He did not deny it. He gave the reins a little snap instead and lifted his chin toward the horizon. “Look there. You can just make out the house sitting low on the curve of the earth.” He risked a second glance at Jane’s profile and saw nothing in her finely etched features that hinted at her thoughts.
CHAPTER 4
Jane’s eyes never strayed from the house as they approached. She wanted to take in everything about it. Morgan wrote about the house at Morning Star in his first response to her inquiry, but it was clear to her that he viewed it as a shelter from the storm, not a home. In Jane’s mind, it should be both.
The long log house was larger than she had permitted herself to believe it could be. She said nothing to Morgan about the photographs of rough-hewn cabins that she had seen and upon which she had based her expectations. This house looked solidly built, the mortar lines straight and parallel to one another, the corners squared off at what appeared to be true right angles. It sat low to the ground and was so wide that it looked as if it squatted on the land. The house was sturdy, in service of its purpose, and had none of the architectural embellishments that distinguished Manhattan mansions along the avenue.
From what she could tell at a distance, and then again as they drew closer, the house was in good repair. The porch did not run the length of the front of the house, but it was long and wide enough to hold a swing. That swing, she noted, looked as if it had recently been given a fresh coat of white paint, and the thought that this might have been done in anticipation of her coming to Morning Star both warmed Jane and made her anxious.
The windows were glass, another feature she had not been certain she could expect, and where the sun did not reflect too brightly, she could see lace curtains framing them on the inside. The empty flower boxes beneath the windows were also freshly painted, and Jane permitted herself the indulgence of imagining what she might plant there.
As Morgan guided the buckboard abreast of the house, Jane’s eyes were drawn to the large door front and center. In contrast to the dark, weathered frame of the house, the door was varnished and polished so that it fairly gleamed from under the protective roof of the porch.
Jane stayed in her seat as directed until Morgan secured the horse and wagon. She took his hand when he offered it and let him assist her descent. It fell to her to release his hand when she was steady, but Jane held it longer than that because there was comfort and calm in his support.
“What are those buildings?” she asked, pointing off to her right.
“Woodshed. Smokehouse. That’s the barn next to the corral. The bunkhouse is on the other side of the barn. Hard to see from this angle, but the men have a good view of the road leading up here from where they are.”
As Jane’s eyes were drawn to search for the outbuilding, a figure appeared on the far side of the corral. “Someone is coming.”
“I see him. That’s Jem Davis. I think I mentioned him. He’s the one set on marrying Renee Harrison.”
“Cecilia Ross’s cousin.”
“Yes. That’s the one. Did you see Renee at the Pennyroyal this morning?” When Jane nodded, Morgan added, “Good. Because Jem will want every detail. It’s better if you don’t have to make them up.”
Jane clutched the sleeve of Morgan’s duster as he turned back to the house. “Who am I?” she asked. “I mean, who are you going to say I am?”
“If I know Jem, I won’t have to say anything. He’ll figure it out for himself.” He gestured to the front door. “This way. He’ll come in the back.”
In the entryway, Jane allowed Morgan to help her remove her coat and scarf. She gave him her gloves but kept her hat. He hung her things on a hook beside the door before he shrugged out of his coat and took off his hat and gloves. He put his outerwear next to hers.
It was the first time Jane had seen his gun belt and holster. She stared at the weapon at his side.
Morgan unfastened the belt and held it out to her. “Would you like to see it?”
Jane leaned in for a closer examination but kept her arms at her sides. “Is it safe for me to touch?”
“If you don’t squeeze anything. Here.” Morgan unstrapped the holster and removed the revolver by its pearl handle. He tossed the belt over his shoulder, freeing his hand. He opened the Colt’s cylinder, took out the bullets, and pocketed them before he reversed his grip and held the gun out to Jane by the barrel. “It’s empty. Now I’m certain it’s safe for you to touch.”
Still, she took it gingerly. The pearl grip was cool and smooth in her palm. “Is this what is called a six-shooter?”
“Some call it that. Folks also call it a Peacemaker, though I’ve always thought that name mocks it some. It’s a .45-caliber centerfire, made by Colt and mostly favored by lawmen and shopkeepers. I like it because it’s lighter than other models, accurate, and the short four-inch barrel means it clears the holster easily.”
“The fast draw,” she said. When he did not comment, Jane looked up at him. She sighed. “It’s another fiction, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so. Leastways, I never saw it practiced or done. No shootouts at high noon either, none that are actually scheduled anyway. I guess it made for some exciting reading for you.”
She had to admit that it had. “I’m not disappointed by the facts,” she said. “Only surprised by them.”
Morgan took back the revolver, holstered it, and then set the belt on the entry table. “For a rifle, I favor a Winchester. There are three resting in a rack by the back door. More in the bunkhouse. No one rides the property without a rifle in his saddle scabbard. That’s something you’d have to get used to. I don’t suppose you had guns in your home.”
“Not a one.”
“Do you object to learning how to shoot?”
“Object? No. I should like that.” Given the way Morgan was studying her, Jane was not certain that he believed her. “I have always admired Annie Oakley.” She paused, frowned, and regarded him with consternation. “She’s real, isn’t she? Annie Oakley is real.”
