“If it’s all the same, I’d like to wash up.” He held up his hands.
Rooster chuckled. “I guess your mama raised you right.”
“My mother and all of my aunts. I don’t aim to disappoint them now.” He used a forefinger to raise the broad brim of his hat. “And I wouldn’t mind washing the grit from my eyes.”
Laurel blinked, struck by what fine eyes they were. Gunmetal gray, with a touch of silver glinting in the sunlight, they were direct, without cunning, but not without cleverness. His eyes had tiny creases at the corners, possibly from years outdoors, squinting in the daylight, but his affection for his hat made her suspect that the creases were laugh lines.
Laurel drew back from staring into his eyes to take in the whole of his face. His features had been chiseled by a careful hand, the jawline marked by a neatly trimmed beard, his upper lip made more distinct by the mustache that followed its curve. She was still regarding him with uncharacteristic interest when he grinned at her. It was an easy grin, like his walk. Untroubled. Unhurried. Relaxed. It also revealed a perfect set of pearlies that had probably never seen a dentist. That just wasn’t fair. She had nearly had her jaw broken by the traveling dentist who removed two of her wisdom teeth. She’d looked like a nut-hoardingchipmunk for weeks following the operation, and sometimes if she sneezed too hard, her jaw would still lock.
To Laurel’s way of thinking, McCall Landry’s teeth were just one flawless feature too many. She was grateful when Rooster pointedly cleared his throat and drew her attention away from that grin, those eyes, and that jawline.
“Pump’s around back. You can wash up there. Rooster will show you.” Laurel turned abruptly and headed to the house.
Rooster watched her for a few seconds, shaking his head, frowning as he scratched behind one of his ears. “Strange, that.”
“How so?”
Rooster didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud or that he was frowning at Laurel’s back. His frown was more quizzical than disapproving, but he hadn’t meant to be an open book to anyone, certainly not someone who had no business with Morrison Station except washing up and getting a decent meal.
“Nothing,” he said and started off to the pump. “This way.”
Call shrugged. He hadn’t really expected an explanation. Laurel Beth Morrison struck him as unaffected, straightforward, and possibly naïve about her attractiveness. Of course, the preacher hadn’t recognized her for a woman, so perhaps she was more self-aware and her manner of dress was as much a disguise as it was a practical consideration.
He fell in step beside the man called Rooster. He was curious about the name but let it go. “You’ll be careful with my gun?”
“Just going to put it up in the smokehouse till you’re ready to go. No one will touch it.”
Call nodded, satisfied. He observed that Rooster was still carrying the belt in two hands, palms up, as if it were an offering. That was the kind of respect the weapon deserved. Rooster was correct that it was Army issue; it justhadn’t been issued to him. The Colt had saved his life, though, or more accurately its previous owner had, so he had a certain attachment to the weapon and the man who willed it to him with his final words.
At the pump, Call removed his hat, sluiced fresh cold water on his face and neck, and made runnels in his cinnamon-colored hair with damp fingers. There was no towel and Rooster didn’t offer to get him one, so Call shook out his hands and rubbed his face dry. When he was finished, he put on his hat and at Rooster’s direction went around to the front of the farmhouse while Rooster went off to secure the gun.
Following the tantalizing scent of hot bacon, Call found his fellow passengers and their driver sitting around a large oaken table in the station’s generously sized dining room. They were helping themselves to equally generous portions of the cook’s fare. In the case of the portly attorney, a second generous helping seemed to be finding its way to his plate.
Call saw that there was indeed room for him at the table. He doubted it was planned, but the empty chair put him between the driver and the station’s owner. Miss Morrison was the only person at the table who did not have a plate in front of her, but she participated in passing food and in the lively conversation. Call was glad she hadn’t been on the stage. He’d have never had a moment’s sleep for all the chatter.
He dropped a dollar and two bits in the money jar and took his place at the table. Platters of food made their way to him. The fare was still warm. Fried eggs. Crisp bacon. There was honey and sweet cream butter for the biscuits. Brown Apple Betty also made the rounds. No one saved it for dessert. The meal was eaten as a whole and washed down with coffee or green tea. Morrison Station did not serve beer or liquor but the drummer spoke in favor of Miss Morrison adding a bar or at least a sideboard and offering thirsty travelers another choice. The good reverend, his Bible lying beside his plate as he had a utensil ineach hand, spoke to the opposing view. Call was not surprised when Laurel ended it diplomatically with the promise to take it all under advisement. She did point out that there was a saloon in town if anyone wanted to imbibe and risk missing the stage. Brady spoke up and warned them he waited for no man, but in the event that wasn’t a consideration, Miss Morrison did sell tickets for the next available coach to Stonechurch.
Everyone stayed seated.
Brady was the first to excuse himself. He pushed his plate away, patted his belly, and stood. “Easy, gentlemen. I have the mailbag to fetch. There’s time yet. I’ll give you fair warning when I’m ready to leave. There’ll be slow going ahead of us. Inclines as steep as any you’re likely to encounter. Some of you will prefer walking to riding.”
By Call’s estimation, the stopover was not yet forty-five minutes long. Still, that was an eternity compared to the brief rests at the living stations, where the teams were exchanged with such efficiency the passengers barely had time to get out and stretch.
When Brady started to go, Laurel held up a hand to get his attention. “Where’s your shotgun, Brady? You never said what happened to him.”
“Drunk.” He shrugged. “Suppose Digger’s sober by now but he’ll reek for days. I reckon you know where I stand on you serving liquor. There’s no help for a man who can’t hold his own.”
Laurel nodded and let him leave without comment.
One by one the men excused themselves to answer calls of nature before Brady reappeared and announced he was ready to go. As the last at the table, Call lingered a bit longer while Laurel got up and helped Mrs. Lancaster begin to clear the plates and utensils. The platters, he noticed, had been laid bare except for a single biscuit. He snatched it when the sturdily built cook deliberately tempted him by passing it under his nose. She chuckled as he swept it away.
“Good for you. Don’t be afraid of putting some meaton your bones.” She winked at him. “A gal doesn’t mind having something to squeeze.”
“Mrs. Lancaster!” Laurel wasn’t sure why she was blushing, but she was and wasn’t happy about it.
“Oh, go on with you, girl.” To Call she said, “You don’t mind a bit of flirting, do you?”
“If your husband doesn’t mind, then I don’t.” He winked back at her and she dramatically held the empty platter up to her heart and sighed. “I imagine that means he doesn’t.”
