Chapter Three
RUTHANN CLUTCHED HERreticule as poor Mr. McGregor took another step toward her. He was uncomfortably close, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.
“Itoldhim, Miss Ruthann, Itoldhim—”
Out of nowhere, a man grabbed hold of Mr. McGregor’s arm and turned him squarely around so that he was facing away from Ruthann. Mr. McGregor stumbled a little, but the hand wrapped around his arm held him tight.
“You need to back away from the lady.” The voice connected to the hand that held on to Mr. McGregor sounded low but familiar.
Ruthann’s heart thumped, and she pushed herself out from behind Mr. McGregor. There, holding fast to the man the entire town tended to look after, stood Nate Harper. He was older, his jaw more angled, his dark hair shorter, his shoulders broader, but Ruthann would recognize him anywhere. And when he turned those brown eyes toward Ruthann, her breath caught in her throat.
He looked her up and down, and something in his face flickered. Ruthann’s heart fairly yearned to see him smile at her, but instead he kept his hardened expression in place and said, “Miss Joliet, is this fellow bothering you?”
Miss Joliet? The formality of it all sent a giggle up Ruthann’s throat, which she strangled with a cough. “He is not,” she finally managed to say. “And I’ll thank you to let the poor man’s arm go. Mr. McGregor was merely telling me about the new shipment of pencils that arrived at the general store. He does love his pencils. Mr. McGregor, this is Nate Harper. Nate, this is Finnegan McGregor.” She gave Mr. McGregor an encouraging smile.
That seemed to lift his spirits, and once again, he began animatedly talking about his collection of pencils and how he might purchase another to add to it. The expression on Nate’s face relaxed as it became clear he realized Mr. McGregor was hardly a threat to an insect, much less a woman. He let the man’s arm go and politely listened to his ramblings.
“Perhaps,” Ruthann said in the space it took Mr. McGregor to take a breath, “we ought to walk home with you? I imagine Sarah is beginning to worry.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, that would be nice,” Mr. McGregor said, his usual smile still upon his face.
That decided, Ruthann looped an arm around the older man’s elbow. “Would you like to come?” she asked Nate.
He looked across the road at something, and then quickly back to her and nodded, still as stoic as he was before. And as they began walking—and Mr. McGregor began speaking again, this time about his sister Sarah’s homemade biscuits—Ruthann found her eyes drifting back toward Nate.
When had he become so serious? The boy who had stolen a kiss from her before he’d left town had been lighthearted and jovial. He’d been as quick with a teasing quip as with a smile. He was no longer a boy, that was for certain, but it looked as if his entire personality had changed too. And there was something about his eyes, something dark and faraway and somewhat sad.
Nate walked quietly alongside them, murmured a polite greeting to Sarah McGregor when they delivered her brother safely home at the edge of town, and then said nothing as they began the walk back into town.
If there was to be conversation, it appeared as if the responsibility for it lay with Ruthann. And shesodesperately wanted conversation with Nate Harper.
“It’s good to have you back home, Nate.” She refused to call himMr. Harper.
He gave a quick nod. “It was time.”
What did that mean? Feeling as if it were rude to pry, Ruthann searched for another topic. “My brother said you were starting a photography business. Is that true?”
“It is.” He looked resolutely ahead.
“How fascinating. How did you learn to operate a photograph camera?”
“In the Army.” He paused, as if he were considering whether to elaborate. “A fellow working for a publication back East came to take photographs of the Great Western Army, as he put it. He was especially enamored with the cavalry.” The ghost of a smile lifted Nate’s lips, and for a second, Ruthann saw the boy she knew.
“He stayed for nearly a year, following us around and setting up his camera. I found the equipment and the process fascinating, and he was kind enough to show me how it all worked. Before he left, I’d ordered myself a camera. The officers humored me, especially because it made the men happy to have photographs to send home. I’d even set up a makeshift darkroom.”
“How interesting! And now you’ve decided to go into business with it?” Ruthann had a million other questions, none of which she dared ask. For instance, why hadn’t he written them in all those years? Hadn’t he missed her brother? Hadn’t he missedher?
“I have.” Nate had grown quiet again, as if he’d used up his allotted words when he’d spoken of learning about photography.
Pushing the urgent, yet embarrassing questions in her mind away, Ruthann asked, “What of your horse?” She’d loved Apollo, a sleek chestnut gelding Nate had saved every hard-earned penny for when they were young.
“He died some years ago.” Nate’s expression didn’t change, and he didn’t offer any further explanation.
Ruthann pressed her lips together, hoping she hadn’t caused him any distress. And yet . . . he was making conversation so very difficult. It oughtn’t be left up to one person to carry the weight of the conversation, and yet here she was, trying to think of another question. It made a girl wonder if the fellow next to her had any interest in conversing at all.
“What—” she said at the exact moment he said, “How—”
