a tiny giggle as he followed her to the door. “I dare say it might.” When he handed over the box after she’d stepped down, Mrs. Rudolf asked, “What was your name again? I can’t remember.”
“Carter Buchanan, ma’am. And it was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“You, too, Mr. Buchanan. Do tell Molly I said hello, and there’s no rush in getting that settled with the freight company.” Waddling along, she glanced over her shoulder. “I am a reasonable woman, and do understand how these things happen.”
Carter held his opinion on that, but spun back toward the doorway when someone asked, “Who are you?”
He barely noted the sister before glancing over her shoulder. Molly was the one he’d expected to see, but there wasn’t any sign of her. He’d imagined her charging through the doorway like a freight train the entire time he’d been dealing with Mrs. Rudolf and her silly broken cup.
“What, Carter Buchanan, are you doing in Huron?”
He shifted his stance at the skepticism in the girl’s voice. If Karleen was sixteen, he’d guess Molly, or Maureen, to be twenty or so. Young still, but more defined by life. Their names sounded a bit Irish to him, not that it made any difference. Neither of them looked Irish. Both of the Thorson sisters had blond hair tucked neatly into buns on the backs of their heads. Molly’s—Maureen’s—had hints of brown in it, making her pale blue eyes more prominent. Karleen had blue eyes too, they just weren’t as unique.
Carter shut his mind off then, or attempted to. Nothing good came when a man started thinking too much about a woman. He’d seen that before. If a fella wasn’t careful, next thing he knew he’d have a passel of kids as big as that woman’s on the train—like that poor sap that had ordered her as a bride. An event that horrendous would take a while before it quit churning about in the back of his head. How a man could want a woman so badly he’d order one was unbelievable. Even to him, and he’d seen a lot of unbelievable things in his life.
“I was in the storeroom,” Karleen said, her gaze going to Mrs. Rudolf waddling down the road. “You could have gotten hit with that broken cup.”
He’d agree to that, but said, “I’m working my way up to Montana.”
“Montana?”
“Yep, gonna start a ranch up in those parts.” He flipped roles again, pulling up his cowboy jargon and nodding to his horse still tethered to the post. “Sampson and I are looking for a bit of work in these parts, to earn enough money for the next leg of our trip. I was thinking of asking your sister if you folks needed a hired hand.”
The girl planted both hands on her hips, as if that made her appear older, and gave him a good solid once-over. “Have you ever worked in a store before?”
“Sure have. I’ve done most everything at one time or another.” He had even built coffins over in Minnesota while undercover one time, just to make sure they were burying the right man. This job looked to be about as pleasurable.
“Actually, Mr. Buchanan, we do need help around here, and considering the way you took care of both Mr. Ratcliff and Mrs. Rudolf, it would behoove me to hire you.”
Behoove. That was a good word. Couldn’t say it had ever come up in conversation before. He knew it though, from his dictionary. The well-worn book had been his constant companion for years—his only true education. A man learned a lot looking up words, thinking about how they related to people and places.
“The barn needs attention—is that something you could see to, as well?”
“Yes, miss, I could. But wouldn’t your sister have to be the one to hire me?” He wanted the job, all right, needed to examine every bill that came through, but being fired as soon as he was hired wouldn’t give him the chance and the older sister was surely the one in charge.
“We are equal owners in the store. I can hire as easily as she can.” Karleen Thorson stepped onto the porch then and lowered her voice, “Molly wasn’t always as ornery as she is right now. She’s only been that way for the past few months. I think it’s the dresses she keeps sewing for herself. They’re two sizes too big and as unflattering as Otis Zimney’s milk cow.”
Carter wouldn’t admit he’d noticed the drab dress. Nor would he admit he’d noticed Molly’s face. Other than those few freckles, her complexion was unmarred and the graceful arch of her cheeks left her looking about as delicate as Mrs. Rudolf’s china cups.
There he was, thinking too much again. He always thought about his cases, thoroughly, deeply, but usually not the people involved in them.
“If you tell her I compared her to a cow, I’ll fire you,” Karleen whispered.
Carter let out a chuckle, and found himself wishing the older sister was as pleasant to be around as the younger one. That single notion had him picturing the money, making it front and center in his mind. He needed more clues. That’s what the problem was. Didn’t have enough solid evidence to set in and ponder all the intricacies of the case. Once that happened he’d quit thinking so much about Molly Thorson.
“There’s a small cabin out back,” Karleen said. “It has a bed and stove. Help has lived in it a time or two, but for the past couple years Ivy’s just used it as a playhouse. You can stay there if you want. That’ll save you even more money for your ranch in Montana.”
“I’d be obliged,” he said. “You’re sure your sister won’t mind?” Carter had his reservations, but needed to get his foot in the door.
“Oh, she’ll mind. She minds everything lately.”
There was no doubt she’d mind. He didn’t need more evidence in that part.
“But,” the girl said a bit on the sly side, “if we team up, she won’t have a choice. We need help, Mr. Buchanan, have for some time, but Molly’s too stubborn to admit it.”
Carter’s insides churned. Undercover was one thing. Deceit another. He understood that and balanced it out as needed. There was no reason for this job to be different, but deep down, this time it struck a chord. He had to ignore it, that’s all there was to it. Completing his assignment would be impossible without working at the mercantile.
“Why don’t you get settled?” Karleen wiped her hands on her yellow skirt, nodding toward the road. “We have another customer coming, but Pastor Jenkins is always pleasant. He’s a bachelor, like yourself, and several women in town think he’s rather handsome, except Molly. She doesn’t like men with dark hair.” Smiling, the girl then said, “There’re empty stalls in the barn for your horse.”
Molly wanted to rush out the door, proclaim there weren’t any empty stalls and that Carter Buchanan could not work here, but Pastor Jenkins was almost on the porch, and she couldn’t endure his questioning looks. Or his persistence. Which was why she’d told Karleen she didn’t like men with dark hair—just to stop her sister’s questions. The pastor had suggested he’d like to call upon Molly, and she’d told him no, even before Robbie had returned to town. Before …
It happened again. The fluttering in her stomach. Strong enough to capture her full attention. Molly inched her way back into the living quarters while she waited this time. Wondering if she truly had felt something. She hadn’t been ill for several weeks, and was still shaky at how it had suddenly come on, which had left her with no choice but to flee. Holding it in hadn’t been an option. By the time she’d returned to the store, Carter Buchanan had been behind the counter, placating Mrs. Rudolf, even making the woman blush. That was as uncommon as Mr. Ratcliff’s silence.
Carter Buchanan was good at what he did. Telling lies, making people believe them. Like all men.
Karleen passed through the doorway just then. “Oh, there you are. Pastor Jenkins is here for his daily roll. I told him you were keeping one warm for him.”
Like a horse tied up to a post too long, Molly snapped against the confines, the invisible ones that kept her tied