“All right. I can afford that.”
When Call agreed to playing, it was with the hope that Laurel would be joining them. She didn’t, though she did come in from time to time when the game grew too quiet or too raucous. He wondered what she was doing in between visits, but on one occasion she came in carrying a book with her finger pressed between the pages to markher place and then he knew. He tried to make out the title and couldn’t, but his effort must have been obvious because she told him it wasWuthering Heightsand that the book, a prized possession, had belonged to her mother.
Call finally played out his hand in response to some pointed throat clearing from Dillon and then Hank. He stayed in the game for a few rounds after Laurel walked out to the porch before he excused himself.
“About damn time,” Rooster said under his breath.
Hank grinned. Dillon chuckled.
Jed Holloway winked at him.
Call cast a sheepish look over his shoulder. Their laughter followed him out the door. So much for not being obvious.
Laurel was sitting on the porch swing, but it wasn’t moving. She’d made herself comfortable sitting with her legs curled sideways under her dress. She looked up when he stepped out of the house.
“You’re out of the game?” she asked. “No more matchsticks?”
“Something like that.” He approached and took up a seat on one of the rockers when she invited him to sit.
“I heard the laughter before you came out. Are you the butt of their amusement?”
“Something like that,” he said again. “I guess it’s no secret that I quit the game because I wanted to be out here with you. At least that’s what they figure.”
“Are they right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
She chuckled. “You are unexpectedly straightforward.”
Call shrugged. “I told you I took the Stonechurch job because I wanted an opportunity to see you again. Can’t see the point in denying it now.”
“Are you courting me, Call?” There was an undertone of teasing in the question.
He liked the fact that she finally said his name without prompting, but her question, even said lightly, deserved to be answered thoughtfully. Was he courting her? It hadn’toccurred to him to think of his interest in those terms. Now he was forced to. He said, “I don’t know what my intentions are.”
“Oh, now I’m disappointed. I think you do know.” When he didn’t reply, Laurel said, “It’s all right. I appreciate that being straightforward has its limits. I know you’re not courting me. That’s a serious business. You have to declare yourself. Apply for permission. Occasionally show up with flowers. Invite me to walk with you.”
“That’s a lot to consider,” he said wryly.
She responded in the same vein. “It can take months. Even years.”
“Years?”
“Uh-huh. Ben Shipley courted Ellen Wanamaker for two and a half years before she agreed to marry him.”
“Marry,” he said, deadpan.
Laurel laughed. “You know that’s generally how a courtship is concluded.”
Call said nothing.
“Your silence is telling,” she said.
“Hmm.”
“I suppose I can admit that I am just this much flattered by your attention if not your intention.”
The dimly lit lamps in the dining room were still sufficiently bright for him to make out that she was holding up one hand with her thumb and forefinger pinched together. “That much, eh?”
