The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye (4 page)

Some of her steam dissolved. Papa had never paddled any of his children, and Molly wouldn’t either. Not because she didn’t want to, but because deep down, she knew Karleen was right. Not in hiring Carter—Mr. Buchanan—he still had to go, but in everything else, her sister had hit the nail on the head. Rusty or greased. All those things did need to be seen to, and Karleen was an equal partner. As would Ivy be someday.

She might only be sixteen, soon to be seventeen, but Karleen had the head of a merchant. Papa always said that. He’d said Molly was the worker bee, his way of complimenting her, too. She had been a worker bee and didn’t mind it in the least. In those days, when her parents were alive, she’d completed any chore requested because afterward she’d been free to do as she’d pleased. Ride. All afternoon at times.

Karleen, on the other hand, never rode. She’d rather sit in the corner reading a book. That’s how she knew how to handle customers, from watching their father. Though back then, all Molly had noticed was how her sister batted her big blue eyes at people. That’s what her sister still did. Something Molly insisted had to stop. At sixteen, Karleen didn’t know the consequences of it.

There was a dangerous ledge between being a girl and becoming a woman, and Molly had to make sure Karleen didn’t fall off it. Not the way she had.

Right now, on the edge of that cliff was Carter Buchanan, and the man was going down.

Chapter Three

C
arter got Sampson settled first, and the horse was grateful, nickering his thanks before trotting out the back door of the barn. It was sad, a barn of this size almost empty. Besides a couple of milk cows grazing, there was a donkey and a few horses near the far side of the fenced-in area. Carter waited, making sure Sampson would get along with the other animals. After some head tossing and grunting, all seemed fine, so he picked his belongings off the floor—that was in desperate need of some attention, as was the fence out back—and set out to find the cabin.

Exploring as he walked, he noted the broken door on the chicken coop and an almost empty woodshed. Fall would be here soon, then winter. That shed should be full. Seeing such things neglected irked him. When you grow up with nothing, you tend to notice how some folks don’t take care of what they have. Not everyone, but enough that he’d become conscious of appreciating what he had. Right now, it was mainly his bank account, because that’s what would get him to his final goal. Once there, he’d be set. Live out his life in a simple fashion that didn’t matter to anyone but him.

The cabin was set back a ways from the other buildings, a little sod shack, but it had a wooden door and real windows. Besides the bed and small stove, there was a child-size table, complete with little dishes and a couple of dolls sitting in pint-size chairs.

He left it be as he set his saddlebags and other items on the bed and then stretched his arms overhead. Sleeping in a real bed would be refreshing after sitting on the train all the way from Chicago. He could have purchased a sleeping berth, but a cowboy working his way to Montana wouldn’t have done that, so he hadn’t either.

“Don’t get too comfortable. You’re not staying.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know the older sister had found him. Snippy really did get on his nerves.

“Here’s your hat and your gun belt. Leave.”

He turned, took the items she held. After putting on the hat, he settled the belt around his hips. There’d probably be no use for it, but just the same, he secured the metal buckle and tied the strap to his thigh.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

It took a lot to get a reaction out of him, but Molly Thorson made ire inch up his back like a slow and steady caterpillar climbing a branch. “The people on the train heard you,” he said. “The one that left an hour ago.”

She opened her mouth, but then as if she’d forgotten what she wanted to say, she snapped it shut. Her eyes, however, could have fired bullets faster than his pistol.

Finding the slightest bit of humor in how easy it was to get a reaction out of her, he said, “Your sister hired me.”

Her cheeks were bright red now, or maybe they already had been, and she planted both hands on her hips. Trying to appear as wide and formidable as a woman the size of Mrs. Rudolf, she informed him, “Karleen had no right to hire you without consulting me first.”

The sister had been right, Molly’s dress was too big, not even the long white apron hid that fact, and the dull drab color was unflattering. How she chose to dress, or look, made little difference in the scheme of things. Staying here did, and he wasn’t about to leave. “Then you probably need to go talk to her.”

“I have spoken with her.”

“And?”

Her face turned redder. Even her neck, where the dress was tightly buttoned, took on the hue.

Having Karleen on his side, though she was younger and he had to admit shouldn’t have the authority to hire anyone, looked as if it might be enough. “Since she was the one to hire me,” he said, “I’ll leave when she fires me.”

“You will leave now.”

She reminded him of a snake, all coiled up and hissing, and full of bad attitude. “You don’t have a very good disposition, do you, Miss Thorson?” Steam was practically coming out of her ears, and he couldn’t help but add to it. “Molly.”

Molly didn’t know if she’d ever been so enraged in her life. Every inch of her being was furious; even the hair on her head felt as though it could snap in two at any moment. She had enough to deal with, but having Karleen all of a sudden take an interest in a man—one as appalling as him—was the last straw. He’d break Karleen’s heart into so many pieces it would never be whole again.

“You know, if you were a bit more like your sister, more on the pleasant side, you might just have a few more customers,” Carter Buchanan said in that slow, drawling way.

“You stay away from my sister,” Molly seethed.

The somewhat startled expression on his face took her slightly aback. It was gone, the look of surprise, when she glanced up again, making her wonder if she’d imagined it.

“Your sister, Miss Thorson, is a girl. As are you. And I have no interest in girls. I am interested in mending your fence, cleaning your barn and filling your woodshed, along with a few other chores, including helping out with irate customers, but only because I want to earn enough money to make it to Montana before the snow flies.”

His little ploy may have worked on Mrs. Rudolf and Karleen, even Owen Ratcliff, but it wouldn’t work on her. She couldn’t be placated. There was too much ire inside her for that, even as she imagined all those chores being completed before the snow flies, as he’d put it. Something else would arrive along with the snow, and she’d been more focused on that lately than becoming prepared for winter. Unable to find fault in what he’d said—other than her being a girl—she went back to his earlier statement.

“I have plenty of customers, Mr. Buchanan.”

“You won’t if you keep up that attitude much longer,” he said. “Most people don’t like temper 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.”

“Karleen says books are the most wonderful thing on earth,” Ivy said. “And that someday I can borrow hers.”

“I have no doubt you will soon be borrowing Karleen’s books,” Molly answered, withholding the rest of her opinion. She enjoyed reading, always had, and could think of one particular night she should have sat down with a book, but she’d been too shocked that night to see Robbie. “Have you finished your other lessons?” she asked, though her mind had slipped again, and she was now thinking of Carter. He’d said he wasn’t interested in Karleen, but Karleen might be interested in him, and men were fickle.

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Molly stood and helped Ivy put the book and slate on the table in the corner. “Would you like to pick some beans?” She and Karleen could teach Ivy many things, but there was no one for the child to play with during the long hours the store was open, and Molly knew that was as important for a child as books. “Just enough for supper, then you can have a tea party with your dolls.”

Ivy agreed as they left the bedroom hand in hand. The soddy was Ivy’s playhouse, one more reason Carter Buchanan had to leave. There was no room for him here.

It appeared nothing was on Molly’s side all afternoon—not that she expected there to be. Life couldn’t change that quickly. Ivy picked a large bowl full of beans, and then played happily with her dolls in the soddy, but the opportunity to speak with Karleen about firing Carter never appeared.