sure it does,” Carter answered, giving the curly-haired boy a coin for his troubles.
“If you’re hungry, there’s a restaurant in the hotel, or the mercantile sells breads and such, if’n you want to make your own.” The boy waved a hand toward the buildings lining both sides of the muddy street. “It’s a bit farther away, but I’d recommend the mercantile. Miss Thorson makes the best cinnamon rolls you’ll ever eat.”
“Obliged,” Carter said, tying his pack behind the saddle. He led Sampson away then, but just far enough to examine the surroundings. A cinnamon roll did sound good. He’d always had a soft spot for pastries, and the mercantile was one of the places he’d visit, but first he’d get a feel for the town.
This assignment didn’t require him to be undercover—he was using his own name—but that didn’t mean he wanted anyone to know who he was, what he was doing. One never knew how folks would relate to a Pinkerton man. Some were impressed, others angered, and there were always a few who really didn’t care. He’d be one of the latter, if he was in anyone else’s boots. Plenty of Pinkerton operatives, even some he knew well, were little more than thugs with a cross to bear.
Carter took to walking again, down the muddy street, giving Sampson a chance to get his bearings while surveying the buildings on both sides. Connected, one to the next, they went on for half a dozen blocks. Several were stand-alones, had little walkways—muddy ones—between them, and most had two stories, a couple with balconies. Some were made of bricks, even had the dates they were built—last year—displayed in the top row below the crowning eaves. Others were made of wood, but painted. All in all, it appeared to be a well-laid-out and prosperous town.
The line outside the hotel suggested most of the train passengers had decided on a meal at the restaurant. It was close to noon. He’d get himself one of those cinnamon rolls later, but just now he was moseying. He was good at moseying, and liked it, too. It was amazing what a man learned just by keeping his ears open, walking about, and Carter set a slow pace, doing precisely that.
It was close to an hour later when he found himself at the edge of town. The sun was high, drying out the ground, and Carter was satisfied he knew enough particulars to dig in to his assignment.
Thorson’s Mercantile, a big wooden structure, and a stand-alone one, was at the end of the main street, a considerable distance from all the other buildings, making him wonder if it was one of the first ones built several years ago, before the railroad bought up the land on the west bank of the James River for their western division headquarters. The store looked as if it had been a house at one time that someone had added a big front room to, complete with plate-glass windows and a sprawling porch to display odds and ends for sale. There was a barn and a couple other buildings nestled around it, as though the original owners were building a ranch, but changed their minds.
That’s what he’d decided was in his future. A ranch. He’d have it someday. Soon. Just had to decide where. That’s one of the things he’d come to like about being a Pinkerton man. Assignments rarely sent him to the same place twice, giving him a chance to explore where he wanted to finally hang his hat. It paid well, too, being a Pinkerton operative. He had no complaints on that either.
Carter swung into the saddle, ready to ride, give Sampson a chance to stretch his legs. There’d be plenty of time to get that cinnamon roll, see Ted Wilcox and then settle in the hotel before nightfall.
The thunder of hooves had Molly Thorson lifting her head and resting a hand on the end of the hoe handle. Cowboys were nothing new, they rode through town, even visited the mercantile on a regular basis, but the horse this one sat upon deserved a second look. Big and glistening like a gold coin in the sun, the palomino was magnificent. The never-faraway longing in her heart sprang to life; however, this time it was quickly overshadowed by a unique fluttering in her stomach.
Molly pressed her free hand to her abdomen, held it there. Waited.
The movement didn’t repeat itself and she went back to hoeing. It was too soon. At least she thought it was, and there was no one she could ask. No one to tell her what to expect, what to do. It was only here, when she took an hour after lunch to hoe the garden, that she could even let herself think about the baby.
That wasn’t true. She thought about the little life inside her all the time, but it was only here, when she was alone, that she could pretend things were different. That being pregnant was something to behold and cherish.
Time was ticking by and soon everyone would know about the baby. They’d be telling her what to do, too, and what they thought. Especially of her. A harlot. An unwed mother. A woman like that.
Hoe in hand, Molly attacked the weeds, releasing frustration all the way to the end of the row.
It didn’t help. Only made her sweat and brood over things more intently. Loathe herself.
Disgusted inside and out, she blew out a breath. If she lived forever, she’d never take another sip of Afton Smith’s cherry wine. She’d never been so sick in her life and now she knew life could always get worse than what a person thought it was. If only she could have that day back. Things would be different, that was for sure. But she couldn’t have that day back, and she had to find her backbone instead of her wishbone, figure out a way to live with what she’d done.
Her anger renewed itself, or maybe it had never left, she’d just forgotten about it for a moment. With vigor, she took after the weeds in the next row until a little beet got caught on the end of the hoe. Pausing, Molly took a moment to stretch the discomfort from her back before leaning down to stick the tiny bulb, stringy root down, back in the earth.
As much as she loathed herself for what had happened, she loved the little life growing inside her. If it was just her, she’d face down the entire town, not really caring what they thought, but more often than not she witnessed the residents’ reactions to those they considered were beneath them, saw and felt it when people looked upon Ivy. They’d do that to her baby, too.
“Molly!”
Lifting her gaze, she waited for Karleen to shout the rest of what she had to say from the side of the store.
“Mr. Ratcliff needs your assistance!”
Molly waved a hand, signaling she’d heard, and then dug out the last two weeds trying to grow at the end of the row. She also carried the hoe to the barn before making her way toward the store. It was their livelihood, the mercantile her father had started back when there was nothing out here except a few farmers and some Indians—Ivy’s tribe. Father’s plan had been to start a horse ranch when they’d left Ohio all those years ago. It hadn’t happened—a ranch—being a merchant had been more lucrative. The store was still profitable—barely—since the railroad opened a dry-goods store that was always well stocked. Their shipments were never delayed.
The weight on her shoulders was too heavy to shake off. Of course it was. There weren’t just the worries of the store weighing her down. There was her sister, and her ward, little Ivy—a treasure for sure—the baby growing in her body, and a slew of other things she couldn’t pull up right now. There was work to be done. Her hour of solitude was over.
As she walked along the pathway from the barn to the store, Molly couldn’t help but glance down the road, in the direction the palomino had galloped. The days of saddling a horse and riding for hours with no real purpose other than pleasure were gone. Long gone. But they still called to her. Stronger than ever.
She increased the speed of her steps.
As old as some of
