CHAPTER THREE

All three looked toward the older woman bearing down on them. A white braid circled her head and her clothes were faded and soft, but there was no mistaking the confident air of authority in her demeanor.

She stopped next to the two men and looked down at them. “Let him up,” she said to Spencer’s rescuer.

The young man hesitated a moment but then obeyed.

Spencer noticed a slight gimp in his step as he moved away from the driver.

The driver stood and brushed the dust from his clothes.

“Alright Todd, tell me why this horse is bleeding. I saw the rig by the park, I assume this is one of George’s new animals.” Pale blue eyes bore into the driver as she waited for him to answer.

“Yeah, it’s Mr. Billmore’s newest brood mare. I’m trying to deliver her but these two are interferin’ with my job. That one”--he pointed at Spencer--“jumped me, and then this bozo joined in to help her. I ain’t done nothing wrong. I’m just tryin’ to do my job.”

His voice held a whiny note that irritated Spencer. In her family whining was ignored, or else rewarded with a “time out” to think about things.

She watched the woman, curious to see how she would handle the driver, a person she apparently knew since she had called him by name. The woman had a kind face; laugh lines were etched around her eyes and mouth although she was definitely not smiling at the moment.

She nodded at the driver. “Alright, Todd, you can go. I’ll take the mare back to my place and doctor those wounds. You can tell George that I have her and he can pick her up from me.”

The driver started to protest but must have realized that it was futile and he turned to walk away.

“Leave those,” the woman added sharply when he bent down to retrieve the whip and prod. “I want to have a word with George about the equipment he’s handing out to his drivers.”

Todd hesitated a moment and then shrugged. He turned toward Spencer’s rescuer. “You better get outta town real quick. You don’t belong here and I’ll be lookin’ to even up the score.”

He pointed his finger at Spencer. “And I’ll be looking for you too, girlie. This is all your fault and Iwillpay you back, you can bet on it.” He left the alley.

“Young man, what’s your name?” asked the woman.

“Harold Michael Joshua Calhoun, but most folk just call me Burr,” he replied as he held out his hand.

“Then Burr it is,” said the woman, shaking the offered hand. “I’m Iris Peterson. Could you please see if you can keep the mare from leaving should that truck decide to move?”

Burr went to stand near the horse, but not too near, Spencer noticed. She sudd