The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye

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.”