The rancher looked at her.
“No.”
She stared.
“No?”
“You were talking about purchasing five yards.”
He walked toward the counter.
“You had plenty of time to open your purse.”
A few people lowered their heads to hide smiles.
The woman’s face reddened.
The rancher looked at the merchant.
“Wrap the entire bolt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Load it into my wagon.”
The widow stood near the door.
The rancher looked toward her.
Only briefly.
His gaze moved over the patched coat, the worn blue dress, the grain sack held against her side.
But he did not look at her with pity.
That surprised her.
He looked angry.
Not at her.
For her.
She disliked how much that mattered.
The woman in purple whispered something.
The rancher heard.
He turned.
“You ladies finished?”
The purple woman straightened.
“Finished with what?”
“Whatever entertainment you came here seeking.”
Her face hardened.
“We were having a private conversation.”
“Half the store heard it.”
The woman in green lifted her chin.
“You seem unusually concerned with the widow’s feelings.”
The rancher’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m unusually concerned with adults who mistake money for character.”
Silence.
The widow looked away.
She should leave.
Instead she remained.
The woman in green stiffened.
“You cannot speak to me that way.”
The rancher gave the merchant payment.
“I just did.”
The widow stepped outside before anyone could see the smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.
Cold air struck her cheeks.
She walked toward her wagon.
The old mare waited with one rear hoof resting lightly on the frozen street.
The widow loaded the oats.
Then the lard.
She heard boots behind her.
The rancher approached carrying nothing.
“Mrs. Thornton.”
She stiffened.
“Sir.”
“I’m sorry for what happened inside.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“No.”
He looked toward the mercantile.
“But I could have stopped it sooner.”
She turned toward him.
“I don’t need defending.”
“I noticed.”
His answer irritated her because it sounded sincere.
She reached for the wagon seat.
The rancher said:
“You looked at that red fabric.”
She stopped.
“So?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why mention it?”
He almost smiled.
“You don’t like questions you don’t control.”
“I don’t like men who think buying forty yards of cloth gives them the right to ask personal ones.”
His smile became clearer.
“Fair.”
She climbed onto the wagon.
He stood beside the wheel.
For one awkward second, neither spoke.
Then he said:
“Drive carefully.”
She looked down at him.
“I’ve been driving wagons since I was twelve.”
“I believe you.”
“Then stop telling me how.”
His eyes held hers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She flicked the reins.
The mare started forward.
She made it halfway down the street before realizing she was still thinking about the way he had looked at her.
Not at the coat.
Not at the patches.
At her.
That annoyed her more than the wealthy women had.
Because mockery was easy to dismiss.
Interest was dangerous.
Especially from a man powerful enough to change the shape of her life without asking permission.
Back inside the mercantile, the merchant finished wrapping the flannel.
The rancher waited.
Then the merchant lowered his voice.
“You know why she’s wearing that coat?”
The rancher looked at him.
“She can’t afford another.”
“That’s part of it.”
The merchant glanced toward the windows.
“Her grandfather was one of the men who settled the north creek.”
The rancher knew the name.