“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