Читать книгу The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye - Lauri Robinson - Страница 8

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, the man pulled open a drawer and handed a bill over the top of the desk.

“This is it, the only bill that’s surfaced,” the man said. “The serial numbers match those the mint confirmed were in the shipment stolen last year.”

A five. Crisp and new. Not so much as a corner bent. The numbers did match. Carter had memorized them. “In May?” he asked, verifying that’s when the bill was discovered.

“Yes. J.T. is who got it. He’d bought some things at the mercantile. The poor lad has a crush on the youngest Thorson girl, they went to school together. He showed it to me because he’d never seen a bill so new. I paid him ten dollars for it.”

Carter let a lifted brow express his thoughts.

Wilcox grinned. “The railroad paid him ten dollars for it. I recognized the serial numbers right away.” He took the bill Carter passed back across the desk and replaced it in the drawer. “J.T. thinks I just like new bills, so he’s on the lookout for more.” The man propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers together. “Nobody knows about the robbery, and the C&NW wants to keep it that way. Having people believe we lost that kind of money would damage our reputation. That wasn’t a passenger train. Not a single person boarded after it left Chicago, and no one got off until it arrived here. But the loss was noted in Nebraska.”

None of that was new information. Carter had read the inside report, knew how the railroad had covered the loss and tried to solve the inside caper themselves, without any luck, and now the owner wanted it completely investigated and resolved. Carter had also memorized the manifesto of passengers. Railroad men and soldiers.

“The money had been in a locked box in a private car,” Wilcox said. “The box was still there, just empty, and one man couldn’t have carried that amount out without being noticed, not with a hundred pockets. He’d have needed a carrying bag of some sort, and every man on that train was searched.”

None of this was new, and that’s what Carter needed, new information. “How’d the Thorson sisters end up owning the mercantile?”

“You’ve been there?”

He tipped his hat back a bit. “Had a cinnamon roll for lunch.”

“That’s what keeps people coming in their doors. The older sister came up with that idea.”

The way Wilcox leaned back in his chair and folded his arms said he wasn’t impressed. Carter waited, knew the man would say more.

“The Chicago and Northwestern Rail needs to own this town, Mr. Buchanan—Carter. We opened a dry-goods store three years ago, and little more than those cinnamon rolls keep people from buying everything they need from us instead of those sisters.”

“A little competition makes good business.” Normally he wouldn’t have voiced his opinion, but the situation merited it.

“Usually,” the other man answered, “but laying new lines is costly. What the railroad makes here is invested in more rails heading in all directions. Once the tracks are all constructed and C&NW trains are flowing, competition will be welcomed. Until then, it’s up to me, and now you, to see that every dollar spent in Huron flows through the railroad’s coffers.”

That wasn’t new either. Mining towns were the same. The trouble was greed. By the time the tracks were all laid, the railroad would have another reason why they needed to own everything. They always wanted more. And the man was wrong. It wasn’t up to Carter to see people spent their money with the railroad. He was a Pinkerton man. Solving a crime was his job.

“We almost had it,” Wilcox said. “Thorson’s Mercantile. The old man had never wanted a store, he was set on ranching. Raising horses for the army. Story is he found more money was to be made in selling supplies instead. We have the army’s business now, and thought after the man and his wife died the girls would close up shop. Instead they started selling those cinnamon rolls, and have kept a steady business going ever since. ‘Course, we haven’t hit them too hard—town folks like those girls, feel sorry for them, and we need to act accordingly. Keep it all undercover. You know how that is.”

Carter refrained from commenting. He did know how it was, but that wasn’t why he kept quiet. Molly Thorson was. He didn’t want to like anything about her. That snooty attitude of hers had set a frost deep in his bones, but, being an honest man, he had to admit he held a touch of respect for her. She had backbone, and finding a way to keep her doors open—fighting against the railroad—took pure gumption.

She was scared, too. He’d seen it in her eyes when he mentioned her reputation. Stolen money was a reputation killer.

All in all, every instinct Carter had told him he had to revert to his original plan. Get a job at the mercantile.

