Ben ground the comb against Penny’s hide. “Did Dr. LeBeau stay for the meal?”
“No.” Charlie lumbered over to the tack shelf attached to the back of the stable. “But he did the second time. We had to eat early so he could head back. I thought he ought to take it in a sack with him and eat along the way. And before that, Cora made me stay around the yard while they played chess on the porch.”
“Chess?”
“Took a long time too. Cora wanted me to watch and learn, but I could tell he didn’t want me to.”
Ben clenched his jaw. “Sounds like the man needs more work to do.” In another county. Away from here.
“Gave her a book too.”
“What kind of book?”
Penny flicked flies away from her tail.
Charlie fingered a hanging bridle. “Poetry by some guy named Shakespeare. A bunch of flowery, romantic stuff. The man doesn’t even know how to talk right. But Cora has it on the parlor table.”
Love poetry. Ben spit a wad of saliva on the ground. LeBeau didn’t waste any time. Cupid needed to have his arrow bent. Ben clamped his mouth shut. He wouldn’t ask more questions. Shouldn’t stoop to using the boy as a spy.
Flakes of dirt flew beneath the scouring rake of the comb. He might have known that weasel doctor would set his eye on Cora—the way he’d driven her out in the buggy that day when she could have just ridden her horse home. The whole house call was likely nothing more than a charade on LeBeau’s part, an attempt to impress Cora.
Charlie picked up a second curry comb and came along the other side of the mare. “I don’t like him.”
“Your sister is free to keep company with whom she pleases.” His voice ground like pestle to mortar.
Before dinner, Ben took a bath, cold water and all, then donned a clean set of clothes. No frock coat. He wasn’t a guest. This was partly his home, for now. But he wore his white cotton shirt and royal-blue waistcoat. After shaving, he would have slapped on a sprinkle or two of bay rum, but he hadn’t seen the need to bring along such frivolity when he’d embarked on his mission to rescue Jeb’s family.
He had no right to be jealous. No right to object to LeBeau calling on Cora. After all, he was the one with a girl back in Pennsylvania, an unannounced fiancée. But his heart and his temper had thrown logic out the window.
Ben stuck his watch into his waistcoat pocket and straightened his collar. He glared at Olivia’s letter, lying on the bunk right where he’d found it when he’d walked in. Fit to be tied after his conversation with Charlie, he’d torn open the envelope and quickly perused the contents. Parties. Eager beaus hanging around the piano as Olivia played. Charity visits. A severe scolding for him even thinking of spending months in a dried-out wilderness chasing cows. A warning that these people might be trying to leech off his good heart. An insistence that he turn the matter over to an attorney, leave enough funds for the sister and brother to move into town where they belonged, and get himself on a stagecoach headed east. She was already looking at houses where he and she might live as husband and wife, a cozy neighborhood between his and her family’s well-endowed homes. He’d given his word to her. She wouldn’t wait forever. Her final words. Except for a p.s. of whispered allusions to their once-heated kisses.
He expelled a breath and tossed the letter toward the bed. It skidded across and fell to the floor. Olivia’s world was a lifetime away.
CHAPTER 21
Ben lumbered in through the wide-open front door. Now that the heat of early summer was upon them, Cora made it a habit to leave every door and window in the house open during the day for maximum airflow and cooling.
“Dinner’s ready,” Cora called from the kitchen.
But he paused at the parlor entrance before heading down the hall. He’d never set foot in the room before. Had LeBeau?
The breeze ruffled the curtains. Thank goodness, the blistering wind had settled down to a whisper, or the forest-green sofa and high-back chair would be coated in dust. A bookshelf, a couple of oil lamps, and a rocking chair filled out the sparsely populated room. The walnut side table stood empty with nothing more than a doily gracing its surface. No book, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been there. He stepped into the room and perused the titles on the shelf, works by Jane Austin, James Fennimore Cooper, and a copy ofThe American Frugal Housewife. He wagered the family Bible was in her room. Had Cora taken the poetry book there, too, or hidden it away from his view?
He turned back into the wide-planked hall.
Cora stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. Her hair hung over her shoulder in a loose braid, no trace of the comb he’d given her. “Can I help you with something?”
“Nothing in particular.” Hands in his pockets, he ambled to the kitchen past the barrels and the two cane rockers which lined the hall. “Just checking to make sure there weren’t any tumbleweeds blowing in.”
She snorted. “If you see any, let me know.”
“You can bet on it.” He tugged on his waistcoat and slipped between her and the doorjamb.
She glanced back at the parlor and then at him. Her look said she knew exactly what he was up to. If she wanted to bring the subject up, she was welcome to do so. For his part, he wasn’t going to say a word.
Charlie dried his hands at the washbasin and hopped into his chair, Jack at his heels. “Can you tell me more about the roundup over dinner? I was hoping you’d bring the cattle by here.”
“Maybe next time. I had to hurry them off to Mr. Goodnight.”
