Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (4 page)

Samantha stepped into the crowded interior of the mercantile and closed the door behind her. A sharp scent of vinegar and dill from a ceramic crock of pickles next to the door caught her attention. She loved pickles, especially the kind she’d eaten as a child in Germany.

From the crock, her gaze roved the loaded shelves and aisles, disregarding farm implements and ready-made men’s wear, and settled on bolts of fabric stacked on a nearby counter. She pulled off one of her black kidskin gloves, reached over, and ran a reverent finger over the plush pile of a bolt of green velvet. She could envision herself in a dress made from this material. Maybe after she learned the exact state of her finances, she’d indulge herself.

From behind a heavy oak counter to her left, a stout woman wearing a crisp blue cotton dress bustled forward. Samantha resisted brushing at the folds of her coat. She hadn’t felt crisp, much less completely clean, in a month. The woman’s close-set brown eyes seemed to scrutinize the rich quality of Samantha’s black coat and hat. Her fleshy face scrunched into a smile, showing pointed eyeteeth. The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “May I help you?” she asked, voice strident.

“I’m Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“Raw-dree-gez?” The smile faded from the woman’s face. “I’m Mrs. Cobb. My husband and I own this store.”

“Mrs. Cobb.” Samantha nodded. Her stomach tightened. She hoped the woman wasn’t reacting to her Spanish surname. “I’ve inherited my uncle Ezra Sawyer’s ranch. I thought I’d stock up on supplies for the next few days. At least until I find what’s needed.”

Mrs. Cobb huffed. “Probably everything. Ezra let that place run to rack and ruin. Of course, there wasn’t anyone to help him. No family.”

“No, there are no other living family members, except for my son and myself. And we’ve been living in Argentina.” Why bother explaining herself to this woman?

“Argentina?” Another huff. “Place full of them Mexicans…Catholics.”

I’m Catholic.
She wanted to snap out the words.
Be polite, Sam.
“I believe Mexicans live in
Mexico
, Mrs. Cobb. Argentina is in South America.”

“Same as,” Mrs. Cobb snorted in disgust. “Makes no difference.”

Ignorant woman.
Samantha clamped her mouth shut on the stinging words she wanted to say. She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. “I have a short list of staples, which should hold us for now.”
Then I’ll place a large order so I don’t have to visit this store very often.

“That will be cash,” Mrs. Cobb said. “American. No heathen money.” She waited, apparently for Samantha to agree.

Biting back her temper, Samantha nodded.

Mrs. Cobb plucked the list from her hand. “There’ll be no need for milk or eggs. Wyatt Thompson’s been keeping Ezra’s livestock, what’s left of them, at his ranch. He’ll probably get them back to you tomorra.”

Mr. Thompson again. She’d have to be sure to thank him for all his efforts. Maybe bake him and his family her special cake like she used to make for Juan Carlos. She’d have to purchase extra flour and sugar.

Mrs. Cobb hurried to the counter. Samantha followed. A whiff of coffee from the bags of beans stacked next to the grinder lightened her grim mood. The idea of fresh coffee after years of yerba maté was just the pick-me-up she needed right now.

Mrs. Cobb began setting sacks on the countertop. Samantha turned to see Daniel clattering toward her, a smudge on his face, and his tie askew. He skidded to a stop, eyeing the glass jars of penny candy.

She ruffled his hair. “Slow down, son. And you don’t need to ask. Yes, I’ll buy some candy, but you have to wait until after we’ve eaten before you can have a piece.”

“May I choose which?”

“How about one of each? But first, I want you to meet Mrs. Cobb.” She turned his shoulder until he faced the woman.

Daniel swept her a formal bow. “
Buenos días
, Mrs. Cobb.”

Mrs. Cobb stiffened. “We
only
speak English here.”

