LITMIR.BIZ

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thumb under a suspender strap while stomping his walking stick against the porch boards with his other hand. “I just bought them last week.”

      Staying calm didn’t come easy, and deep breaths weren’t cutting it any longer. “I know when you bought them. I asked if you left them outdoors, in the rain.”

      Little more than five feet tall, Mr. Ratcliff lifted his chin, covered with several shades of stiff gray whiskers, as if that made him taller than her. It didn’t. So he stretched his neck. “Your papa would never have sold rusty nails.”

      “I didn’t sell you rusty nails, Mr. Ratcliff. I’m positive they were just fine when you purchased them. However, once left outdoors, in the rain, nails will rust. Rather quickly.”

      “They’re rusty, all right. Come take a look.” He turned around, which took several steps considering he had to get both feet moving and his cane all at the same time.

      Molly had no choice but to wait, and then followed behind his shuffling feet, all the way across the porch and into the store. Karleen was making herself look busy by rearranging the bolts of material on the table Mr. Ratcliff slowly made his way past and Ivy was dusting the set of shelves holding shoes—of which no one had bought a pair in over a year. Molly managed a tight grin for the child as she continued to follow the disgruntled customer—growing that way herself with each footfall—all the way to the far wall where on the counter sat a small rusted and dented can.

      Once there, nerves thoroughly frayed, Molly skirted around to the backside of the high counter her father had built by hand, and plucked a wet and rusty nail from the pile in the bottom of the can.

      “See?” Mr. Ratcliff said as if it was utterly unbelievable.

      “I see the water in the bottom of the can,” she pointed out.

      “Now, listen here, missy. I know’d your pappy when he first moved to this here county. You weren’t no taller than a weed back then. Your sister still creeping on all fours. I helped put up that barn out back and even worked on this here storefront when the time came. Didn’t use no rusty nails either. No sirree. When Niles Thorson sold a man nails, they were good ones.” Along with several thumps of his stick, he loudly declared, “I want new nails. Ones that aren’t rusty.”

      Several things were vying for the tip of Molly’s tongue. She knew exactly when her family had moved here and was more than ready to tell Mr. Ratcliff exactly what she thought of his demand; however, someone else spoke first.

      “What are you building with those nails?”

      In no mood to be interrupted, Molly turned her glare toward the door. Spurs jingled as a tall man made a direct path toward the counter, but it was the gun belt hanging low on his hips that kept her silent. A Peacemaker, which should make her nervous since they weren’t good for much except killing a man, but the gun didn’t make her uncomfortable. It had her adding up receipts. So did the Stetson on his head. Both the pistol and the hat were things she’d like to stock, but couldn’t. They were too expensive to sit on the shelves, therefore could only be sold by special order. Men buying Peacemakers and Stetsons didn’t hang around town waiting for their order to come in. The railroad’s dry-goods store kept them in stock, and made a hefty profit on each one they sold.

      Mr. Ratcliff had shuffled around to look at the stranger, too, and the old man asked, “What you want to know that for?”

      “Just curious.”

      The newcomer’s voice was low and slow, subtle, and the gaze of his cobalt-blue eyes was steady, unwavering. Molly kept hers just as solid, even when their gazes snagged. He nodded toward her and then the can. She dropped the nail amongst the others and pushed the container toward the stranger as he arrived at the counter. Little intimidated her, and though she couldn’t quite say this man unsettled her, he had a commanding way about him few probably ignored.

      After thoughtful surveillance of the can and nails, the man asked, “You were seasoning these, were you?”

      “Uh?” Mr. Ratcliff asked, easing his way over to peer into the can.

      “Seasoning the nails.” The stranger looked at her again. “May I?”

      Molly had no idea what he was asking, but nodded nonetheless. Strangers weren’t uncommon, not with three trains rolling through town most days, and when she saw the same man twice, she remembered. This was the cowboy who had ridden out of town on the palomino. A quick glance through the store, out the front window, proved it. The horse was tethered to the hitching post.

      The cowboy pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, and started lifting the nails out of the can, drying them off one by one. “You wouldn’t have a container of axle grease, would you?”

      His question was directed toward Molly. Not completely convinced she should, but curious, she walked the length of the counter to where the hardware items were located and carried back a good-size tin of grease.

      The stranger dipped a corner of his kerchief in the grease and started rubbing it over each nail. Turning those dark blue eyes toward Mr. Ratcliff, the cowboy said, “Smart man, Mr….”

      Bobbing his head, the old man answered, “Ratcliff. Owen Ratcliff.”

      “Smart man, Mr. Ratcliff,” the cowboy repeated. “Seasoning your nails like this. Now when you use them, they won’t be as susceptible to rust.”

      Owen Ratcliff went from grinning to frowning in a flash. “Uh?”

      Laying the last nail on the counter, the cowboy asked her, “Would you have a different container for Mr. Ratcliff’s nails? Even a piece of paper to wrap them in would be fine.”

      Once again Molly followed his request, retrieving paper and a length of string. She was still curious, but also a touch intrigued, as was her sister, who’d inched closer. No one pleased Mr. Ratcliff. Leastwise she never had. Not even when she tried. Yet this cowboy, with his slow, even voice and even slower movements, had placated the man through and through.

      The nails piled on top of the paper looked as good as the ones in the pail on the other side of the store. She’d never heard of seasoning nails, and suspected it was a ruse, but chose not to say anything. A sale was a sale and every return went against her bottom line.

      With precise, dedicated movements, the cowboy wrapped the paper around the nails and secured it with the string. “There you are, Mr. Ratcliff. These nails will now be the strongest ones you’ve ever set a hammer to.”

      Mr. Ratcliff took the package, and Molly had to bite her lips together. A smile was trying to form—that hadn’t happened for months, but the dumbfounded expression on Owen Ratcliff’s face was something no one in town had ever seen. She’d swear to that.

      Never speechless before now, the old man barely muttered a humph as he started his slow shuffle toward the door. Molly was still staring, half expecting Ratcliff to spin about and start spouting off before he reached the porch, when a quiet giggle drew her attention.

      “I wouldn’t have believed that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Karleen whispered, walking around the counter to edge in beside Molly.

      Her sister, usually too engrossed in a book to notice anything going on around her, held one hand over the top of the counter. “Hello, I’m Karleen Thorson, and this is my sister Molly.”

      “Carter Buchanan,” the cowboy replied evenly, shaking Karleen’s hand.

      “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Buchanan,” Karleen continued with a bright smile. “I do believe you may have just performed a miracle. No one’s ever silenced Mr. Ratcliff.”

      The cowboy, or Carter Buchanan—Molly had never heard of any Buchanans in the area, and couldn’t help but wonder where he was from and what he was doing here—turned and eyed the doorway Mr. Ratcliff was shuffling through.

      “He’s probably just lonely. Doesn’t have anything to fill his time, so he thinks up things to complain about.” Turning back, he touched the

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