Page 66 of More Than Meets the Eye

Betrayal. Rejection. His.

Hers.

For that was what he’d seen in Eva’s eyes when he’d refused to forfeit his plans. When he’d chosen his mother over her.

Gritting his teeth, Logan sat up in the saddle and gently eased back on the reins, slowing Shamgar to a walk.

“Sorry, old boy,” he murmured.

Sorry to you, too, Eva. For everything. For using her to gain information on Zacharias. For destroying her illusions. For asking her to choose.

He never should have gotten involved with her in the first place. He should have kept his distance. Kept his heart locked away in his chest where it belonged. Then his resolve wouldn’t be weakening. His mind wouldn’t be fixated on the way she’d looked as she pleaded with him to let the matter go, the tears that had glimmered when his refusal stole the last vestiges of hope from her expression.

Maybe he was a thief.

A farm wagon approached from the opposite direction, and Logan guided Shamgar to the right side of the road, taking stock of his whereabouts for the first time.

Good gravy. He was nearly to Ben Franklin. He’d pushed Shamgar harder than he’d realized.

He tipped his hat to the farmer and grinned as if he were simply out for an afternoon stroll, but the moment the wagon rolled past, the fake smile fell away.

“Let’s get you to the livery,” he said, leaning forward in the saddle to pat the chestnut’s neck. “You deserve a good rubdown, some water, maybe even a feed bag of oats for putting up with me. What do you say?” The last thing Logan needed was a second coat of guilt painted onto his still-wet conscience. He might not be able to smooth things over with Eva just yet, but by thunder, he could make things up to his horse.

Logan counted at least five men lounging about the livery by the time he trotted into Ben Franklin. Kids draped themselves over the paddock fence, trying to coax a horse or two near enough to pet. Women bustled along the boardwalk across the way, shopping and visiting and whatever else town females did in the afternoons. The hum of a distant sawmill added a buzz to the air that didn’t quite drown out the yipping dog that had decided to dance around Shamgar’s hooves.

As if Logan’s head didn’t already pound enough.

He ignored the ache throbbing behind his temples and dismounted. Shamgar deserved some pampering. No yappy dog was going to dissuade him.

“Little early in the day for you, ain’t it, Logan?” Jack Simmons stepped out of the shade of the livery to greet him. A pair of graybeards playing checkers on a board balanced atop an old pickle barrel paused their game to stare.

“Didn’t come for cards this time,” Logan said, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Just out for a ride. Pushed Shamgar a bit harder than I intended. Thought I’d give him a good rubdown and maybe a few oats if you’ve got some to spare.”

“Don’t have any to spare, but I got some to sell.” The livery owner smirked as the old men guffawed. “Though it sounds like you might be the one needing the extra treat. Of the two of you, you’re the one looking like you been put through the wringer, not yer horse. That chestnut’ll be right as rain after a little water and a good brushing, but you, my friend, look like you could use another dose of that liquid refreshment I procured for you.”

Chuckles broke out around them. Apparently the men who frequented the livery in the afternoon were well acquainted with Jack’s moonshine connections.

“Sounds like quite a jovial gathering,” a more cultured voice said from behind Logan.

“Howdy, Lawrence.” Jack nodded a greeting to the newcomer. “Checkin’ on that bench spring you ordered for yer buggy?”

Logan pivoted, a polite smile in place. A smile that nearly curdled when he caught sight of the man behind him. Bald pate. Heavy build. Familiar black suit. The schoolmaster.

“Indeed,” Benson said. “I hoped to have the repair completed before my trip tomorrow.”

Trip? Logan’s interest piqued. If he knew for sure the teacher would be away, he could search the schoolhouse ahead of time. They’d still have to wait for the second ledger to come into play, but knowing the hiding place of the first would simplify matters a great deal.

“Where’re ya headed?” Logan kept his voice nonchalant.

Benson raised a folded white handkerchief to his forehead and dabbed at the moisture glistening there. “Down to Cooper for the weekend. I’m meeting with some investors. We hope to gain sufficient funds to purchase new schoolbooks for next term. The children will be out for the harvest in another month, and I want to be able to promise them there will be new books when they return this winter. Our current materials are sadly outdated.”

So he’d be gone the next two days. Good.

Logan fiddled with Shamgar’s bridle strap. “You’re the schoolmaster, then?”

Benson offered a reserved smile while something intelligent and guarded flashed in his eyes, like a cardsharp who suspected a skilled player had just entered the game. “That I am.” He held out his hand. “Lawrence Benson. And you are?”

“Logan Fowler.” No need to keep his surname hidden any longer. Holding it back would only cause suspicion.