So Laurel had taken them under her wing, removing them from under their mother’s feet. All in all it was a satisfactory arrangement. They were quick learners, hard workers, and enjoyed being outdoors. Early on, Dillon showed an interest in tending the garden while Hank had a deft touch with the horses. Rooster Keller, her handyman and right hand, who had arrived in the wake of the massacre and helped her bury the bodies and mark the graves, mentored the boys. She couldn’t recall hiring Rooster. He simply showed up and never left, and now she couldn’t imagine not having him around. If Rooster put her in mind of her father, then Dillon and Hank reminded Laurel of her brothers when she was yet a child. She had a place in her heart for all three of them.
Her fourth hire was a different story. Josiah Pye was a recent addition brought on after Laurel noticed that Rooster was favoring his right hip and walking with a pronounced limp if he didn’t think she was watching. Mr. Pye had been on his way to Stonechurch in expectation of employment and lingered in the yard smoking a cherootwhen the other passengers went into the house for a hasty meal. It was mere happenstance that during the team exchange one of the mares began bucking and kicking and rearing back in such a fierce fashion that Hank and Rooster were in danger of getting caught by a hoof. It was Mr. Pye who took the horse in hand, flinging his cheroot to the ground and swinging himself onto the mare’s bare back. It was a wild ride, attracting Laurel’s attention at the window. She saw the stage driver was staying well clear of the animals as he should, but his riding companion had his shotgun raised in anticipation of putting the mare down.
Mr. Pye made that unnecessary. He rode the mare until she calmed, and when he dismounted, he had words with the man riding shotgun. That confrontation ended with him delivering a blow that put the man on his backside in the dirt. Laurel had no problem with that. She only wished she had delivered the blow.
Over the meal that Mrs. Lancaster served to the passengers in the dining room, Laurel learned that Mr. Pye had honed his horse sense during his service as a Confederate cavalry officer. That lasted until his horse was shot out from under him, and with no replacement available, he became a foot soldier. Officers did not matter so much toward the end of the war.
Without consulting Rooster and with uncharacteristic impulsiveness, Laurel offered Josiah Pye a job before he boarded the stage. If he was surprised by the offer, he gave no indication of it, while she experienced the first frisson of unease as he looked her over in a manner that was more carnal than considering. In Laurel’s mind, there was no reneging on the offer, so when he accepted, that was that.
Mr. Pye proved his worth taking care of the horses. He had a calming influence on the animals and possessed some healing skills as well. He made his own poultices and balms and was able to apply them to even the most recalcitrant animal, and while he was an asset in the horsestalls and the corral, he was, if not quite a liability with miscellaneous chores, certainly a reluctant participant. Laurel had overheard the boys remarking that it was easier to get chores done outside of Josiah’s presence than it was with him hanging around. Depending on the task at hand, Mr. Pye practiced incompetence as if it were an art form, pulling up plants instead of weeds, hammering his thumb instead of the roof tiles, setting fence posts at an angle so they were sure to fall, and spilling more whitewash than he applied. His horse skills would not have been enough to keep him employed, but he didn’t mind milking, retrieving eggs, or butchering the pigs and did those things capably. He was also an excellent cook, which they discovered by accident when Mrs. Lancaster took ill for three days and required her daughter to tend her at home. Mr. Pye volunteered his services in the kitchen but Laurel never seriously considered replacing Mrs. Lancaster. The cook was family.
Rooster and the boys called him Josey, but Laurel maintained a more formal boundary with him by always addressing him as Mr. Pye. She deemed it necessary after that initial sense of discomfort. At first he pointed out that they were of an age as though it should be reason enough to drop the convention, but after a number of attempts to get her to call him Josiah or Josey without success, he finally gave up. It was what Laurel wanted, or thought she did. The fact that he looked secretly amused by her formality made her question the wisdom of her decision.
She did not want to amuse him. If Laurel had her druthers, she would avoid him altogether. It was just not possible. He looked after the horses as if they were his own and made apple fritters that melted on the tongue.
Laurel forgot all about that as she heard the stage approaching and saw a dust cloud rising in the distance. She stepped off the porch and felt the ground vibrate under her feet. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Dillon and Hank had pushed away from the barn and were walking toward her. Rooster and Mr. Pye came from the backyard,where they had been filling the water trough, just as the coach came to a full stop thirty feet from the porch. Laurel waved a hand in front of her face to waft away the accompanying dust.
The business of the Morrison home station was underway.
2
Now that the stagecoach was no longer in motion, the minister removed his hat and poked his head out the window to take in the still view. Like a turtle ducking into its shell, he quickly pulled back. “I thought one of you said Morrison Station was operated by a woman and that she would be greeting us.” His eyes darted to the other occupants as he tried to remember who’d shared that nugget.
