No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(71)
Emma tossed what she hoped was a confident smile at the aunts. “I’ll be careful.” Then she ducked out the door before the rising tide of her own worries dragged her under.
Clutching her rifle in her right hand so she could have it ready in a flash, she trotted down the road after the boy and horse. The pair traveled at an unhurried clip, so she caught up to them quickly.
The dun gelding—yep, a male, just as she’d suspected—snorted and tossed his head when she cut in front of him, but he didn’t buck or rear. A well-trained beast, even if he was ugly as a shriveled potato coated with mud. He had a chunk missing from one ear, a charcoal-gray mane that had been chopped off to a ridiculously short length, a big blotch of white on the left side of his rump, and a body that could either be gray with brown specks or brown with gray specks depending on how much color came from road dust. The horse held his head up like a king, though, and looked down on her with effrontery for interrupting his jaunt.
But it wasn’t the horse that concerned her. It was the rider.
Emma reached a hand up to stroke the gelding’s nose while at the same time swinging her rifle up to her shoulder to make sure the boy saw she was armed.
“Welcome to Harper’s Station, young man. What’s your business?” Emma smiled at the boy, but she examined him, too. Searched for weapons, for lumps beneath his shirt that might indicate something hidden. Did a mental tally of how much gear he carried. And frowned. A lot of gear. A small trunk tied behind the cantle. Bulging saddlebags. As if the kid was planning on moving in.
“Well?” She raised a brow at him.
He held her gaze. “My business is my own,” he said, his chest puffing up with bravado even as his fingers trembled ever so slightly around the reins he held.
The tremble softened her. The boy couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve years old, yet here he was, traveling alone and putting up a brave front when confronted by a bossy female with a rifle. She knew all too well what it felt like to stand up to someone stronger with only one’s wits and pride.
Lowering her gun, she came alongside him, still craning her neck to keep an eye on his face. “Don’t worry.” She warmed her tone to something almost friendly and patted the horse’s neck, inches away from the boy’s knee. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just that we’ve been having trouble around these parts lately, and we’re a little shy of strangers. However, that’s no excuse for poor hospitality. Why don’t you hop down, and I’ll help you find whoever you’re looking for.”
He snorted. “I ain’t gonna fall into that trap, lady. The minute I get off this horse, I lose my advantage. I’m not some fool kid who ain’t got a clue how the world works. Who says I’m lookin’ for somebody, anyway? I ain’t.” He sat up straighter in the saddle and sniffed loud and long. He raised his chin at a cocky angle as if thoroughly satisfied with his efforts to appear masculine. “I’m lookin’ for work,” he said, his gaze aimed somewhere to the left of her face. “I’m real good with horses. Got experience working at a forge, too. I’m a right handy feller to have around.”
Emma bit back a grin. “I’m sure you are. But I’m afraid we have no livery in Harper’s Station. Nor a smithy.”
His blue eyes widened with incredulity as they found her gaze. “No livery? What kind of town ain’t got a livery?”
“Harper’s Station is a women’s colony.”
His brow scrunched. “A what?”
“A women’s colony. Only women live here. We run businesses, farms, and manufacture goods to sell. Few of our ladies own horses, so we’ve no need of a livery. If we require a blacksmith or farrier for the horses we do have, we simply travel into Seymour to have the work done.”
“I never heard of no women runnin’ businesses. ’Ceptin’ maybe a laundry. Well . . . and the pleasure houses.” He eyed her closely. “You look too proper for that kinda work, though. And too sober. My ma used to say the drink made the entertainin’ easier. ’Course, it couldn’t have been too easy, ’cause she drank all the time and still ended up dead.” He made the heartbreaking statement with all the pragmatism of a teller reciting his account figures at closing time. “What kinda business do you run?” Skepticism laced his tone. “Maybe I can work for you.”
Emma smoothed the front of her bodice. “I’m a banker.” Pride infused her words, as it always did. Yet this time she felt a great deal of gratitude as well—gratitude that she wasn’t forced to make her living with backbreaking toil, or worse, on her actual back. Maybe she should find work for this boy. “Are you any good with sums?”
“A lady banker?” He scoffed. “Yer pullin’ my leg.”
Then again, maybe she should just push the chauvinistic man-child off his horse.
Emma sighed. No. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t imagine anything as far-fetched as a lady banker. Most males couldn’t. It was probably a defect in the gender as a whole. So instead of pushing him off the horse, she gave him the stare instead. The one that dared him to see past the expected to the possible.
The boy quit laughing. “No foolin’?”
“No foolin’.” There was hope for this one yet. “My bank is just down the road a piece.” She nodded her head in the direction. “I can give you a tour later, if you want.” She held her hand out to him. “I’m Emma Chandler, by the way.”