The wagon driver was as big as a bear—and as surly as one. When Mayhew asked him to unhitch his horse and ride to Twyford for help, he refused. The horse was a massive beast, with powerful hindquarters and a great deal of feathering on its lower legs. A draft horse. Mayhew eyed that broad back. “Then let me and Miss Culpepper ride to Twyford,” he said. “We’ll stable your horse there overnight and I’ll bring him back in the morning.”
“Me ’orse ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the wagon driver growled. “No while there’s trees a-blowin’ down.”
Frustration flared in Mayhew’s chest, but he held his tongue. In his experience, losing one’s temper never helped a situation. He turned his attention to Miss Culpepper: lifting her down from the wagon, carrying her into the barn, carefully setting her on a pile