Call touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat and levered it upward. Without apology to the minister, he leaned sideways until the window served as a frame for his face. He took measure of the person standing at the foot of the porch steps, chuckled, and drew back, squeezing his shoulders between the minister and the dandy. “Thatisa woman,” he said dryly, “and I can’t say that it doesn’t pain me some that you didn’t know.” Maybe if she offered the Bible-clutching minister an apple, he’d recognize her for what she was. It shouldn’t have mattered that her attire wasn’t traditionally female. Call had required only a glance at the chambray shirt tucked into a pair of denim trousers to identify a trim waist and hips with a definite feminine curve. She wore a buff leather vest and belted the trousers. Suspenders would have hugged her breasts like parentheses, drawing attention to them in a manner he supposed she wanted to avoid. The sleeves of her shirt were neatly folded to her elbows, revealing freckle-dusted forearms and delicate wrists. A slender neckrose above the open collar of her shirt and supported an oval-shaped face. Her hat, like his, shaded her features and hid her hair, but Call suspected when she removed it, he’d see another sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
“Someone open the goddamn door,” said the dandy, coming out from behind his handkerchief. “Sorry, Parson, for the language, but not much.”
The assemblyman reached for the handle at the same time the stagecoach driver pulled the door open. The politician nearly spilled out of the opening, narrowly saving himself at the last moment from going ass over teakettle by clutching either side of the door frame. He lowered his robust physique delicately to the ground, and the weight of the coach shifted noticeably.
“Miss Morrison,” he said, stepping up to greet Laurel. He put out both hands to take hers as if they were dear friends. It was a tactic he used to affect familiarity and warmth. He had met Laurel Beth Morrison on only three occasions, but he knew she wanted to curry his favor as he did hers, so he was in full expectation that she would take up his greeting.
Laurel did. It would have been awkward to do otherwise, but she couldn’t help wishing she were wearing riding gloves. The assemblyman’s palms were hot and damp, and she had never gotten used to the way he drew his thumbs across the backs of her hands. She smiled, nodded, and slid out of his grasp as soon as she was able to manage it politely.
“Mr. Abrams. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I didn’t know you would be on the stage. Business in Stonechurch, I imagine.”
“Indeed. I shall have news for you on my return.”
Laurel smiled, nodded, and then swept her hand toward the house. “You know the way, Mr. Abrams. Please. Make yourself at home. Mrs. Lancaster is putting the spread on the table now and the coffee’s hot.”
Abrams nodded genially and walked confidently pasther with every indication he meant to avail himself of the home station’s hospitality.
Laurel looked to the team of horses and saw that Mr. Pye and Hank had their work well in hand. Dillon was headed back to the barn to bring out the fresh team. Another passenger alighted from the stage, but Laurel spoke to the driver first.
“Hey, Brady. It looks as if you ran your team hard. Was there some reason you were in more of a hurry than usual?”
Brady swept his hat off and slapped it against his thigh. Dust motes collected in a beam of sunlight. “For no good reason that I know, Holloway was running late so I wanted to make up some time. Plus, I have me a passenger that asked to ride shotgun. For all kinds of good reasons, I didn’t trust that.”
Laurel nodded. Brady—she’d never known him to say whether it was his first or last name—was an experienced driver and a little full of himself as so many of the whips were. He’d been with Henderson Express since its earliest days. She remembered him from when she was a young girl and her father had gotten the contract for the home station. Sometimes he let her clamber up the stage to sit with him on the bench. He always had a bag of sugar treats for her. He reached inside a pocket in his duster and drew out a bag now. She grinned when he flicked his wrist and tossed it to her. Laurel caught the paper poke and peeked inside. “Lemon drops. My favorite.”
The creases in Brady’s weathered face deepened as he flashed a grin in return. “You only have favorites. I learned that a long time ago. Enjoy.” He was all business again as he slapped his hat on his head, covering the salt-and-pepper hair that was still as thick and full as it had been in his youth. “Did I hear you say Mrs. Lancaster’s got a spread for us?”
“Doesn’t she always?” Laurel would have pointed him to the house, but he was already on his way, pausing justlong enough to call out admonishments to Mr. Pye and Hank to have a care for his animals.
Amused, Laurel let him go on and then stepped to greet the next pair of passengers to alight from the carriage. At a glance she knew that neither of these men was guilty of asking to ride shotgun. The minister had his hands full of his Bible and the drummer wouldn’t part with his case. They introduced themselves as Reverend Marshall, the newly appointed minister for Stonechurch’s Presbyterian flock, and Samuel Littlejohn, a supplier of the finest tonics for a variety of ailments.
Laurel welcomed them and sent them toward the house, mentioning in a quiet aside to the vaguely malodorous minister that the privy was out back.
The heavily bearded John Spellman came next. Laurel recognized him as a miner from his faintly stooped posture and wiry frame. He was indeed looking for work in Stonechurch and she wished him well. As he headed toward the house in search of sustenance that she thought he desperately needed, the fifth passenger alighted from the stage and introduced himself as Thomas Brandywine, reporter for theNew York World. She waited until he’d neatly folded and carefully tucked his handkerchief into a pocket before she held out a hand. He took it lightly in his, squeezing it with such gentle pressure that Laurel was tempted to wrestle him to the ground just because she could. He was a little worse for the wear from the tight confines of the stage, but his stiff collar was still in place and most of the creases in his suit were meant to be there. Sunlight glanced off his spectacles so she couldn’t make out his eyes immediately, but when he tilted his head to the side and made a rather calculating assessment of her person, Laurel concluded he was as narrow-minded as he was narrow-eyed. If she figured at all into whatever story he was preparing to write, she did not expect to fare well in the telling.
