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 front door of that mercantile, coming up with a new plan.
When the roll was gone, he folded the paper and stuffed it in his saddlebag—never know when it might come in handy—and then he patted Sampson’s neck while untying the reins from the post. “Time to visit Ted Wilcox. We need more information before we set our plan in place, boy. Then I’ll get you some oats.” Keeping his voice low while conversing with the horse—as he often did on cases—he added, “Molly Thorson is hiding a secret as big as you, and my gut says money is involved. Stolen money.”
Chapter Two
Ted Wilcox was at the train depot in his office on the second floor, and upon seeing him, the man nodded toward the steward sitting behind a desk in the outer room Carter had entered moments ago.
“J.T.,” Wilcox said, “go reserve a room at the hotel. There’s a guest on the next train that will be expecting it. Put it in the railroad’s name.”
“Yes, sir,” answered J.T., who was little more than a boy with round glasses and long brown hair, who just might be afraid of his own shadow.
Carter returned the young man’s nod, knowing Wilcox was reserving a room for him but didn’t want anyone to know that. He waited until the assistant was gone before crossing the room to shake the railroad man’s hand.
Average height and stocky, Wilcox displayed an attitude that said he expected to be listened to. “Mr. Buchanan, I presume?”
“Carter,” he answered.
“Ted,” the man offered in return. “Let’s step into my office.”
Carter followed through the thick wooden door. If the railroad had spent as much money on their passenger cars as they had this man’s office, they’d have a lot more happy travelers. Then again, maybe folks out here weren’t used to the plush cars the trains back east had. He hadn’t heard many complaints on his trip, but no one heard much over that brood of redheaded kids.
“The room I sent J.T. to reserve is for you,” Wilcox said as he walked around his big mahogany desk. “I was going to see to it during lunch, but since you hadn’t stopped in, I wondered if you’d been on the train.”
Carter questioned holding his explanation. This was the one thing he didn’t like about being a Pinkerton man. It was expected he should instantly trust his connections when on assignment, but he liked getting to know people first. In this instance, there wasn’t time. He needed to learn as much as possible, fast, to determine how—besides working there—he could watch the coming and going at the mercantile. Therefore, he’d have to give a little to get a little. “I wanted to get a feel for the town first.”
“Good idea,” Wilcox said, gesturing to a chair.
Once Carter sat,