Carl stuck his hands under each of Tommy’s armpits and whisked him up into the air, letting his legs dangle. Then he shook him. “You sure he’s a Caulder? He don’t hardly weigh three stone.”

      “He weighs just what he should. Now, put him down. You had your fun.”

      “He needs to grow a little backbone. Gotta be tough in this world. Ain’t that right, boy? Your ma had to learn that.” Carl shook him again. Harder this time.

      Mable Gallagher pushed aside the curtained doorway to the back storage area and called out. “Henry! Get out here!”

      Sylvia trembled with anger. “Put him down!” She inched closer to the large scissors lying at the end of the counter. She had never hurt Carl before, but she would to protect her son.

      Carl tossed Tommy aside as if he was no more than a sack of potatoes and slammed his hand down on top of hers, pinning her fingers to the wood. “Now, what are you doing, woman? That ain’t very hospitable of you.”

      Henry Gallagher strode into the room. He wasn’t as tall as Carl, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in muscle. He was a stocky bull of a man.

      Carl relaxed the pressure on her hand, giving it a last squeeze before pulling completely away from her.

      Immediately, she crouched before her son. “Are you all right?”

      Tears brimmed in his big chocolate-brown eyes. He nodded—the motion barely detectable.

      “You gotta quit mollycoddling the boy,” Carl said. “He’s a Caulder. Should act like one. Not some namby-pamby.”

      She stood up, her gaze colliding with Henry Gallagher’s. His wife was no longer in the room. He looked from her to Carl and pressed his lips together. His censure was no help. It wasn’t her fault that Carl had shown up and was the one causing the fuss. Yet it seemed her link to that name made everyone judge her accordingly.

      She stiffened her spine. The sooner she and Tommy could leave, the better. “I need two yards of cheesecloth and two cases of canning jars. I already negotiated for them with your wife.”

      With a glance at Carl, Henry walked over to the corner stock of canning and pickling supplies. “These will have to do. It’s the only size I have left over from last summer. There’ll be a new shipment in June.”

      “They’ll do fine,” she said crisply. She just wanted to get out of town as quickly as possible, before Carl got any more mean ideas.

      Mr. Gallagher got the cheesecloth and picked up a case of the jars and carried them out to her wagon.

      As soon as the man disappeared through the doorway, Carl sauntered over to the counter. “These yours?” He held up her basket of eggs, the handle balanced on one stubby finger as he swung the basket to and fro.

      Her chest tightened. “Carl, why are you being like this? You’d best put that down.”

      Carl shrugged. “You ain’t been by to see me in a long time. I near forgot how you looked. Just catchin’ up is all.”

      The arc of the basket’s swing got wider and wilder. One egg flew out and splattered on the floor.

      Anger exploded inside. Her chest tightened. Such waste! “What do you think you are doing?” She rushed forward, reaching to steady the basket.

      He held it just beyond her reach. His mouth curved into a taunting jeer. Another egg flew out and met the same end on the mercantile’s plank floor. “What’ll ya give to get them back?”

      Her heart pounded. “Now, you listen here. Those eggs belong to the Gallaghers now. There’s no sense in what you are doing.”

      He grabbed her wrist, his fingernails digging into her skin, as he held up her arm just high enough to put her off balance. “Don’t you point your finger at me, missy. You always did think you were better than me and we both know it ain’t so.”

      His words hurt—cut—as much as those grimy nails of his. She hadn’t made the best choices in life, but she couldn’t think about that now. Not with Tommy looking on. It was better to let the anger take over than to let what he said get to her inside.

      Heat built up and rolled through her. Her jaw tightened. “You let me go.”

      He huffed out a breath. “Or what? What you gonna do? You ain’t no bigger than a mite.”

      “Mama?” Worry filled Tommy’s high-pitched voice.

      She hated that he was a witness to Carl’s bullying, but there was nothing she could do about it. She twisted her arm, glaring back up at Carl. “Let go of me.”

      “I’m just having a little fun. You know what that is? Fun?”

      “This ain’t it. Not by a long shot.” She stomped down with the heel of her old boot on his foot. Hard.

      Surprised, he loosened his grip for a moment, only to grab hold again. His jaw tightened. “Why, you little—”

      “What’s going on here?”

      A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the early-morning sunlight on his back. He was tall as an oak tree with a deep voice to match. Sylvia couldn’t recall ever seeing him in town before.

      Carl’s grip loosened. She wrenched from his grasp.

      Carl sneered and let go of the basket.

      Before she could think to react, the tall man scooped it up, saving the eggs just inches from the hard floor. His actions were so quick and precise that Sylvia stood there in shocked silence, her mouth gaping open, as he handed the basket back to her.

      “It appears none are injured,” he said in that deep voice.

      She closed her mouth.

      His gaze, green as the pines in the Shenandoah, skimmed over her, before he turned back to Carl. “How’s that rope burn?”

      Carl scowled. “Healed up.”

      “Glad to hear it.” The man didn’t budge. He seemed to be just fine with waiting for Carl to make the next move.

      Carl scowled again. He tugged his wide-brimmed hat down over his ears. “Guess the fun’s over. Gotta get back to the stockyards anyways.”

      It was all Sylvia could do to hold in her relief as he stomped away. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and in the case of the Caulders, she’d learned it was half-rotten before it hit the ground. Only Thomas had been different, taking after his ma’s side of the family instead of his pa’s. She’d been wary of Carl for some time, but when he didn’t come around for a while, she thought things were better. For years, he’d had a woman friend over near Fort Wallace who kept him busy. If that wasn’t the case anymore, guess she would have to watch out for him from now on whenever she and Tommy came to town.

      “What can I do for you, Doc?” Henry asked from behind the counter.

      Doc? Sylvia turned back and stared as the tall man walked over to the counter. So, this was the doctor that Mayor Melbourne had talked into staying in Oak Grove. She’d heard tell of him a year or so ago but never had a reason to meet the man face-to-face.

      She took in the way he was dressed—his white shirt was a bit rumpled, but clean. He wore one of those shoestring neckties she’d heard tell of and it wasn’t even Sunday! His dark burgundy vest had fancy stitching along the edges, like something she’d seen when she lived back East. He had dark brown scruff along his jaw and chin and upper lip. Seemed he wasn’t sure whether he was growing a beard and a mustache or not. His wavy hair was so thick it sprung like a soft cushion from his head. That, she could tell because he didn’t wear a hat or overcoat.

      Didn’t he have the sense to know he’d catch his death of a cold in this wayward weather? Spring in Kansas was nothing to sneeze at, half the time cold, wet and windy and the other time sunny, hot and still windy. But today