Before the woman could say anything more, with a sharp movement, Samantha lifted the lid from the nearest candy jar and pulled out a peppermint stick. “Here, Daniel. You may eat this outside. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Samantha’s anger boiled, and she struggled to contain it. She didn’t want to start her first day here by slapping the haughty look off the face of the shopkeeper. In silence, she paid for her purchases. Then she made arrangements with Mrs. Cobb to have them delivered to the livery stable, grabbed the lighter paper-and-string-wrapped packages off the counter, and sailed out of the store.

Once outside she forced herself to slow to a leisurely pace. Daniel mustn’t see how upset she was. In Argentina, they’d both suffered from her father-in-law’s prejudice against her being a Yankee. Now it seemed they faced similar preconceived notions—in reverse. She glanced down at her son’s happy face, blue eyes bright against his golden skin, his lips sticky with candy, and vowed to protect him from all the Mrs. Cobbs of Sweetwater Springs.

From Mack’s continuous cackling as the man exited the barn, probably for the nearest saloon, Wyatt knew the story would be all over town in a matter of hours. The heat in his face singed the outside of his skin like a fresh sunburn. He had a reputation in these parts as a calm, logical man of substance. People respected him. He’d built a prosperous life, erasing the disasters and shame of his younger years. Now, in just a few minutes, some Spanish widow had managed to overset his hard-earned serenity. And he hadn’t even met the woman! Wyatt turned and stalked down the aisle, keeping a wary eye out for the kitten.

From outside the door, a boy’s voice called, “In here, Mama.”

Before Wyatt had time to step out of the way, a young boy careened into him. Something jabbed into his side. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders before he could hit the ground and set him on his feet.

“Pardon,
Señor
.”

Wyatt surveyed his captive. A little overdressed for a weekday. He didn’t recognize the child, but he was familiar with the sticky red-and-white candy clutched in the boy’s hand. His daughter’s favorite. Wyatt glanced down at himself. Just as he surmised, a red stain blotched his once-clean white shirt.

The boy’s gaze followed Wyatt’s. A chagrined look crossed his face. “
Lo siento…
I mean, I’m sorry, sir.”

“Slow down, son, and watch where you’re going.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

A melodic woman’s voice asked, “Is there a problem?”

Wyatt looked up. The Spanish widow no doubt. Clad in black from head to toe, she clutched an armload of parcels and sacks. The shadows near the door obscured her features. He gave a gentle push to the boy, heading him back outside. “Perhaps you should wash up. Use the pump by the horse trough.”

Pepe rushed over. “Señora Rodriguez, let me take those for you.” He lifted the bundles out of her arms and disappeared outside. Popping back in the barn, he said, “Is there anything else I may do for you, Señora?”

“No, gracias
, Pepe.
”

“De nada,
Señora
.”
Pepe hurried back out.

I should have helped her.
Wyatt buried the quick spurt of shame under rising anger. She was the cause of his current predicament. “I take it you’re the owner of these
midgets
?”

She stepped into the light, and her beauty caught him in the gut—like a kick from one of her midget horses. Under her black straw hat, he caught a glimpse of flame-colored hair. Auburn brows and lashes framed wide blue eyes. A flush of peach crept into her cheeks and a determined chin, now lifted several inches higher than before, gave her a spirited demeanor. Not the withered, dark-skinned widow he’d been expecting.

“Falabellas,” she corrected.

“I don’t care what highfalutin name you give them. Those horses are midgets.”

“No, they’re not.”

“What good are
Falabellas
anyway? Can’t even ride them.”

He caught the flash of her cornflower blue eyes and watched with appreciation as her bosom swelled with anger. She tightened
her jaw and visibly forced herself to give him a civil reply. “They can pull a special buggy. And they’re very playful.”

“Playful?” His words dripped with derision. Shame brushed across his conscience, but not enough to stop him.

“Yes.”

“Who needs a playful horse? A good horse is a hardworkin’ horse.” Didn’t she know anything? She would never make a go of her ranch with her kind of horses.

“They’re very good with children. Although you might not approve of that either.”

