wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Karleen whispered, walking around the counter to edge in beside Molly.
Her sister, usually too engrossed in a book to notice anything going on around her, held one hand over the top of the counter. “Hello, I’m Karleen Thorson, and this is my sister Molly.”
“Carter Buchanan,” the cowboy replied evenly, shaking Karleen’s hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Buchanan,” Karleen continued with a bright smile. “I do believe you may have just performed a miracle. No one’s ever silenced Mr. Ratcliff.”
The cowboy, or Carter Buchanan—Molly had never heard of any Buchanans in the area, and couldn’t help but wonder where he was from and what he was doing here—turned and eyed the doorway Mr. Ratcliff was shuffling through.
“He’s probably just lonely. Doesn’t have anything to fill his time, so he thinks up things to complain about.” Turning back, he touched the brim of his hat. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Miss Thorson.” He then extended his hand toward her. “And you.”
A shudder traveled down Molly’s spine. “Maureen. Maureen Thorson,” she answered, without shaking his hand. She would never, ever so much as touch another man.
“Wasn’t that amazing, Molly?” Karleen asked. “I’ve never seen Mr. Ratcliff speechless. I really should go tell Mr. Franks. He’d want to write an article about it in the weekly post.”
“No,” Molly said, “you won’t go tell Mr. Franks, you will finish unpacking the freight.” Too young to know better, Karleen was too friendly with strangers, no matter how many times Molly cautioned her on it, and that had the past five months of irritation coming to a head. Searching for something, anything, she could control, Molly pointed toward the doorway that led to the living quarters. “Ivy, it’s time for you to go finish your lessons.”
Instant regret shimmied up her spine. Two big brown eyes and a quivering lip told her just how snippy she sounded. Softening her tone, for Ivy didn’t deserve any wrath, Molly added, “I’ll come see how you’re doing in a few minutes.”
“Come on, Ivy,” Karleen said, walking around the counter while flashing Molly a quick shot of disdain. “Let’s go see how far you’ve gotten in your reader.” With another sharp glance, she added, “I’ll finish unpacking the crates afterward.”
Molly wanted to scream, mainly because she knew her sister was right. The freight could wait, but Karleen didn’t have the responsibilities she did, or the worries. And shouldn’t. Karleen was only sixteen—she, on the other hand, was twenty-three. Plenty old enough for responsibilities. And to know better.
Drawing a deep breath, Molly told herself to count to ten. If she voiced her opinion right now she’d tell the stranger, greased or not, those nails weren’t any stronger now than when they’d been sitting in rainwater, but Mr. Ratcliff, still shuffling across the porch, might hear, therefore she counted. She had counted to about five when the cowboy spoke.
“Why aren’t they in school?”
Spinning, she leveled a dull gaze on the man. Still conscious of listeners, she kept her voice low as she pointed out the obvious. “Because Karleen graduated last year, and Ivy is an Indian.”
His face was expressionless, but he might as well have been stomping one foot. A person full of antagonism sees it in another. “So? She’s still a child. Still needs to learn.”
“That’s true,” Molly said, wondering where the sudden urge to mollify him came from. For months she’d fought the town council, who refused to allow Ivy to attend school, but had gotten nowhere. She’d have been at this month’s meeting, too, but fearful someone might notice her growing girth, she’d pretended to have forgotten what night the meeting had been held. “But Indian children are not allowed to attend Huron’s public school.”
“Why?”
She picked up the tin of axle grease and carried it back to the shelf. “I was told it’s because the school is funded through the tax system and Indians don’t pay taxes.”
The cowboy—only cowboys wore guns and spurs—was leaning on the counter, watching her, which had her sucking in her stomach, though it was well covered with a dress two sizes too big and three underskirts, and all the sucking in the world wouldn’t flatten it. His, however, was as flat as the counter. The tan shirt tucked into his black pants didn’t have a single ripple.
The idea she’d noticed so much about him made her skin tighten. “Is there something you needed?”
He cocked a brow. “Actually, yes.”
She thought about waiting it out, but didn’t have the patience. “What?”
“One of those cinnamon rolls.”
With a piece of paper, she picked up a roll from the plate on the corner of the counter and folded the edges around the pastry so he could carry it out the door. Not eat it here. The price was posted and he slid the correct change across the counter. Usually, no matter who it was, she’d thank a customer for their purchase, but not today. Not him.
“Could I speak to the owner?”
Molly walked to a crate sitting at the other end of the counter, started lifting things out of the sawdust. “You are,” she said, experiencing the first bout of pride she’d felt in months.
“You?”
“My sister and I.”
Carter held in his surprise. He hadn’t overheard that while walking around town. Then again, besides the boy at the train depot, no one had mentioned the mercantile and he hadn’t asked, knew he’d be stopping by and would learn all he needed to know. His plan had included getting a job here, at the mercantile, so he could watch the money flowing in and out, but he’d expected a man to own the establishment. Not a snooty woman, younger sister and little Indian girl—who, in his opinion, should be on the other side of town in the brick building with all the other kids. He didn’t have a lot of tolerance for kids, but had even less for people mistreating them.
The woman, Maureen, she’d called herself, though the tiny splattering of freckles covering her cheeks made her look more like the name her sister had called her—Molly—paused while unloading the crate. Gave him another uppity stare.
“Did you have a complaint?” she asked.
He had plenty of complaints, but voicing them wouldn’t help his case, so he pulled up a grin. “Nope. Just wanted to say your reputation precedes you.”
Her glare turned omniscient, and said she didn’t like what she thought he knew. Which meant he had more to learn. Picking up the pastry, he nodded. “Your cinnamon rolls. I heard they’re the best around.”
She didn’t believe that any more than he did. Interesting. He tipped the brim of his hat with one hand. “Ma’am.”
He was out the door, but heard her growl nonetheless. That was one ornery woman, and irritating her had a smile wanting to crack his lips. He didn’t let it. Took a bite of the cinnamon roll instead, and then leaned one elbow on his saddle. The pastry was tasty, might be the best he’d ever had, and he ate it right there, watching the