A knock sounded and Wilcox rose and walked across the room to crack open the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilcox, but the hotel is full up. Seems that woman with a passel of kids that got off the 11:10 is Mick Wagner’s mail-order bride.”

An involuntary shiver raced over Carter’s shoulders.

“Seems it took up the hotel’s last three rooms just to find enough sleeping room for all of them. They’ll be there for a couple days, too. Walt Smith went to tell Mick she’s—or they’ve—arrived, but it’ll take him three days to ride out there and back.”

“Thanks, J.T.,” Wilcox said, closing the door. When he turned, he shrugged.

“How many kids did that woman have?” Carter hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Wilcox laughed. “I couldn’t count them all, not with the way they were running around like heathens.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t know Mick ordered a bride.”

Carter’s tongue stayed put, but sympathy did cross his mind. Had to. Any man had to feel sorry for another one getting in that position. A wife and a passel of kids. All at once.

“There is a boardinghouse on the east edge of town, but the widow Reins runs it, and she’s as nosy as a coon.”

“That’s all right,” Carter said. “I’ll find a place to bed down for the night.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“By then I’ll have a job at the mercantile. It’ll come with room and board.”

Wilcox let out a cynical laugh. “Thorson’s Mercantile?”

Carter didn’t nod, but did let a tiny grin emit.

“You Pinkerton men must be brave,” Wilcox said. “Or crazy.”

Carter held his opinion on that, too.

By noon the next day he was back at the mercantile, buying another one of those cinnamon rolls. Molly Thorson wasn’t any more pleasant today than she’d been yesterday, but the rolls were just as good. Leastwise it smelled that way, he’d yet to buy and eat one.

“What do you want?” she demanded while glaring up at him from where she stood behind the counter unpacking another crate.

Nothing to do with you, he almost snapped in return. She looked about as friendly as a thunderstorm, and that was before taking in account her ugly gray dress. But a white apron covered up most of the dull color, and he had a job to do. “I’m working my way to Montana,” he said.

Her snarled “So?” was quickly followed with “Oh, good grief.”

He’d never heard that reaction to the territory. Yet Montana had nothing to do with her response.

“It’s broken.” She was growling again and holding up a fancy teacup. “Mrs. Rudolf ordered a set of six cups and saucers,” she said, turning that nasty glare on him again. “My best sale all month, and one is broken. She’s going to be furious. Her garden party is this weekend.”

Her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever seen—not even the sky held that shade—but it was how she was blinking a massive set of eyelashes, as if not wanting to cry, that made his throat get thick. He hadn’t thought of the orphanages from his childhood in years, yet he was right back there. Seeing the faces of all those unwanted little souls. “You still have five,” Carter said.

“What good will that do?”

He didn’t know. It had been all he could think to say. She’d gone from snippy to sappy as fast as an alley man flips a coin. That thought—alley men, thieves really—sent his mind in another direction.

That’s how he’d become a Pinkerton agent. Allan Pinkerton himself had learned that Carter had gained access to the den of several alley thieves, and had hired him as an inside informant. It had been shortly after he’d arrived in Chicago, still just a kid really, and he’d thought joining those thieves might be his only way of making money. He had a lot to thank Allan for. Whether the man knew it or not, he’d nipped Carter’s thieving days in the bud. Changed his whole outlook. If not for Allan, Carter might have been walking on the other side of the law, and it was best he never forgot that.

Carter spun on one heel, but hadn’t made it more than a yard away from the counter when a gasp had him turning around. Those faded blue eyes were locked on the doorway and he twisted slowly, curling one hand around the handle of his gun, not sure what he’d see.

The tension gripping his spine dissolved. It was nothing more than a woman, one who might outweigh Sampson, but a woman no less. He let his gaze wander back to Molly Thorson, where it stuck. She’d gone pale and the hand over her mouth had him wondering if she was going to chuck her lunch all over that crate of dishes. He’d seen that look back at the orphanages, too, after kids had eaten some of the slop forced on them.

