CHAPTER 6
A RIDE HOME
Later that day
At six o’clock, Ella Mae folded up her sewing into a basket and took one last look around the store before she stepped outside. As she turned to lock the door, an image of John once again flashed before her mind’s eye, and the oddest sensation rushed down her spine. Flutterbies danced about in her stomach, and frissons of pleasure skittered beneath her skin.
Inhaling softly, Ella Mae paused a moment before she turned to head east.
She nearly collided with John O’Connor.
Giving a start, she stared up at him. Had she conjured him into existence with her thoughts?
“Oh, pardon me, Mr. O’Connor.” She stepped back and curtsied. “I did not see you there.”
The expression on the man’s face was by no means pleasant. In fact, the stablehand looked as if he had worked himself into some sort of rage, his face red and his fists on his hips.
“Why, whatever is wrong, Mr. O’’Connor?” she asked, her eyes widening in fright. “Was something wrong with the bridles?” The patch he wore over one eye made him appear far too menacing.
“Where do you think you’re going, my lady?”
Ella Mae blinked and glanced about. “Well, home, sir. It’s after six o’clock.”
His expression grew more fearsome—if that was even possible. “Alone?”
She shook her head. “Oh, goodness, no. My father arranged a ride for me. He said I’m to go to the lobby of the DeSoto House Hotel, and someone I know would be there to drive me home.”
John’s fierce expression softened. “Oh. Uh...” He swallowed and briefly closed his eye. “Forgive me. I feared you were intending to walk home by yourself,” he muttered.
Ella Mae scoffed with indignation. “Not with the lead miners coming into town for their ales,” she replied. There weren’t nearly as many of them now as there had been before the California Gold Rush—those who had left did so for the prospect of a better life, and with the war, even fewer were left to work in the mines. Still, it was never safe to be out after dark unescorted.
Even in the golden hour, when the sun was setting and the downtown was cast in a wash of yellow light to match the leaves on most of the trees, Ella Mae could see the stablehand was embarrassed. “Would you care to walk with me to the hotel so I won’t be alone?”
He glanced toward the stable. “Uh, of course.” He didn’t offer an arm but merely walked beside her as they made their way. “About the masquerade ball,” he said suddenly.
“Yes?” she responded, hiding the surprise she felt at hearing him bring up the topic. “Have you decided to attend?”
“I’ll be there,” he stated. “Seeing as how I already have a mask of sorts.” He lifted a hand to indicate his eye patch.
She resisted the urge to grin. “Ah, but what costume will you wear to go with it? Will you be a pirate, perhaps? Or a?—”
“I was thinking I could be a highwayman,” he stated, arching his brow as if he was waiting for her reaction.
A frisson passed through Ella Mae, and she knew he heard her inhalation of breath. “You would wear a black cloak over all black clothes and carry... what? A gun and a riding crop?” She wasn’t sure why she felt excitement at imagining him in such an outfit.
“Probably not the gun,” he replied, humor sounding in his voice. They had nearly reached the DeSoto, and he indicated an old phaeton parked in front. “Your carriage awaits, my lady,” he said, bowing slightly as he held out his arm to indicate the black equipage hitched to a Bay.
Ella Mae stared at him a moment before her attention went to the front doors of the DeSoto House Hotel and back to him. Is that why he had asked if she would agree to go on a ride with him? Except... “My father arranged foryouto give me a ride home?” she asked in surprise.
“He even paid me,” he replied dryly. “Although I can’t think whyheisn’t driving you himself.”
“Oh, that’s because he and my mother have gone to Dubuque for their wedding anniversary,” she explained, her attention on the phaeton. She didn’t notice him screw up his face in confusion.
“Huh,” he murmured.
Doing her best not to keep her mouth from dropping open, she continued to regard the phaeton and then the horse with a look of uncertainty. “I’ve never ridden on one of these,” she said, attempting to quell her nervousness. A phaeton required the riders to sit on a bench. A rather small bench. At least this one had a pole she could cling to whilst they negotiated corners, for otherwise she was quite sure she would slide off the bench and end up on her bum in the street.
“Would you like some help?” he asked, taking the sewing basket from her. He stowed it on the back of the phaeton, in a rack large enough for a small trunk.
