one of the marriageable ladies in Morrow Creek, Mrs. Archer had explained to Élodie. He would settle down with one of them—after Miss Walsh conveniently left town, of course—and Élodie would have a mother again.
It would be easy. And wonderful. Provided Miss Walsh woke up. Maybe she was too puny to inspire Papa’s manly devotion.
“Daisy? Daisy!” Mr. Walsh moaned. He appeared beside himself with worry and altogether indifferent to the women’suncomplimentary talk. “Oh, what have I done? It was only a raffle!”
“It was a very wonderful raffle,” Miss Reardon assured him. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure your sister will be fine.”
Trustingly, Mr. Walsh nodded. His spectacles gleamed in the summer sunlight. He stroked his sister’s face, his gaze full of love and distress. He was dedicated to her, Élodie realized. Any woman who could stir up such affection simply must be good.
That boded well for Élodie. And especially for Papa.
She began to feel excited about the plan again.
“Yes,” Mrs. Archer added. “But we must get Miss Walsh out of this dizzying sunshine and into someplace cooler and calmer.”
Instantly, Élodie recognized her cue. They had not planned this part. But there was only one possible thing to say.
“My papa’s quarters above the stable are cool and calm,” she volunteered in her most innocent tone. “And Papa is the winner of the raffle drawing, too. Why don’t we take Miss Walsh straight there.”
Chapter Eight
E ven by midafternoon, Owen had not forgotten what Miss Reardon had said about him on the train-depot platform.
Just because you always believe the worst of everyone, she’d declared indignantly, doesn’t mean it’s right!
She’d called him a “hard man,” too. A hard man! That, coupled with Thomas Walsh’s reaction to Owen’s questions about the raffle drawing, had left him feeling irritable—and puzzled. Why was he the only one in town who was suspicious and untrusting enough to want to shut down the raffle?
Everyone else saw no problem with the event. That much had been unmistakable from Thomas Walsh’s perplexed looks. But Owen saw myriad problems—all of them stemming from men’s baser natures…natures he was all too familiar with. He’d certainly given free rein to his own freewheeling faults more than a time or two.
Renée had thought she could save him from those faults, Owen recalled as he ushered the last of his boarding horses into a stall and shut the gate behind them. She’d certainlyenumerated those faults to him often enough. And she’d done her best to stamp out Owen’s “reprehensible character,” too. But maybe his wife had been wrong. Maybe, even given more time than she’d had, Renée couldn’t have saved Owen. Not from himself.
Maybe, despite all his efforts, he was beyond redemption.
Weighed down by the notion, Owen strode the length of his stable, double-checking all the horses. The beasts nickered. A few nosed him as he passed by. He found a sweet word and a pat for each one, feeling a little better as he made his rounds.
At the end of the last row, he spied Gus. “I’m closing up early,” he told his helper. “Stable’s full, thanks to all the thieves and miscreants in town today. If you’re done watering and feeding all these beasts, you can go on home.”
Gus eyed him skeptically. “Is this a trick?”
Owen frowned. “Have I ever pulled a trick on you?”
“Far as I know, you ain’t never pulled a trick on nobody. You’re as straight-arrow as they come. Fact is, it wouldn’t go down too poorly if you cut yourself loose once in a while.”
Owen liked hearing that. That meant he’d done well.
“The fella I used to work for woulda had himself a conniption if I’d gone home afore dark.” Gus squinted at the sunshine streaming in. “Near as I can tell, it ain’t dark yet.”
“Well…” Owen thought about it. Blandly, he gazed at Gus. He shrugged. “There’s always horse
It would be easy. And wonderful. Provided Miss Walsh woke up. Maybe she was too puny to inspire Papa’s manly devotion.
“Daisy? Daisy!” Mr. Walsh moaned. He appeared beside himself with worry and altogether indifferent to the women’suncomplimentary talk. “Oh, what have I done? It was only a raffle!”
“It was a very wonderful raffle,” Miss Reardon assured him. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure your sister will be fine.”
Trustingly, Mr. Walsh nodded. His spectacles gleamed in the summer sunlight. He stroked his sister’s face, his gaze full of love and distress. He was dedicated to her, Élodie realized. Any woman who could stir up such affection simply must be good.
That boded well for Élodie. And especially for Papa.
She began to feel excited about the plan again.
“Yes,” Mrs. Archer added. “But we must get Miss Walsh out of this dizzying sunshine and into someplace cooler and calmer.”
Instantly, Élodie recognized her cue. They had not planned this part. But there was only one possible thing to say.
“My papa’s quarters above the stable are cool and calm,” she volunteered in her most innocent tone. “And Papa is the winner of the raffle drawing, too. Why don’t we take Miss Walsh straight there.”
Chapter Eight
E ven by midafternoon, Owen had not forgotten what Miss Reardon had said about him on the train-depot platform.
Just because you always believe the worst of everyone, she’d declared indignantly, doesn’t mean it’s right!
She’d called him a “hard man,” too. A hard man! That, coupled with Thomas Walsh’s reaction to Owen’s questions about the raffle drawing, had left him feeling irritable—and puzzled. Why was he the only one in town who was suspicious and untrusting enough to want to shut down the raffle?
Everyone else saw no problem with the event. That much had been unmistakable from Thomas Walsh’s perplexed looks. But Owen saw myriad problems—all of them stemming from men’s baser natures…natures he was all too familiar with. He’d certainly given free rein to his own freewheeling faults more than a time or two.
Renée had thought she could save him from those faults, Owen recalled as he ushered the last of his boarding horses into a stall and shut the gate behind them. She’d certainlyenumerated those faults to him often enough. And she’d done her best to stamp out Owen’s “reprehensible character,” too. But maybe his wife had been wrong. Maybe, even given more time than she’d had, Renée couldn’t have saved Owen. Not from himself.
Maybe, despite all his efforts, he was beyond redemption.
Weighed down by the notion, Owen strode the length of his stable, double-checking all the horses. The beasts nickered. A few nosed him as he passed by. He found a sweet word and a pat for each one, feeling a little better as he made his rounds.
At the end of the last row, he spied Gus. “I’m closing up early,” he told his helper. “Stable’s full, thanks to all the thieves and miscreants in town today. If you’re done watering and feeding all these beasts, you can go on home.”
Gus eyed him skeptically. “Is this a trick?”
Owen frowned. “Have I ever pulled a trick on you?”
“Far as I know, you ain’t never pulled a trick on nobody. You’re as straight-arrow as they come. Fact is, it wouldn’t go down too poorly if you cut yourself loose once in a while.”
Owen liked hearing that. That meant he’d done well.
“The fella I used to work for woulda had himself a conniption if I’d gone home afore dark.” Gus squinted at the sunshine streaming in. “Near as I can tell, it ain’t dark yet.”
“Well…” Owen thought about it. Blandly, he gazed at Gus. He shrugged. “There’s always horse
Similar Books
