is waiting for me inside. Waiting to teach me how to print the newspapers and pamphlets men like Abraham aren’t given the chance to read. I have a duty. A life spread out in front of me, waiting for me to live it.
I don’t want to. I want none of it.
My feet carry me in the opposite direction before I have the conscious thought to move. My pulse is a steady drum now. Fear. Defiance. Exhilaration.
Abraham has a pile of bridles in his arms when I step back inside the stables. His eyebrows rise, a tentative smile on his face. “Jasper?”
“Yes. Me again. Would you be in trouble if I stayed?”
“Stayed here?”
“Yes.”
He sets the bridles down carefully beside a tin of leather oil. “I don’t believe so. Is something the matter?”
“No,” I say, nearly laughing in delight. “Nothing is the matter at all. I would like to stay. If I could.”
Abraham glances downward, his lip pulled between his teeth, his expression turning almost…pleased. My heart patters, although I cannot, for the life of me, say why.
“That would be fine.” He sets into motion, grabbing a stool from nearby and placing it in a spot not easily visible from the front of the stables. When he waves me forward, I take a seat, the small act of rebellion like the finest port coursing through my veins.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly.
His smile is sincere. I think it would be rather easy to be friends with Abraham Morris.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, watching as he opens the tin of oil.
“Caring for the leather.” He deposits some of the oil on a rag, brushing it over the straps of the bridle quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. “This will help keep the material from cracking.”
“Which means replacing it less often,” I deduce.
“Correct.” Abraham sends me another swift smile. “Do you like horses?”
“I do. I haven’t much chance to ride unless we visit my aunt in the country. That’s where we’re going. Why we need the carriage.”
“Is it far?”
“A couple days’ ride.”
He nods, setting aside one bridle and grabbing another. His eyes flit over me as he applies more oil to the rag, a quick upand down I assume is meant to take me in. I have no doubt he’s aware of our differences, as inconsequential to me as they are.
“Please do not judge me before you know me,” I say, voice quiet.
His motions still, brown eyes meeting my own. “How would I judge you?”
“By my birth,” I answer. “I will not judge you for yours. Please give me the same courtesy.”
He holds my gaze for the longest moment. “You are unexpected, Jasper Sinclair. But not unwelcome.”
I pull in a breath, my chest expanding. “Does that make us friends?”
“It may. But I suppose that depends.”
“On what?” I ask, my gaze slipping unintentionally to the pull of Abraham’s shirt as he resumes oiling the bridle.
He lets out a soft hum that sounds playful, matching the boyish quality of his grin. “On whether or not you enjoy the creek.”