He heard the civility slip from her voice and secretly smiled. There was a way to reach past her cool exterior. “If you’re implying that I don’t approve of children, I must inform you I have a daughter. Christine will be out of school in a few minutes, and you can meet her. Perhaps we can get these…these…”

“They’re Falabellas.”

“I get the name. Falabellas. Do you herd them like sheep or lead them like donkeys?”

“Chico and Mariposa will pull the buggy,” she said, crisping each word. “The rest only need lead ropes. I’ll hire a horse for Manuel, my groom. If we keep the bigger horses to a slow walk, these will be fine. Although I don’t know what business it is of yours, Mister…?”

Beneath the chill in the widow’s icy blue eyes and cool voice burned a passion as fiery as her hair. He could sense it. Like the fires of hell, a man could be consumed by such a blaze. Might even heat up the cold emptiness inside him. He shoved that thought aside.
Best focus on the matter at hand.
“I’m the help you requested in your letter to Reverend Norton.”

He swept her a mocking bow. “Wyatt Thompson, at your service.”

She stepped back a pace, stiffening her shoulders. “I’m sure we can manage on our own, Mr. Thompson. I’d not want to put you to the trouble.”

“Trouble?” Somehow arguing with her drained away his anger. He grinned. “We’ll just have to see about that.”

“Mr. Thompson—”

“Just call me Wyatt.”

Footsteps clattered behind them.

“Pa!”

He turned, knowing his daughter would throw herself into his arms, and he’d better be ready for her. With Christine’s growth spurt this year, gone were the days he could swing her up to his shoulder.

Christine ran into the stable, blonde braids bouncing on her shoulders, pink calico skirt flying behind her, blue coat tucked under one arm. She dropped her schoolbag and launched into a hug that landed around his waist. He leaned over and gave her a squeeze.

“Pa, you weren’t waiting outside the school.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He took her hand, turning her to face the widow. “This is Mrs. Rodriguez, our new neighbor.”

Christine dipped a wobbly curtsy. “Pleased to meet ya, ma’am.”

He watched the woman’s face soften and caught his breath at her beauty. Something stirred deep within him.

She lightly touched Christine’s shoulder. “Thank you, Christine. How old are you?”

“Eight, ma’am.”

“Eight. That’s wonderful. My son Daniel is nine. I hope you two will be friends.”

“Christine makes friends wherever she goes. Like her mother that way,” Wyatt said, feeling his forehead crease at the thought.
It was enough to give a man gray hairs wondering whom she’d befriend next.

The child smiled up at him.

“Remember I told you about Mrs. Rodriguez and her Falabella horses from Argentina?”

Christine looked around. “Where are they?”

“Go look in the empty stalls.” He touched a cautionary finger to her cheek. “And no squealing when you see them.”

He wasn’t a bettin’ man, but he knew no one would be able to resist his daughter when she wanted something, and she’d want to be around those little horses. Samantha Rodriguez would have to accept his assistance and be done with it.

Satisfaction settled the kicked place in his stomach. But he didn’t stop to wonder why it had suddenly become important for him to help the attractive widow.

Thompson. Her neighbor. The man she’d thought so kind. This man!
Samantha would
not
accept
his
service. Although watching the interplay between him and his daughter gentled some of her annoyance.

He stepped forward into the square of light thrown by the open stable door. Sunbeams bronzed his brown hair and tanned skin, highlighting his high cheekbones and slightly aquiline nose. Amusement glinted in his gray eyes. He seemed to have recovered from his previous irritation.

When she tipped her head to look up at him, a shaft of warmth tingled through her. She could feel her cheeks flush. What was wrong with her? She’d seen handsome men before. Her husband’s family was full of them. But none of them had
caused this reaction in her. She flushed deeper. In dismay she noted the candy stain on his shirt.
Daniel’s work
. She’d apologize to him and offer to wash his shirt, but she wouldn’t accept his help.

Trying to ignore Wyatt Thompson’s unsettling presence, Samantha turned away to watch his daughter. She loved to see children’s reactions when they first discovered her little horses.