Courting Miss Callie. Dorothy Clark

with that hoof trimmer you was eyein’.”

      Ezra smiled and took the polished case into his hands. “It would have been an awkward, bloody affair all right, but to be rid of this itching on my face would have been worth it.”

      He balanced the case on his flattened palm and flipped the latch. The lid opened a crack, and a faint scent escaped. He sniffed. Witch hazel? He shoved the top up and gaped at the items in the case. A shaving cup, brush and soap, straight razor, strop and mirror, the corked bottle of witch hazel, small towels, scissors, a comb and a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes that rivaled the ones on his washstand at home, all tucked neatly away in their own compartment. His mouth slanted into a wide grin. Queer how circumstances changed your perspective. It felt like he held the riches of the world. “Thank you, Joseph.”

      “Joe’s good enough.” The elderly man headed for the stalls ranged along the side wall. “I heat water for washin’ on the old brick forge in my room at the other end of the barn. There’s still some in the pot. You’d best hurry with your shavin’, it’s ’bout time for breakfast.”

      * * *

      Callie jerked her gaze from Ezra Ryder back to the worktable and wielded the knife she held in a crisscross pattern, dicing the apples she’d peeled and cored. He’d caught her staring. Foolish of her, but gracious the man was handsome without those dark, stubbly whiskers hiding half of his face. And he was younger than she’d thought.

      She stole another look at him through her lowered lashes. He had a sort of stubborn-looking chin, but a nice mouth. And truly lovely eyes. The corners crinkled a little, like he was ready to smile. Heat spread across her cheekbones. Just what was she doing, admiring Ezra Ryder’s good looks? She hated it when people did that to her.

      She buttered a deep bowl, tossed in enough of the chopped apples to make a thick layer, sprinkled them with sugar and a dusting of cinnamon, then added a layer of the diced bread.

      “There any more coffee, Callie?”

      She laughed, dusted the bread crumbs from her hands, and turned to lift the coffeepot from the back of the stove. “One of these mornings I’m going to surprise you and say no, Joe.”

      She grinned at his answering chuckle, and poured the hot coffee into his cup. “Would you like more coffee, Mr. Ryder?”

      “Mr. Ryder?” Joseph dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and fixed a quizzical look on her. “Why’ve you gone all niminy-piminy for? We don’t use last names ’mongst us workers, and he’s workin’ here. His name’s Ezra.” He returned to stirring his coffee.

      She glanced at Ezra Ryder. His dark brows were raised and his blue eyes were bright with awareness. He shot a look toward Joseph then returned his gaze to her. “I would appreciate another cup of your excellent coffee...Callie.”

      “As you wish...Ezra.” Heat shot into her cheeks. She poured his coffee, spun on her heel and hurried to the stove, set the coffeepot on the side to cool and glanced back at the table. Ezra was gazing at her with an odd, unreadable expression on his face.

      She finished layering the remaining apples and bread crumbs into the bowl, put the cover on, then slipped the bowl into the oven. The temptation to look at him again tugged at her. She fought it down and busied herself cleaning off the worktable.

      “Good breakfast, Callie. See ya at supper.” Joe’s chair scraped on the floor. She glanced toward the table, watched him pull on his battered felt hat and limp toward the door.

      Ezra drained his cup and rose.

      “Wait, Mr.—Ezra. Your wound needs more salve.” She lifted the small crock down off the shelf, grabbed a cloth and carried them to the table. “You’ll have to sit down.”

      She avoided his gaze, opened the crock and stepped behind him. “The swelling has gone down some, and the gash is already healing over. It looks much better this morning.” She spread some salve on it, wiped her fingers on the cloth and closed the crock.

      Muted shouts came from outside.

      “What’s that?” Ezra surged to his feet and grabbed his jacket.

      “They’ve started rafting.” She pivoted, grabbed her cloak and turned to the door. He reached around her and opened it. She rushed out onto the porch and hurried over to the steps. “Look!” She pointed to a pair of rafts of lashed-together logs floating down the flood-swollen Allegheny, then looked at him. His face was a study in amazement.

      “I’ve never seen such a thing. Those rafts are huge!” He shrugged into his jacket, took her cloak from her and held it open.

      “It’s quite a sight. I’ve missed seeing them since we moved away.” She stepped beneath the cloak, felt the warmth of his fingers on her neck as he draped it around her shoulders. Smooth fingers, not rough or dry or callused.

      “You don’t live in Pinewood?”

      “No. We moved a few years ago. I’m visiting Aunt Sophia.”

      “I see.” He stepped up beside her and peered out over the rippling water. “What are those shanties in the middle of the rafts?”

      “They’re for cooking and sleeping. See the smoke coming out of the chimney stacks?” She brushed back a curling tendril being stirred by a rising breeze and cast a measuring look at him. “Daniel says people pay to go along on the trip. They take advantage of the opportunity to ride the rafts to Pittsburgh and then head west.”

      “Brave souls.”

      Brave souls? What a strange comment from a logger.

      He glanced up toward the brightening sky and moved to the top of the steps. “I must get to work and earn my bed and board. Thank you for breakfast.” He dipped his head in a polite bow, walked down the steps and headed for the barn.

      His limp wasn’t as pronounced this morning. She stood staring after him a moment, then turned and went inside to clean up the breakfast dishes and check on the pudding she’d put to bake in the oven for dinner. She was certain now that Ezra Ryder was a liar. All loggers and lumbermen knew about rafting the winter’s stockpile of logs down river to market when the spring floods came. Why didn’t he?

      * * *

      “Mmm, that roasting chicken smells delicious, Callie. And what is that you’re peeling? Rutabaga?”

      “Yes.” Why didn’t Ezra leave? She drew her gaze from the window and smiled at her aunt. “I thought I would cream them with some carrots for supper.”

      “That sounds tasty. What’s so interesting outside?”

      “Nothing really. It’s turned into a lovely spring day.” She cut a thick slice from the rutabaga and diced it into a pot full of water.

      Sophia strolled to the window and looked out. “Ezra is watering one of the horses. I must say I’m surprised. I expected he would eat his free meal, sleep the night in the barn, have breakfast this morning and be on his way. That’s what most of the itinerant workers who come begging for food do.”

      She diced the rest of the rutabaga into the pot and picked up another one to peel. “I don’t believe Ezra Ryder is an itinerant worker, Aunt Sophia.”

      Her aunt’s brows rose. “Whatever are you talking about, Callie?”

      She frowned, chopped the peeled rutabaga in half, then cut it into thick slices. “Don’t you find something...odd about him?”

      “Odd? In what way?” Her aunt donned an apron, joined her at the worktable and began slicing the cleaned carrots.

      “Well, in little things.” She glanced out the window. Ezra and the horse were gone. She went back to dicing the rutabaga. “For instance...his clothes are all new, and of good quality.”

      Sophia nodded. “Yes, I noticed that. But logging is a rough business, and if he had finished a long job perhaps his clothes were worn, and he bought