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placed filled sheets on top of the blank pages and glanced at the words in her grandfather’s spiky handwriting.
I am now seventy years old and have had a most eventful career, a history I propose to write for the benefit and satisfaction of my descendants . . .
    Feeling like a spy, she rolled the papers into a tube and closed the door of the shed. When Grandpa wanted her to read his recollections, he’d offer them to her.
    Fat raindrops splattered on the boardwalk. Faith tucked the manuscript pages inside her shawl, protecting them with her arms, and strode toward home. When she passed the livery, she darted a quick glance at the doorway, disappointed when she didn’t see Mr. Saxon. His kindness yesterday deserved greater thanks than she’d displayed. Perhaps she would drop by with a plate of spice cookies tomorrow. That should bring a smile to his face.
    In the distance, three men rode in her direction along High Street. The one in the center was mounted on a tall black stallion. He sat straight in the saddle, his hat pulled low against the rain. All three men wore canvas overcoats. As they approached, Faith ducked her head so she wouldn’t be caught staring. Her hands clutched the papers under her shawl. She dared another quick glance.
    The rider on the stallion looked like Royal Baxter.

     
    On Friday, Faith stood at the kitchen table rolling spice cookie dough into balls and dipping them into a bowl of sugar. The fragrance of molasses and cinnamon swirled from the oven. Cooling cookies rested on brown paper spread over a shelf under the window. Once the final batch left the oven, she’d take a plateful to the livery.
    She hummed while she worked, grateful that she and Grandpa had Dr. Greeley’s blessing to return to the mercantile on Monday. Faith prayed that their enforced absence during the week hadn’t affected trade.
    Her mind returned to the riders she’d seen on Tuesday. They were adequately dressed and well mounted, so they didn’t look like displaced stragglers. Could the tall man on the black stallion really have been Royal Baxter? She’d had only a glimpse through the falling rain. Besides, she hadn’t seen him since she was sixteen. Time and war changed a man. No telling what he might look like today.
    The smell of smoke stung her nose. Faith jerked the oven door open and removed a pan of scorched cookies. Grandpa poked his head into the kitchen. “You making charcoal in here?”
    She giggled. “Just one pan full. Want some?”
    He entered the room and squeezed her shoulder. “Believe I’ll try one of these instead.” He lifted one of the sugared treats from the cooling shelf. Around a mouthful, he asked, “Are we still going to have sweets when you’re busy at the Mercantile?”
    “Of course. Wouldn’t be supper without dessert, would it?”

     
    Faith approached Ripley’s Livery with her gift of cookies tucked into a basket. Neither Mr. Saxon nor Mr. Ripley were visible, so she entered the shaded stable. The smell of horseflesh and manure assailed her the moment she stepped inside. Thick underbrush swayed beyond the open rear doors, propelled by wind that gusted around the enclosure.
    Mr. Ripley peered at her over the top of a stall door. “Afternoon, Miss Faith. What brings you here? Granddad ailing again?”
    “Thankfully, no.” She took a quick glance around, hoping to see Mr. Saxon.
    “You looking for Curt?”
    “I brought a token of appreciation for him—for both of you—for helping us the other day. It was a trying time.”
    He closed the stall door and walked to the center of the building. Tipping his head back, he bellowed, “Saxon! Lady to see you.”
    A flush burned Faith’s cheeks. “I just came to deliver a thank-you.” She held out the basket. “If you’ll take this, I’ll be on my way.”
    “What’s your hurry?” He pointed at a ladder leading to the hayloft. “Here he comes now.”
    She bit her lip. The last thing she wanted was to seem to be