Growing whiter than her apron, she whirled around and shot through the open doorway the sister and the little Indian girl had used yesterday. He waited a moment, but when no one reappeared, Carter glanced back toward the open doorway. The big woman was about to barrel over the threshold and instinct told him this was Mrs. Rudolf, the owner of a broken cup.

A Pinkerton man was an actor, could hop from one character to the next just by changing his hat. Carter did that—removed his hat and his gun belt, put them both on a shelf on the backside of the counter and was gingerly setting pink-and-gold cups upon matching saucers when the woman arrived, eyeing him critically over the rim of her round glasses.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rudolf,” he said with all the pleasantry of a store clerk.

Her frown left indents on her face the size of those he’d seen in the dried-out ground down in Arizona.

“Carter Buchanan.” He gave a nod over one shoulder. “I’m helping out the Thorson sisters.” Drawing the woman’s attention to the cups, he continued, “Got some mighty fancy cups here.”

The deep wrinkles on her forehead softened as she picked up a cup. “Oh, my, they are absolutely beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are. I’ve never seen anything like them.” He wasn’t lying. There’d never been a reason for him to take much interest in teacups. Wouldn’t be now if one of the Thorson sisters would step through that doorway.

“I was getting worried they wouldn’t arrive in time for my party,” Mrs. Rudolf said, still gazing at the cup as if it was gold instead of just painted that way. “They were supposed to be in last week, you know.”

No, he didn’t know that, but he could imagine how displeased this woman was going to be when she learned one of her treasured cups was broken. Therefore he said, “I know. Miss Thorson is very upset over that, and she’s even more disturbed by how carelessly her order was handled. Tore off for the back room just moments ago.” Though he doubted it, he added, “Probably to pen her correspondence.”

“What correspondence?”

“To the freight company, over the shoddy way they treat merchandise. The way they treated you.” He refrained from specifically naming the railroad, having to balance things as carefully as a beam scale weighing gold dust.

“Me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, remaining in character. “I don’t see the cause to get so riled up, but you know Molly.” The name slipped off his tongue as if he’d been saying it for years. Maybe he had—he’d worked with a lot of people, and remembering every name would be impossible.

Mrs. Rudolf nodded. “Yes, I do.” Leaning closer, she whispered, “She never used to be this way. It’s only been recently.”

Doubt was settling hard again, but he agreed with a nod. “I’m sure it’s things like this. Too many mishaps wear a person down.”

“Things like what?”

“I know someone as reasonable as you would never let anything this silly upset them.” He paused then, as if taken aback for a moment. “You are a reasonable woman, aren’t you, Mrs. Rudolf?”

“Of course I am.”

Her insistence proved she wasn’t, but he’d already figured that out, so he smiled. “I thought so.” Going a step further, which he did only when the situation called for it, Carter gave her a touch of flattery. “Anyone with eyes as tender as yours is very reasonable.”

It worked. Her weathered cheeks turned as pink as the roses painted on her cups.

“I knew one broken cup wouldn’t disrupt your garden party,” he said brightly.

“Broken cup!”

The women around here sure did anger quickly, not so unlike everywhere else in the world. Keeping his tone even, and adding a sorrowful look, he said, “Yes, ma’am. That’s why Molly is so flustered. Over the way the freight company treated you.” He patted the old woman’s hand. “And I’m glad you don’t blame her. I’m sure your guests will understand. Besides, it’s only one. You won’t have more than four guests, will you?” A woman with this disposition couldn’t have many friends. Then again, birds of a feather flock together.

“Well, no, there’ll just be the four of us. Wives of the town council.” Her tone implied the importance of that. Or at least she thought it was significant.

“Good.” He’d been wrapping the cups and saucers in paper from the shelf next to his hat and gun belt, and now bent to pick up a small crate he assumed was for this purpose. “You’ll even have an extra to spare, then.” After piling the dishes in the box, Carter picked up the broken cup. “I’ll keep this one, to prove it’s damaged, but feel free to explain to the women what happened and how Molly is assuring you’ll receive the sixth one as soon as possible.” Before Mrs. Rudolf could answer—it was obvious she was thinking through everything he’d just said—he glanced around, continued, “Now, where did I see that bill?”

