tantrums.”
Something did snap, and unable to think beyond the fury it sent rolling inside her, Molly screamed, “Get out!”
His expression never changed as he kept looking at her, calmly, thoughtfully.
A bit of embarrassment overcame her and oddly, slowly, some of her anger eased. Some. She was still fuming. “I know you heard me, Mr. Buchanan.” She pointed to the open doorway. “Leave.”
He plopped onto the edge of the bed, crossed his arms not so unlike a stubborn child. “Make me.”
“What?” She’d heard him, just couldn’t believe a grown man would act so.
“Make me.”
If he wasn’t twice her size she’d drag him out the door. Since that wouldn’t work, Molly searched the room for something to throw at him. There wasn’t much. Just Ivy’s toys.
“I suspect Ivy would be upset if you broke her dishes,” he drawled. “Mrs. Rudolf was certainly displeased by her broken teacup.”
“Which was none of your business.”
“I know. But you’d scattered for the high country.”
He’d have to bring that up, wouldn’t he? For a moment she’d imagined he was her biggest problem. Her only problem. Wishful thinking. A unique tenderness had welled up inside her, washing away a good portion of her anger. That happened frequently, as if the baby was saying she wasn’t alone in all this. At times, that made her teary-eyed, and now happened to be one of those times. She’d sneaked a peek at a medical book on the store shelf, read how pregnancy altered a woman’s emotions and found it overly tiresome. As was the fact the book had sold before she’d had a chance to read more. It didn’t help that as of yet she hadn’t found an excuse to order another one, either.
“I didn’t scatter for the high country,” she said. “If you haven’t noticed, there is no high country around here.”
“I noticed.”
She took another drawing breath, sensing the little life inside her was calm and well. “The broken cup just upset me,” she said, though there was no reason to explain her behavior to this man.
“You shouldn’t let that happen.”
She shouldn’t have let a lot of things happen. “We can’t always control everything,” she muttered.
“We can the important ones,” he said, “if we try hard enough.”
It was apparent he was attempting to manipulate her with that gentle tone as easily as he had Mr. Ratcliff and Mrs. Rudolf. It was useless. She wouldn’t ever be influenced by another man. Yet, she wasn’t nearly as riled as she had been. “Don’t unpack your bags, Mr. Buchanan. You are not staying.”
With that, Molly spun around and walked out the door. There, in the warm summer sun, she took several deep breaths, though she really didn’t need them. How did he do that? He’d not only calmed two of her most irritable customers, he’d calmed her, and her baby.
A noise behind her set her in action, marching forward. To where, she had no idea. Karleen was still assisting Pastor Jenkins. If anyone in town were to pick up on her sin before it was revealed, it would be Caleb Jenkins. He had a way of looking at her that left her feeling as if she’d committed murder. Perhaps he knew she’d considered it. She’d thought about shooting Robbie Fredrickson if she ever saw him again. She wouldn’t, of course—she hoped she never saw Robbie again. If he ever learned about the baby, Lord knows what would happen.
She had enough worries without dredging that one up, and she’d just have to wait until Pastor Jenkins left. Then she’d tell Karleen to get rid of Carter Buchanan, and this time she’d make her sister listen.
Right now, she’d find Ivy. She hadn’t spent enough time with her lately, and her littlest sister always raised her spirits. The girl had gathered her schoolwork and skedaddled upstairs earlier. When Molly had run through the kitchen, heading for the outhouse.
Guilt, frustration and all the other things that lived inside Molly lately had her throat burning. She just couldn’t do anything right. Little Ivy had only been a toddler when she’d been left at the mercantile. Terribly ill, it had taken the entire family, and Dr. Henderson, to keep the child’s heated skin cooled, and to dribble fluids into her tiny mouth around the clock for several days.
Ivy had survived, and had been a part of their family ever since. Almost her little sister and almost her daughter—at least since their parents had died—Ivy was as near and dear to her heart as Karleen. Molly often wondered—especially lately—about Ivy’s mother. Years ago she’d concluded the woman must have died, and believed it more strongly now. No woman would give up her child. A little life that had formed and grown inside her. It was too precious. Though she had yet to meet her child, she already cherished him or her. The little fluttering she’d experienced the past few days was fascinating and something she wished she could share with someone. Tell them how tender and miraculous it felt.
Molly entered the house and climbed the stairs. A single brave had come to the mercantile the spring after Ivy had joined their family, and though their father never voiced what had been said between him and the Indian, he had told the family that Ivy would continue to live with them, forever. Karleen—her mind always full of the stories she read—had several theories on what had transpired, but when asked, Father would simply say it didn’t matter how or why, Ivy was there, she just was. Molly agreed with that, still did. Other than the school issue, most of the town had accepted Ivy, too.
If only things were that simple now.
Molly found Ivy in her bedroom, sitting on the floor and practicing her letters on the slate balanced on her lap.
“I can help Karleen in the store if you need to work in your garden,” the child said, looking up with a touch of worry in her generous brown eyes.
Molly sat down on the floor and looped an arm around the tiny shoulders. “Maybe later,” she said. “Thank you for offering.”
Ivy nodded and then drew a perfect lowercase e. Molly couldn’t help but recall how Carter Buchanan had said Ivy was a child and deserved to learn. She agreed, and once again wished things were different. If her father had still been alive, Ivy would be in school. He would have seen to it. Molly had tried, but she just didn’t have the persuasive way her father had. She was more like her mother in that sense. Not necessarily by choice. She’d like to be more domineering, but that wasn’t how she was raised. It wasn’t until after her parents died that she’d had to learn to make decisions—was still learning in some instances—and how to live with them.
Molly picked up the book near Ivy’s knee. “Could you read to me for a few minutes? Karleen’s minding the store and I’d love to sit up here with you for a bit.”
When Ivy smiled as she did right then, it made the entire world brighter. Molly tried to swallow the lump in her throat—the one that told her life was far from awful—and then leaned over to plant a tiny kiss in the center of the part that separated Ivy’s long black hair into two braids.
“I believe you’re ready for a new reader,” Molly said a short time later as the child closed the book. “You’ve mastered this one without a single mistake. I believe Karleen ordered a few extras. They’re on a shelf downstairs.”
