allow her to shirk the responsibility. She despised having to be anywhere near that peddler, but more than likely she’d find Mr. Lemming in his office and wouldn’t have to set eyes on that no-good.
Or so she hoped.
Outside the livery, Mary waved to Red, the freckle-faced hired hand, dumping a wheelbarrow of manure he’d mucked from the stalls. As the odor reached her nostrils on the brisk breeze, she wrinkled her nose and hurried inside.
Mr. Lemming wasn’t in his office. Mary set the bottle on his desk, tempted to leave. But, her father had asked her to stress the importance of taking the medicine. Her heart skipped a beat. Searching for the owner could bring her face-to-face with that peddler. As she hustled past stalls, the horses’ gazes followed her progress with large doleful eyes, probably hoping for a treat or a pat.
Up ahead, Luke Jacobs filled a bucket from the trough. Mary skidded to a stop, her heart tap-dancing in her chest. The sight of all those muscles rippling beneath his shirt held her transfixed, powerless to move.
Oh, yes, he most definitely was trouble.
He raised his head and their eyes met. Butterflies danced low in her belly. Slowly, he straightened. “Checking up on me?”
A flush crept up Mary’s neck. He had the audacity to imply she’d followed him. “Certainly not. I’m looking for Mr. Lemming, the owner of this livery. Have you seen him?”
The man had the audacity to smirk, like he didn’t believe her. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of explaining her reason for being here.
“Nope, only a freckle-faced youth who offered to see to my horse, but I prefer taking care of Rosie here myself.”
Mary raised a brow.
“Rosie’s an odd name, I know, but it’s the name she came with when I bought her. I don’t believe in changing a gal’s name unless—”
“Unless it suits your purposes,” she said, spitting out the words, “like trying to humiliate me in front of my neighbors.”
“With your overblown interest in the town’s welfare, I’d say Miss Nightingale suits you.” He waved a hand. “Does your husband have a horse stabled here?”
“I don’t have a husband.” The words popped out of her mouth before her brain could squelch them.
He carried the bucket into the stall, gave his horse a pat, closed the lower door and then turned back to her. “Are you renting a conveyance?”
Why the interrogation? “No.”
He shot her a smug grin. “Hmm, then I’ve got to wonder if you’re following me.”
She huffed. “I most definitely am not!”
Chuckling, he headed toward her with a lazy stride. “Then what reason do you have to see Mr. Lemming?”
Rosie craned her neck, turning a stern eye on Mary. To be censored by the man’s horse was too much. “It’s none of your business.”
At Mr. Jacobs’s approach, her heart leapt to her throat, but she refused to be bullied and stood her ground. Even though her insides rolled like a ship tossed at sea.
He stopped in front of her. “Sorry I can’t be more help locating the owner.”
She harrumphed. “I seriously doubt you care a fig.”
His eyes sparked. “I admire a woman who watches out for her neighbor—but lashing out at whomever you deem a threat must get exhausting.”
Her gaze sought the floorboards. Had she behaved that badly?
With gentle fingers he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Angry or not, you’re a caring woman.”
Something about the rapt look in his eyes kept her rooted to the spot, trapping her breath in her lungs.
“An attractive one too.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. No one had said such things to her in years and years. She hooted her disbelief. She wasn’t some naive, giddy schoolgirl. He’d have to find another target to wile with his charms.
Yet, the compliment clung to her like a terrified toddler during a thunderstorm.
Tentacles of mistrust wrapped around her every muscle and tendon and squeezed. “Why are you really here? What do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to sell my remedy.”
“Is that the only reason?”
For a moment, she saw a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes. But then he flashed a smile, and despite herself, Mary’s gaze traveled to that tiny hollow in his cheek. Inhaling his scent, pleasant, with a hint of spices, she pressed a hand against her bodice, felt the pounding of her heart through the fabric of her dress. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars to leave…today.”
He whistled. “That’s a lot of money, ma’am. You must really want me gone.” He leaned closer. She couldn’t help noticing his eyes resembled the color of roasted coffee beans. “Why, you make a man feel downright unwelcome.”
“Ah, you’ve gotten the message.” She raised her brows. “Finally.”
“It’s a message I won’t be heeding. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” he said softly, but Mary didn’t miss the stubbornness in his tone, like he dared her to disagree. Then he grinned. “Have a pleasant day. If I see the owner, I’ll tell him you asked for him.” And with that, he returned to his horse.
Mary spun on her heel and left the livery, her head held high, her back ramrod straight and her insides quaking like winter wheat in March winds.
Was Sheriff Rogers right? Did Luke Jacobs have an interest in the orphans?
Luke met his horse’s stare. “You’re a female, Rosie. Do you think she followed me? Or did you believe she had a reason to see the livery owner?”
The mare nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. Mute. Then she dipped to the bucket for a drink.
“Guess you gals stick together.”
For some reason he couldn’t explain, he admired that half pint of a woman with her sassy mouth and flashing green eyes. Maybe because she stood up for her convictions.
“Don’t worry, Rosie. I have no intention of getting involved with Miss Nightingale. Or any woman.”
He gave his horse one last pat and then headed for the Whitehall Café, his temporary home. Mrs. Whitehall loved to talk and knew everyone in town. Perhaps she’d offer up additional information that would lead him to his son.
If not, he wouldn’t stop there. Nothing would keep him from Ben.
Nothing and no one.
Mary picked up Ben from the Foleys’,
