“Well, don’t show it to me. I never did read so good, and anyway, I reckon it’s business between Miss Laurel and Mr. Stonechurch. You’re just the messenger.”
A little bit more than the messenger, Call thought, buthe kept that to himself. “Are you heading back to the station?”
Rooster grabbed a twenty-pound burlap sack of flour by the ears and hefted it onto the wagon. “Am now.”
“I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind.”
Rooster didn’t object. He climbed onto the buckboard’s bench and guided the horse in a wide turn on Main Street and then started for home. Call Landry’s mount kept the same easy pace. “Does that horse belong to Mr. Stonechurch?”
“Uh-huh. On loan to me for as long as I need her.”
Rooster looked the cinnamon mare over with a keen and practiced eye. She had a pretty head, refined lines, and big, soft brown eyes, which she fluttered like a flirt. Her neck was in good proportion to her body. The shape was perfect and balanced. She held a saddle well and her hindquarters were strong, her gait stable. She had good bones. “I didn’t think Mr. Stonechurch knew much about horseflesh. I guess I was wrong.”
“I’m not sure you were. I picked this animal out from the livery. I had my choice of half a dozen. She was the best. The others didn’t compare.”
“Huh. She have a name?”
“If she does, she hasn’t told me.”
Rooster cocked a wiry eyebrow and gave Call a considering glance. “Well, you better name her or Miss Laurel will, and she’s partial to names that’ll set a man’s teeth on edge. We got a Willow, a Sylvia, a Henrietta, a Mary Sue, and her sister, Mary Ann. Miss Laurel calls her mare Abby. I probably shouldn’t go on. You get the idea. Oh, and we had a Penelope until Josiah Pye took her.”
“I see. Well, this mare’s a sweet girl with a good heart and stamina to spare. She took the steep grades with hardly a break in her stride. And she’s pretty, too. She should have a name that suits her.” Call fell silent, thinking on it. “I’m partial to Artemis.” The mare swung her head. “Guess she agrees.”
“Artemis?” asked Rooster. “That’s one we don’t have.”
“She’s the Greek goddess of the hunt, the moon, and nature.”
“Huh. I like that. Can’t speak for Miss Laurel, but since your girl has a name, I don’t think she’ll call her anything else.”
Laurel was sweeping off the porch when she heard the noisy approach of the buckboard. Its creaks and squeaks were at lower pitch this afternoon, a sign that the wagon bed was heavily laden. She turned to greet Rooster, leaning comfortably on the broom handle until she saw he had picked up a companion. Straightening, Laurel set the broom against the porch rail and lowered her hands to her sides. She was struck by an urge to smooth her hair and finger her braid and didn’t much like herself for what she thought of as simpering, girlish urges. What did it matter if strands of hairs were flying away from her face or her braid was no longer neatly plaited? Mrs. Lancaster was not around to tell her that it mattered very much indeed, and Laurel wasn’t sure that she believed her anyway.
“Mr. Landry,” she said. “This is a surprise.”
Call tipped his hat, inordinately pleased she had arrived at his name without hesitation. In this particular instance, it was gratifying to be remembered. “Miss Morrison.”
Rooster said, “I’m going to unload around back.”
“Need help?” asked Call.
“Sure, but I’ll get the boys. You can stable your horse in the barn. Grooming brushes, blankets, everything you need is in there. I’ll leave you to explain yourself.”
“Appreciate that.” Call waited for Rooster to move out of earshot. When he turned to look at Laurel, it was clear from her expression that she thought his explanation was already too long in coming. He dismounted, held the reins loosely in one gloved hand, and set his feet in the at-ease position. “Mr. Stonechurch sent me. Rooster indicated you were expecting someone.”
“Not you.”
“I’m afraid if you have a problem with me, you’ll have to take it up with Mr. Stonechurch.”
“I will—if I have a problem with you. I don’t. Not yet, but it’s early days.”
Call considered it a minor victory that she hadn’t pointed to the trail and told him to leave, though why she would do that, he didn’t know. He hadn’t done anything to give her cause. On his only other visit to the station, he’d been polite, careful, respectful, and probably made himself an object of amusement admitting that traveling in the coach caused him no end of upset.
Call kept his eyes on hers. She wasn’t wearing a hat on this occasion. Her hair was as burnished as a chestnut, brown with hints of copper and fire, and there was a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her ivory complexion was slowly turning pink the longer he stared. He thought he should look away, but then he thought she could do the same. Neither of them did. Her lips parted. He waited, but she didn’t speak. He did instead.
“I understand that you might need another hand, or have you already replaced Josiah Pye?”
“Not yet. There’s been some interest, but I haven’t made a decision. I don’t want to make another mistake.”
“Understandable.”
