Dorothy Clark - Courting Miss Callie

Seeking True Love

Stunningly beautiful Callie Conner is sick of being pursued by shallow suitors. She wants a man of faith, honesty and moral integrity who will love and value her for more than her appearance. So she flees to her aunt’s hotel, where she soon finds herself falling for the handsome new stable hand.

A successful businessman in disguise, Ezra Ryder enjoys working in Pinewood where he is accepted for himself, and not for his money. Growing closer to Miss Callie, he longs to proclaim his love. But revealing his true identity would also mean revealing his deceit—can he risk losing Callie’s trust forever?

Ezra offered a sprig of pussy willow to Callie with a bow. “I wish this were a rose.”

“A kind thought, sir. But I prefer the pussy willow.”

When their hands touched, Callie’s fingers trembled and Ezra stepped closer.

“Callie...” Her name was a hoarse whisper, a question.

She stepped back. “Thank you, Ezra.” She turned toward the hotel.

Ezra’s pulse quickened as they approached the steps. He would take her elbow and help her up to the porch, bid her good-night at the door.

But Callie stopped short at the base of the stairs.

“Good evening, Ezra.”

The finality of her tone made her meaning clear—he was to come no farther. She climbed the steps and crossed the porch.

Ezra waited until she was safe inside, then exhaled a long breath. He was accustomed to young women welcoming his slightest attention, not turning their backs on him. Courting Callie Conner could prove to be more costly to his pride than he imagined.

DOROTHY CLARK

Critically acclaimed, award-winning author Dorothy Clark lives in rural New York, in a home she designed and helped her husband build (she swings a mean hammer!) with the able assistance of their three children. When she is not writing, she and her husband enjoy traveling throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.

Counting Miss Callie

Dorothy Clark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.

—Proverbs 22:1

This book is dedicated with love

and deep appreciation to my church family.

To those prayer warriors who faithfully

seek the Lord on behalf of my writing—thank you. I love and appreciate you all.

And, again, to Sam. Thank you is such a

puny expression of my appreciation, but it will

have to do—unless that fertile mind of yours can come up with better words. Blessings, my friend.

“Commit thy works unto the Lord,

and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To You be the glory.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

March, 1841

Pinewood Village, New York

Callie Conner propped the full basket on her hip, closed the door of the buttery and started toward the hotel, then stopped and stared at the man limping up the path toward her. A logger by the looks of him. She sighed, looked down at the ground and waited. She hated meeting new people—especially men. There was always the staring, and then the profuse compliments about her beauty, and then—

“That basket looks heavy for you, miss. May I carry it for you?” She lifted her head and it happened—just as it always did. The man’s eyes widened. He stared, blinked and stared again. He gazed into her eyes, and she heard his breath catch. She frowned, but held back the refusal that rose to her lips. If he was Aunt Sophia’s friend she would have to accept his offer of help.

The man made a visible effort to collect himself and cleared his throat. “Truthfully, miss, I was wondering if there is work I could do in exchange for something to eat?”

So he was not known to her aunt. She opened her mouth to refuse, but his stomach rumbled, and she bit back her words. She hadn’t the heart to turn away a hungry man. At least he hadn’t complimented her to win his way, as the wealthy, elite men in Buffalo were wont to do. She ignored her unease and handed him the basket. “Follow me.” Not a very gracious response perhaps, but she was heartily sick of men.

The hems of her long skirts whispered against the wood as she climbed the steps, crossed the wide porch and entered the back door. The smell of the beef stew she had simmering over the fire filled the kitchen. The man’s stomach rumbled again. “Set the basket there on the worktable, then hang your jacket on one of those pegs and have a seat.” She swept her hand toward the smaller dining table against the wall. “I’ll bring you some food.”

“You’re most kind.”

The man removed his knit hat, winced and shoved it into his pocket, shrugged out of his plaid wool jacket and lowered himself into a chair. There was something careful about his movements. Was he injured? Is that why he was not working? Spring was such a busy time of the year for loggers.

She pushed aside her contemplations, took a knife, fork and dish from the hutch, crossed to the fireplace, ladled a large serving of stew onto the dish from the iron pot hanging from the crane and walked to the table.

The man glanced up at her, raised his hand and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He looked uncomfortable about it. But most loggers let their beards grow until they came to town. She placed the dish in front of him.

“Thank you.”

Her nod set the wisps of black curls around her face aflutter. She brushed them back off her forehead. “There is more stew should you wish it. I’ll get you some bread and butter.”

The logger offered quiet thanks for the food, and then there was the click of the fork against the dish. His prayer took away some of her unease, but still there was something odd about the situation. The man was begging food, yet the blue wool shirt he wore looked new, as did his jacket, pants and boots. Well, no matter. He would soon be gone.

She uncovered a loaf of bread and cut off two thick slices, grabbed the crock of butter from the basket he’d carried in for her, returned to the table and gasped.

The man jerked his head up, winced.

“You’ve a nasty wound on your head, Mr....”

“Ryder.” He lowered his fork to his plate and stood. “My apologies, miss. I thought there was only a lump, not a visible wound or I would not have subjected you to—”