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A Change of Scenery

By Davalynn Spencer

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A Change of Scenery

Davalynn Spencer

Wilson Creek Publishing
 

~

For man looketh on the outward appearance,
but the Lord looketh on the heart.

—1 Samuel 16:7

~


CHAPTER ONE
Cañon City, Colorado
June 5, 1911
The gun shot rooted Ella to the concrete sidewalk.
Chest tight, unable to breathe, she clutched the folded shirt to herself until the truth twisted through her, loosening her muscles and her fear.
It wasn’t gunfire. Not in today’s civilized world of unlikely things moving on their own accord. Things like pictures and carriages.
Air squeezed from her lungs, and her lips parted to aid its escape.
The motorcar passed and she continued on, black leather low-cuts tapping an irregular beat from the Hotel Denton to the corner of Seventh and Main.
At the curb, she paused for another choking contraption in full complaint of its early morning errand. Here to stay, as much as she despised them, at least the automobiles were more easily observed than ridden in. Somewhat.
The dust and her apprehension settled a second time and, stepping into the intersection, she smoothed the recently mended shirt draped over her arm. She’d been early to work every morning since arriving in town three days ago, and she intended to maintain the habit.
Another backfire, another sudden stop.
A horse screamed in the next block. Frozen halfway across the street, Ella watched it rear in its traces. Break free. Bolt down the street with its buggy.
Grounded as surely as the hotel on the corner behind her, she stood unable to move. Someone yelled. Men rushed into the street, shouting and waving their arms. Wild-eyed and panicked, the horse charged straight for her.
A lone rider came up behind the buggy, gaining on the flailing contraption. He leaned low along his horse’s neck, his hat brim plastered back in his speed.
Jockey-like, he passed the runaway. Ella raised her hands to her face—and flew into the air. The wind crushed from her as the rider swung her up against his leg.
Dirt and gravel kicked into her face. Store fronts and people raced past.
Dangling like a trick rider at a Wild West Show, she squeezed her eyes shut against the bizarre parade.
The rider tightened his arm around her waist and leaned to his left.
“Whoa!” His leg flexed beneath her as he held his seat in a racing turn. Hoof beats muffled, and her eyes flew open as his horse charged across a city park. Crowded into the wide turn, the buggy nag slowed on the grassy surface. Its winded gasps warned of collapse.
The rider’s pace slackened to a trot, and Ella’s insides bounced like the empty, rattling buggy behind them. He reined to a jarring stop. “You all right, ma’am?”
She twisted to look up at eyes blue as the sky behind them and creased at the corners. His arm relaxed but didn’t release her.
Grit coated her lips. Her stomach rolled. Oh Lord, no. She was going to be sick.
~
Snatching featherbrained females off the street was not the way Cale Hutton had planned to spend his morning. But some people didn’t have sense enough to get out of the way of a runaway horse.
The gal weighed little more than a sack of flour, though she smelled a sight better. Her short-cropped hair reminded him of a roached-mane filly. She clapped a hand over her mouth and her brown eyes grew dollar-round. Either he’d scared the living daylights out of her, or she was going to—
She heaved behind her hand and her thin shoulders bounced forward.
“You gonna . . .”
She bobbed her head.
He let go of Doc’s reins and gripped her around the waist with both hands. When her feet hit the grass, instead of running off to the nearby bushes, she collapsed. Doc stepped gingerly away just as she let loose.
Cale coughed and looked away. Some things were best done in private, but the gal didn’t seem to care at the moment. He rode to a shade tree where the runaway stood quivering, then dismounted. His legs wobbled as if he’d been the one to cheat death and not that willow of a woman. He pulled in a lung-full and tugged at his shirt front, then checked the buggy’s harness and lines, making sure nothing had torn loose.
Daring a glance over the horse’s back, he found the gal still kneeling in the grass, a piece of clothing wadded up beside her.
Guess he’d be heaving too after a stunt like that, now that he thought about it. Though he’d once seen his sister Grace do nearly the same thing on purpose.
Several men rounded the corner at a run and made for the park, one apparently the buggy owner.
“I can’t . . . thank you . . . enough.” The gent stopped before him and braced his hands on his knees as he sucked wind. “She can’t . . . tolerate those . . . confounded devil wagons . . . when they start shooting like dadblasted fireworks.”
“There ought to be a law,” another fella offered, wiping his brow with a handkerchief and settling his derby.
Cale pried his hat off and reshaped the brim. There ought to be a law against buggy drivers not carrying a buggy stake. “Next time, leave the halter on her with a lead rope and tie her to the hitching rail. If she jerks it out of the ground, at least it’ll slow her down.” He set his hat. “Or you could carry a hitch weight.”
The owner, still a might sallow, offered a weak handshake.
Cale gathered Doc’s reins and returned to the woman. He stopped a respectable distance away, figuring she might need help back to wherever she was headed. She wasn’t from around these parts, that was for sure. Not in that getup. Her boy’s haircut said she was likely from the East and made her own mind up about most things.
He huffed out a breath and shook his head. Beat all he’d ever seen.
Circling around to stand before her, he offered a hand.
She gathered the crumpled shirt, gripped his fingers with surprising strength, and pulled herself up quicker than he’d expected.
As soon as she straightened, she let go. “Thank y—”
Her leg buckled.
He reached for her again. “No wonder you didn’t get out of the way. You shouldn’t have been out in the street without help. Or a cane—”
She jerked her arm free and fired from eyes as deep and dark as a cannon barrel. “I am not an invalid.”
Snake-bit, he stepped back at her venom. “I didn’t say you were. Just that—”
“I know what you said. There is not one thing wrong with my hearing.” She tossed her head and a forelock fell across her eyes. She pushed it aside.
He studied her a minute—the way she stood all stiff, tilted to her left. She hadn’t fouled herself or her funny-looking shoes. One fine-boned hand smoothed the front of her pink skirt and she stuck her chin in the air.
He’d always considered himself a Christian man, but it suited him fine if that was the way she wanted things. He stepped up on Doc and turned for Main Street, tipping his hat in her direction. “You’re welcome.”
 

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