The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye. Lauri Robinson

Molly agreed with that, still did. Other than the school issue, most of the town had accepted Ivy, too.

      If only things were that simple now.

      Molly found Ivy in her bedroom, sitting on the floor and practicing her letters on the slate balanced on her lap.

      “I can help Karleen in the store if you need to work in your garden,” the child said, looking up with a touch of worry in her generous brown eyes.

      Molly sat down on the floor and looped an arm around the tiny shoulders. “Maybe later,” she said. “Thank you for offering.”

      Ivy nodded and then drew a perfect lowercase e. Molly couldn’t help but recall how Carter Buchanan had said Ivy was a child and deserved to learn. She agreed, and once again wished things were different. If her father had still been alive, Ivy would be in school. He would have seen to it. Molly had tried, but she just didn’t have the persuasive way her father had. She was more like her mother in that sense. Not necessarily by choice. She’d like to be more domineering, but that wasn’t how she was raised. It wasn’t until after her parents died that she’d had to learn to make decisions—was still learning in some instances—and how to live with them.

      Molly picked up the book near Ivy’s knee. “Could you read to me for a few minutes? Karleen’s minding the store and I’d love to sit up here with you for a bit.”

      When Ivy smiled as she did right then, it made the entire world brighter. Molly tried to swallow the lump in her throat—the one that told her life was far from awful—and then leaned over to plant a tiny kiss in the center of the part that separated Ivy’s long black hair into two braids.

      “I believe you’re ready for a new reader,” Molly said a short time later as the child closed the book. “You’ve mastered this one without a single mistake. I believe Karleen ordered a few extras. They’re on a shelf downstairs.”

      “Karleen says books are the most wonderful thing on earth,” Ivy said. “And that someday I can borrow hers.”

      “I have no doubt you will soon be borrowing Karleen’s books,” Molly answered, withholding the rest of her opinion. She enjoyed reading, always had, and could think of one particular night she should have sat down with a book, but she’d been too shocked that night to see Robbie. “Have you finished your other lessons?” she asked, though her mind had slipped again, and she was now thinking of Carter. He’d said he wasn’t interested in Karleen, but Karleen might be interested in him, and men were fickle.

      “Yes.”

      “Well, then.” Molly stood and helped Ivy put the book and slate on the table in the corner. “Would you like to pick some beans?” She and Karleen could teach Ivy many things, but there was no one for the child to play with during the long hours the store was open, and Molly knew that was as important for a child as books. “Just enough for supper, then you can have a tea party with your dolls.”

      Ivy agreed as they left the bedroom hand in hand. The soddy was Ivy’s playhouse, one more reason Carter Buchanan had to leave. There was no room for him here.

      It appeared nothing was on Molly’s side all afternoon—not that she expected there to be. Life couldn’t change that quickly. Ivy picked a large bowl full of beans, and then played happily with her dolls in the soddy, but the opportunity to speak with Karleen about firing Carter never appeared.

      From what she heard, Mrs. Rudolf had wasted no time sharing the story that the mercantile had a new employee. Even Mr. Wilcox from the railroad stopped in, requesting to see Molly. She left the back room and met the gray-haired man at the counter, fully prepared to hear that the rest of her order wouldn’t be in for weeks, and ready to tell him exactly what she thought about that. Instead, she was utterly shocked when he earnestly proceeded to apologize to her for Mrs. Rudolf’s broken cup. He not only insisted she order another complete set, which he personally promised would arrive undamaged, but he vowed to assure future shipments would arrive on time. The railroad, he said, did owe all customers the same excellent service it provides its own investments.

      Molly was speechless, and had more things to ponder by the way Mr. Wilcox tipped his hat toward Carter as the railroad man left the store. Carter was behind it, that was for sure, and Karleen would never fire him now. That was irksome, but what bothered her more was how he was embedding himself so deeply into their business.

      By the time they locked the front door that evening, she’d bet they’d sold more merchandise than any other day since her parents had died. It was true, Molly concluded upon totaling the receipts and the cash in the drawer. Their best day ever.

      Questioning what that meant, a sound, or a sense, had Molly lifting her gaze from the store’s daily journal.

      “You shouldn’t leave that money in the cash drawer overnight,” Carter said from where he leaned against the doorway that led into the house portion of the building.

      “It’s called a cash drawer because that’s what it is,” she said, closing the book and placing it on the shelf beneath the counter.

      “I know that. But so does everyone else.”

      She didn’t like when he did that, talked slow and deliberate, making people think, therefore she didn’t bother looking his way again.

      “Anyone could break in here, steal the money. They’d be long gone by the time you heard anything.”

      That was highly unlikely, yet she asked, “And where do you suggest I put the money, if not in the cash drawer?”

      “Hide it. Somewhere only you and Karleen know about. Every night and take it out every morning.”

      The hair on her arms had started to quiver. Her father used to do that, but over time, she’d forgotten. What else didn’t she remember? The sound of their voices? No, she’d never forget how Papa’s laughter had echoed through the house like joyous thunder, especially when he was telling one of his famous jokes. Molly tried for a moment, but couldn’t seem to recall even one of his many stories. But she could remember how it felt to know he was in the house, how his presence chased away all her childhood fears. Fear was with her now constantly, and his laughter was gone.

      Shaken, she gathered the bills out of the cash drawer and blew out the lamp on the counter. Walking past Carter, she hissed, “You’re still leaving.”

      She could hear his laughter, and it rattled her very being.

      Molly got up twice and moved the money to different locations—out from beneath her bed to behind the wood box in the kitchen, and then to the top drawer of her bureau—but still couldn’t sleep. Counting sheep didn’t help, neither did rehearsing how she’d insist that Karleen fire Carter. Therefore, when she crawled out of bed the next morning, she was groggy and irritated—more so than normal.

      It was while Molly was pulling the third batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven that her mood hit rock bottom.

      “Goodness,” her sister commented while entering the kitchen. “The store is busier than yesterday. We’re going to need another batch of rolls. People who hadn’t gotten a good look at Carter yesterday are trying to today.” Karleen started placing rolls on a plate. “Actually, some who had seen him yesterday are back for a second look.” Grinning, she added, “He is so very handsome, don’t you think?”

      “That’s disgraceful, Karleen,” Molly snapped.

      “What? Licking my fingers?” Karleen asked, doing just that.

      “That, too,” Molly said, setting the heavy pan on top of the stove with a loud thump. “Carter Buchanan is not staying here.”

      “Yes, he is,” Karleen insisted. “He’s not only good for business, he’s exactly the help we’ve needed. The cows were milked, the eggs gathered and the animals fed before I even got up. You, too. No boy from town would manage all that.”

      Her sister was pointing out how last week Molly had suggested they hire a boy from town, which increased her irritation.