Page 6 of To Love a Beast

"Promise me . . . if you feel threatened, in any way, that you'll come home at once. Even if it means leaving equipment and supplies behind. You're my heart, Callie. Nothing is more important to me than you."

Her heart melted at the warmth of her father's love. How she adored this man! He'd championed her in every endeavor she'd undertaken from the time she was a child. And even now, he lent his support despite his reservations, not because he wanted to save the business, but because he wanted to prove that he believed in her.

"I promise, Papa. If any trouble arises that I can't handle, I'll come home. Whether the job is finished or not."

He tugged her into a one-armed hug, and she pressed her face against his cheek as determination settled into her bones.

If trouble came, she'd find a way to handle it. Even if the manor in question truly had a fearsome manticore roaming its halls with lion claws, shark teeth, and scorpion tail, she'd not flee. Fate had bequeathed her a quest, and she'd not return until it was accomplished.

Chapter 2

Graham, Texas

"Be careful with that!" Callista stretched her arms outward as if doing so would help the groaning stagecoach driver lift the first of her two trunks out of the luggage boot at the rear of the coach.

"What've ya got in here, lady? Bricks?" The grizzled man released his grip on the trunk and huffed out a weary breath.

"No bricks, I promise." Callista smiled an apology. "Just a few book-related items."

Including an embossing press and Papa's extensive set of ornamental hand tools. All made of iron. The second trunk held the binding press and the dismantled board shear. She'd had to sweet-talk two porters at the depot in Weatherford into loading them onto a luggage cart and wheeling them from the railroad platform to the stage station this morning. The young men were exceedingly kind about helping her with the heavy trunks, but the stage driver didn't seem to share their enthusiasm.

"Yer lucky the weather held. If we'd a-gotten mired down in spring mud because of yer . . . books . . . I woulda kicked you off my stage and left you and your trunks for the coyotes." He shook a finger at her. "I ain't gonna risk the health of my horses for a bunch of female folderol. If you plan to return the way you came, better look into hirin' a freighter to cart your things, 'cause these trunks won't be goin' back in my stage boot anytime soon."

"Here, now, Jenkins. That's no way to talk to a lady."

Callista stifled a groan as she recognized the voice behind her.

Ambrose Batton strutted past her to clap a hand onto the stage master's shoulder. "I'll see to Miss Rosenfeld's trunks." The arrogant fellow winked at her as he stepped in to take charge.

Callista took her eyes off her trunks long enough to scan the street, hoping to find an alternative, but the pair of gray-haired ladies sitting on the bench across the way would be no help.

She did not wish to be beholden to the man who had been eyeing her like a wolf eyed a rabbit from the opposite side of the coach for the last six hours. She'd done her best to hide behind the book she'd packed in her travel bag, but he'd either been too dull-witted to take the hint or too full of himself to care that she desired privacy.

Thankfully, the young widow and her adolescent son who occupied the seat next to her had no such qualms about interacting with their traveling companion. The boy had been enthralled with the stories Batton told of hunting big game in Africa, India, and the mountains of Colorado. His mother went so far as to titter on a regular basis and cast flattery at the fellow like it was chicken feed. Why she'd be interested in such a rooster, Callista couldn't fathom. Sure, the man was handsome, well-dressed, and, if his stories were to be believed, well-traveled, but his ego left room for little else inside the coach.

"There's no need to exert yourself on my behalf, Mr. Batton." Callista bustled forward and grabbed one side of her trunk. "I'm accustomed to carting heavy tomes around. I'm sure Mr. Jenkins and I can manage the trunks if we work as a team."

"Don't be silly." Mr. Batton shooed her hands out of the way and grasped both ends of her trunk. "I'm happy to assist." He tugged the first trunk from the boot and then the second, setting them on end in the street. Then, with a heave so strenuous it popped the tendons in his neck into stark relief, he dragged the first one up onto his right shoulder. "Where should I deliver it?"

The strain in his voice really shouldn't delight her so much, but it did. Still, she'd hate to be responsible for him doing himself an injury, or worse, dropping and damaging her equipment, so she hurried in front of him and led him to the coaching inn's stable. "Just set them inside the barn. Here."

His elegance faded as he wrested the heavy trunk off his shoulder. Things rattled and clanked inside as he struggled to control its descent.

"Easy!"

He managed to keep it from crashing to the ground, but it still dropped with more force than she would have liked. If he had let her help instead of trying to show off by moving it himself, things would have gone much more smoothly.

Mr. Batton brushed away a lock of dark brown hair that had fallen into his face and surreptitiously swiped the perspiration from his brow as if trying to erase the evidence of his exertion. "There you go." He smiled at her with an annoying, self-congratulatory grin that made her skin itch.

"Thank you." She managed a tight little smile in return then strode back out to the street, eager to be quit of him.

Heaven save her from condescending, handsome men.

Callista's coach companion, Mrs. Dawson, pulled a fan from her reticule and employed it in a fluttery fashion as Mr. Batton pranced by to collect the second trunk while casting a wink in her direction. The young widow held her breath as if the gladiator were battling a lion instead of an inanimate piece of luggage.

"He certainly is strong, isn't he?" The question latched itself to an appreciative sigh.

It was all Callista could do not to roll her eyes at Mrs. Dawson's breathy observation. "Mmm hmm."