Her silence said she was still contemplating things, so he ran a hand through his hair as if growing frustrated. “I know I saw it. I don’t want to upset Molly more by—”

“I remember how much it was,” the woman said, digging in her little lace-covered wrist bag.

“Thank you,” he said, exaggerating his supposed relief. “You certainly are a reasonable woman, Mrs. Rudolf, and for that, take ten percent off what you owe.” Eyeing her pointedly, he added, “You can pay the balance when your sixth cup arrives.”

The bills she laid on the counter were old and wrinkled, but he still took a moment to glance at the serial numbers. That was, after all, why he was here. They weren’t close to the stolen ones, and after he’d set the money next to the big engraved box he assumed was the cash drawer, he picked up the crate of dishes. “I’ll carry these out to the porch for you. I’d hate to see you stumble on that step and break another cup. That would ruin your party.”

She let out 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 to the store, to her life. “I’m not keeping one warm for him, and you had no right to offer that man a job.”

Her sister didn’t so much as glance her way as she walked to the stove and took the pan of rolls out of the warming oven, but she did say, “It doesn’t hurt to be kind to people. You used to tell me that all the time.”

That was true. At one time Molly had felt that way, even lived that way, but not anymore. “We’re attempting to run a business, Karleen, not make friends.”

Cutting the rolls apart, Karleen sighed heavily. “That’s what I’m trying to do, Molly, run a business. Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I?” she huffed in return. “That’s all I have been doing. Without much help, I might add.”

Karleen had the most expressive eyes, and right now they said Molly’s words had hurt. Painfully so.

Molly cursed her temper that simmered right below, boiling continuously. Karleen was young, had so much to learn, but did do her fair share. “Go give Pastor Jenkins his roll,” Molly said, but that truly was all the comfort she could offer her sister. “Then go tell that cowboy you changed your mind. That you can’t hire him.”

“But I can hire him, and I did.”

Her moment of mercy vanished. “No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

Holding her breath, for it was too hot to be released, Molly pointed out, “You are only sixteen, too young to know who to hire and who not to.” She wanted to add who to trust, but that held too much ridicule coming from her.

“You said when I graduated we’d become equal partners. That happened this spring. I work as hard as you do in this store. I did even while I was still in school.” Karleen could be as feisty as their mother when riled, and was so now. Without taking a breath, she continued, “I’m tired of being treated like a child. I deserve more respect than that. I’ve earned it.”

As much as it infuriated her, Molly had to admit a portion of that was true. They’d never have kept the doors open as long as they had if it wasn’t.

“Now,” Karleen said, putting the pan, minus one roll, back in the warming oven above the stove. “You know as well as I do we need the help around here. The barn is a disaster, the fence line is down again, the storeroom has a leaky roof and there’s that lovely hornets’ nest on the backside of the outhouse.” Spinning around, she finished her rant with, “If you want to go fix those things yourself, go fire Carter.”

All her sister said was true, but one thing snagged at Molly’s ire more than the others. “His name is Mr. Buchanan. You don’t know him well enough to call him by his first name.”

Karleen didn’t answer, simply stared at her with a somewhat amazed expression as she crossed the room, roll in hand.

“I will fire him,” Molly declared. It was beneath her to spat with her younger sister, but Karleen had challenged her, not so unlike when they were younger.

“Fine,” her sister replied. “Have fun with the hornets, too. Which shouldn’t be too hard. You’re about as pleasant to be around as they are.”

Molly was still conjuring up a response when Karleen paused in the archway leading to the hall. “Just remember, if it wasn’t for Carter—” her sister said the man’s name with great emphasis “—we’d have lost Mrs. Rudolf’s sale this morning. With the mood you’re in, you’d have smashed every cup. And how would that have affected our profits?”

Nose in the air, Karleen marched down the hall, and the way she greeted the pastor, with honey-laced cheerfulness, provoked every last nerve Molly had. She’d fire Carter Buchanan all right, and she’d paddle Karleen’s behind, just as their father used to do.

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.