moaning being Sam’s rabbit-chasing dreams.
He set a coin on the table and dropped the spare keys into his pocket. “Thanks.”
“Ya, sure.” The Norwegian went back to his work.
Carina was ready long before Quillan returned. She had run home, filled her carpetbag with a change of clothes, her nightclothes, brush, and toothbrush. What more was there? She added a book, Silas Marner by George Eliot. Quillan had taken the gun he’d hung on the bedpost. Why would he leave it if she was going along? It was useful to him. He could shoot the head from a rattlesnake. She knew; she’d seen him do it. He was her protector. So where was he now?
The sun rose somewhere behind the fog, turning it white, and everything she could see through the little window was sugarcoated. The fog moved over the ground, parting and tearing and shrinking into itself, then spreading again. She stood watching, with the carpetbag at her feet. Did she look too eager? He would smirk. But she didn’t move.
She searched the fog. A few figures wandered through it, though it was doubtful many would work their mines before the fog lifted. When she finally made out Quillan’s form and saw him emerge from the fog onto the stoop, she girded herself. Would he try once again to dissuade her?
He tapped lightly on the door and entered. “Ready?” No smirk, no argument.
Again he surprised her. She thought she could guess his next move, but she never could quite. She took up her bag. “Yes.” She pulled the miner’s jacket closed at the neck.
“Is that the best coat you have?”
“Yes. The only one.” Now he would argue. This would be his excuse.
He reached for her bag, carried it out, and started into the fog. She followed, feeling very like the dog who pranced beside her.
At the corner of Central, he turned and entered Fisher’s. He went directly to the shelf on the right wall and pulled down a woolen coat. “This the smallest you have?”
Henry Fisher crossed to him. “Too small for you, Quillan.”
“It’s for my wife.”
Fisher turned and noted her standing inside the door. “You’re on the wrong side, then. Here.” He crossed to a rack standing near the window, pulled out a brown woolen coat with fur-lined collar, and held it up. “This is what you need for the little woman.”
Carina looked from the coat to Quillan and saw him frown. It cost more than he wanted to pay. She knew. She’d looked at it already.
He nodded sharply. “How much?”
“Two crates of bourbon. The real stuff.”
Quillan eyed the coat, jaw cocked, then nodded again slowly. “Deal.” He took the coat and headed for her.
Her fingers sank into the fur as she took it from him. It was good of him. Her heart braved a tiny skip. Maybe he cared. Maybe . . .
“Lose the other one. It looks ridiculous.”
She slipped the canvas coat off and left it by the wall. Then she slipped into the woolen coat and felt its warmth and the softness of the fur. With unsteady fingers, she fastened the buttons and pulled it snugly around her waist. She couldn’t help smiling. How long since she’d donned something new and fine? “Thank you.”
Quillan didn’t answer. With a firm grip on her elbow, he led her outside. “That’s the last time we buy there. From now on, when you need something, write it on a list. I’ll get the things when I’m away.”
She hurried to match his stride. “You don’t like Mr. Fisher?”
“It’s just good business. I can get it for less elsewhere. And that goes for the other stores in Crystal.”
“I thought it was my discretion.”
He turned abruptly. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I thought it through,” he ended lamely.
She fit her hands into the pockets of her new coat. “So you don’t trust me.”
He stopped before his wagon and team, standing ready, and whistled through his teeth. Sam leaped to the bed and climbed to the box. Quillan led her to the off side and swung her up. Sam licked her ear
He set a coin on the table and dropped the spare keys into his pocket. “Thanks.”
“Ya, sure.” The Norwegian went back to his work.
Carina was ready long before Quillan returned. She had run home, filled her carpetbag with a change of clothes, her nightclothes, brush, and toothbrush. What more was there? She added a book, Silas Marner by George Eliot. Quillan had taken the gun he’d hung on the bedpost. Why would he leave it if she was going along? It was useful to him. He could shoot the head from a rattlesnake. She knew; she’d seen him do it. He was her protector. So where was he now?
The sun rose somewhere behind the fog, turning it white, and everything she could see through the little window was sugarcoated. The fog moved over the ground, parting and tearing and shrinking into itself, then spreading again. She stood watching, with the carpetbag at her feet. Did she look too eager? He would smirk. But she didn’t move.
She searched the fog. A few figures wandered through it, though it was doubtful many would work their mines before the fog lifted. When she finally made out Quillan’s form and saw him emerge from the fog onto the stoop, she girded herself. Would he try once again to dissuade her?
He tapped lightly on the door and entered. “Ready?” No smirk, no argument.
Again he surprised her. She thought she could guess his next move, but she never could quite. She took up her bag. “Yes.” She pulled the miner’s jacket closed at the neck.
“Is that the best coat you have?”
“Yes. The only one.” Now he would argue. This would be his excuse.
He reached for her bag, carried it out, and started into the fog. She followed, feeling very like the dog who pranced beside her.
At the corner of Central, he turned and entered Fisher’s. He went directly to the shelf on the right wall and pulled down a woolen coat. “This the smallest you have?”
Henry Fisher crossed to him. “Too small for you, Quillan.”
“It’s for my wife.”
Fisher turned and noted her standing inside the door. “You’re on the wrong side, then. Here.” He crossed to a rack standing near the window, pulled out a brown woolen coat with fur-lined collar, and held it up. “This is what you need for the little woman.”
Carina looked from the coat to Quillan and saw him frown. It cost more than he wanted to pay. She knew. She’d looked at it already.
He nodded sharply. “How much?”
“Two crates of bourbon. The real stuff.”
Quillan eyed the coat, jaw cocked, then nodded again slowly. “Deal.” He took the coat and headed for her.
Her fingers sank into the fur as she took it from him. It was good of him. Her heart braved a tiny skip. Maybe he cared. Maybe . . .
“Lose the other one. It looks ridiculous.”
She slipped the canvas coat off and left it by the wall. Then she slipped into the woolen coat and felt its warmth and the softness of the fur. With unsteady fingers, she fastened the buttons and pulled it snugly around her waist. She couldn’t help smiling. How long since she’d donned something new and fine? “Thank you.”
Quillan didn’t answer. With a firm grip on her elbow, he led her outside. “That’s the last time we buy there. From now on, when you need something, write it on a list. I’ll get the things when I’m away.”
She hurried to match his stride. “You don’t like Mr. Fisher?”
“It’s just good business. I can get it for less elsewhere. And that goes for the other stores in Crystal.”
“I thought it was my discretion.”
He turned abruptly. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before I thought it through,” he ended lamely.
She fit her hands into the pockets of her new coat. “So you don’t trust me.”
He stopped before his wagon and team, standing ready, and whistled through his teeth. Sam leaped to the bed and climbed to the box. Quillan led her to the off side and swung her up. Sam licked her ear
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