Billy suggested a room at the Holcombe Hotel, and with his evening’s earnings, Ethan took his advice. The hotel was nothing more than a rundown boarding house, but a few coins bought him a private room and a large tin tub, and the promise of hot water for a bath every other night.
Despite the late hour, he took his limping horse to the hotel’s stables and paid the boy there a hefty sum to rub down his mare and put daily poultices on the sprained leg.
The boy, a towhead lad named Petey, watched Ethan as he slipped his saddlebags off the back of his horse. “You that singer from Billy’s?” he asked in a high, perky voice.
Ethan nodded.
“You staying here long?”
“I don’t know.” Running a hand down his mare’s flank, Ethan admitted, “I was only planning to stay until my horse got better.
