Courting Miss Callie. Dorothy Clark

to collect himself and cleared his throat. “Truthfully, miss, I was wondering if there is work I could do in exchange for something to eat?”

      So he was not known to her aunt. She opened her mouth to refuse, but his stomach rumbled, and she bit back her words. She hadn’t the heart to turn away a hungry man. At least he hadn’t complimented her to win his way, as the wealthy, elite men in Buffalo were wont to do. She ignored her unease and handed him the basket. “Follow me.” Not a very gracious response perhaps, but she was heartily sick of men.

      The hems of her long skirts whispered against the wood as she climbed the steps, crossed the wide porch and entered the back door. The smell of the beef stew she had simmering over the fire filled the kitchen. The man’s stomach rumbled again. “Set the basket there on the worktable, then hang your jacket on one of those pegs and have a seat.” She swept her hand toward the smaller dining table against the wall. “I’ll bring you some food.”

      “You’re most kind.”

      The man removed his knit hat, winced and shoved it into his pocket, shrugged out of his plaid wool jacket and lowered himself into a chair. There was something careful about his movements. Was he injured? Is that why he was not working? Spring was such a busy time of the year for loggers.

      She pushed aside her contemplations, took a knife, fork and dish from the hutch, crossed to the fireplace, ladled a large serving of stew onto the dish from the iron pot hanging from the crane and walked to the table.

      The man glanced up at her, raised his hand and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He looked uncomfortable about it. But most loggers let their beards grow until they came to town. She placed the dish in front of him.

      “Thank you.”

      Her nod set the wisps of black curls around her face aflutter. She brushed them back off her forehead. “There is more stew should you wish it. I’ll get you some bread and butter.”

      The logger offered quiet thanks for the food, and then there was the click of the fork against the dish. His prayer took away some of her unease, but still there was something odd about the situation. The man was begging food, yet the blue wool shirt he wore looked new, as did his jacket, pants and boots. Well, no matter. He would soon be gone.

      She uncovered a loaf of bread and cut off two thick slices, grabbed the crock of butter from the basket he’d carried in for her, returned to the table and gasped.

      The man jerked his head up, winced.

      “You’ve a nasty wound on your head, Mr....”

      “Ryder.” He lowered his fork to his plate and stood. “My apologies, miss. I thought there was only a lump, not a visible wound or I would not have subjected you to—”

      She banged the bread plate down on the table and looked straight into his astonished gaze. “I am not a delicate flower that must be pampered and coddled, Mr. Ryder! I have seen wounds worse than yours. I was merely surprised by it. Now please sit down and eat your meal. That wound needs care. I will tend to it when you are finished.”

      “You’re very kind, miss, but I can’t permit—”

      She jutted her chin up a notch and stared at him.

      A puzzled look flickered in his blue eyes. He gave a small nod. “Very well.” He sat, took a bite of the stew, then lifted a piece of the bread from the plate and dipped his knife in the butter.

      Heat spread across her cheeks. Perhaps she had reacted too strongly, but she was so tired of men seeing only her beauty and none of her worth. She’d come back to Pinewood to escape that—at least for a little while.

      Her long skirts flared out at her pivot, swishing over the tops of her shoes as she strode to the stove. She poured warm water from the iron teakettle into a large bowl, moved to the dry sink and draped a few clean cloths from the bottom shelf over her arm, snatched a small, covered crock from a shelf and walked back to the table.

      The man crossed his knife and fork on his empty dish. “My compliments, miss. That stew is the best I have ever eaten.”

      “There’s nothing like hunger to refine the palate.” He had praised her cooking. She smiled, set the crock and bowl on the table and glanced at him. He was staring at her with that look she so hated. Her hands tightened on the bowl of water. If he told her she was beautiful, she would—

      “Callie dear, I’ve been thinking about—” Her Aunt Sophia swept into the room, stopped and stared. “And who are you, sir?”

      The logger rose and made her a polite bow. “Mr. Ezra Ryder, at your service, madam.”

      Her aunt’s delicately arched brows rose, her gaze shifted to Callie. She gave a small shrug. “Mr. Ryder asked if there was work he could do in exchange for a meal, Aunt Sophia.” She dropped one of the cloths into the bowl of warm water. “Is there something you needed? I was about to tend a wound on Mr. Ryder’s head.”

      “Nothing that can’t wait, dear. Please be seated, Mr. Ryder.” Sophia came to the table, glanced at the man’s wound then took the chair opposite him.

      She recognized the expression in Sophia’s eyes from her days of youthful escapades with her friends. A smile tugged at her lips. Her aunt would soon know all about the logger. She squeezed the excess water out of the cloth and held it on the lump at the crown of Ezra Ryder’s head to loosen the dried blood.

      “How did you injure yourself, Mr. Ryder?”

      Her smile grew. Sophia’s inquisition had begun.

      “I was ambushed by two men intent upon relieving me of my...wages.”

      Why had he hesitated? She frowned and moved the position of the wet cloth.

      “Here in Pinewood?”

      “No. I was attacked in Dunkirk on my way here.”

      “Greed makes men do evil things.” The words left a bitter taste in Callie’s mouth. Her father was numbered among the greedy. Why else would he plan to sell her hand in marriage to the highest bidder? Her stomach knotted. She looked down, rinsed out the cloth then applied it to the wound again.

      “Sadly, that’s true, Callie. And what brings you to Pinewood, Mr. Ryder? Are you seeking employment as a logger? Or a sawyer or teamster?”

      “I came to visit a distant cousin...Johnny Taylor. But I was told by the clerk in the mercantile that Johnny and a man by the name of Arnold Dixon quit their jobs and headed west a few days ago.”

      Johnny Taylor and Arnold Dixon. Thomas Hunter’s friends. The men who had so frightened Willa. Was Ezra Ryder of the same ilk? She frowned, turned the cloth over and again held it on Ezra Ryder’s bowed head. “What a shame your cousin didn’t know to expect you, and you made your journey in vain.”

      “Yes, indeed.” The sympathy in Sophia’s voice belied the sharpened look in her eyes. “Were you close with your cousin, Mr. Ryder?”

      “No, not at all. I know him only from when we were young boys, and my uncle brought his family to visit us on the farm. My visit here was to renew our acquaintance.”

      There was something underlying the ring of truth in Ezra Ryder’s deep voice—something he wasn’t telling. Her shoulders tensed. She detested lies and subterfuge. And disdained the men that indulged in them. In her experience, they were many. She dabbed the softened blood from his hair, dropped the cloth in the water, dried her hands on the long white apron that covered her blue wool dress and opened the small crock.

      “So you are without funds, and without a place to stay?”

      “Thanks to those thieves, and my cousin’s leaving town, yes. That is why I inquired if there is work I can do in exchange for my meal...and perhaps a place to sleep?”

      “I see.” Sophia glanced around. “I’m sure there is something...”

      “The stables need a thorough cleaning.” A cheeky suggestion. It