She hurried out front. The eastern sky was a fabulous shade of orange, and for a while the approaching wagon and the team pulling it were little more than a black silhouette. It wasn’t Luther, but the closer the wagon got, the more it piqued Annie’s curiosity. The team were smaller than any draft horses she’d ever seen. Their full, pale manes shone against deep golden coats. Red tassels dangled from their bridles. The brightly painted wagon was about the same size as Luther’s, but this one was enclosed. The driver wore a stovepipe hat and a black, dusty coat with long tails—the latter evident only after he’d pulled his team up and jumped down. “Good morning, My Lady,” he said, as he swept his hat off his head and bowed low. He held the hat over his heart as he introduced himself—with a poem. Finnegan O’Day, here to supply all your needs, Be it buttons or bows, hankies or clothes. If it’s needles you need, take your pick, if you please. And thimbles? Why sure, I’ve the best one can procure.
