“You carry a hefty lot of firearms,” the man spoke up in a grating voice.
“In these parts a traveling man has to be careful,” Jake replied, keeping a friendly look on his face. “There’s a lot of outlaws out there in the hills.”
The old man looked him over. “That’s a fact. I don’t reckon if you was one of them, you’d be paradin’ into a place like Kansas City now, would you?”
Jake’s bearded face showed a slight grin. “No, sir, I don’t think I would. A good day to you.” He tipped his hat and headed into the store, hoping the old man would go on about his business and not draw attention to him. As soon as he stepped inside he glanced out the window to see the man pull a jacket over his head and shoulders and head across the street on old legs that walked uncertainly in the deepening mud.
Jake turned to realize that the store clerk and the young woman he had noticed tying the draft horses a moment ago were both now staring at him. The woman quickly turned away, embarrassed at having been caught looking. Jake nodded to the clerk. “You got tobacco? Cigars?”
“I’ve got just about all you need, mister, long as you’ve got the cash to pay for it.”
“I’ve got the cash.”
Outside the rain came down even harder. Jake began gathering needed supplies, occasionally glancing toward the woman, who seemed to be avoiding looking at him again. He supposed she thought it would be improper to meet his eyes again and be caught staring, but he wanted to see her face a second time. In that first glance she had looked pretty, and in spite of the cape she wore over her full calico dress, he had a feeling the form beneath all the clothing was slim and pleasing. It had been a long time since he had set eyes on a proper lady, one who was pretty at that. He well knew he was not the kind of man proper ladies had anything to do with, but a man could daydream. The irony was, he had fallen into a life of running against the law by defending a very proper lady, little more than a child. Poor young Santana. The memory of what had happened the night he found his father with the girl still haunted his sleep. He had led a lawless life ever since, and he had his father to thank for that. God, how he had hated that man.
***
Miranda refused to take a second look and risk meeting the dark eyes of the man who had just entered the store. If anyone fit the description of the kind of men who had been raiding and killing in Missouri and Kansas since the war ended, this man did. For the brief moment she had taken to look at him when he entered the store, she had noticed his eyes were shrouded in mystery. They betrayed no particular emotion, not even one of greeting. His bearded face left little else to notice but the eyes, and by the look of them, she suspected he was a dangerous man. Few men who lived and worked around Kansas City gave off such a foreboding aura. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and even when she wasn’t looking at him it seemed he filled the small store with his presence. She tried to concentrate on her own list while the man’s booted feet clumped back and forth as he gathered things and set them on the counter next to her own items.
She walked to where the clerk, Monty Lake, kept spools of thread, and she began choosing some, holding her handbag close. After what had happened to her father and the farm, she felt no stranger could be trusted. The man moved to stand near her then, looking at some tins of coffee. Miranda managed to keep from turning her head as she shifted her eyes enough to see a revolver hanging low on one hip. Not many men in town wore guns strapped to them as though ready for war. His dark green slicker was pushed back behind the gun, and she wondered if it was deliberate. Was this the kind of man who was always ready to grab his weapon? Maybe he intended to rob Mr. Lake instead of pay for his goods.
“Right uncomfortable weather outside, isn’t it?” The man spoke up in a deep voice.
Inbred manners caused Miranda to meet his gaze then, but she refused to smile. She suspected the face behind the beard and trail dust was handsome, then chastised herself for the tiny flicker of attraction she felt to the stranger. “Yes,” she answered curtly, quickly turning back to the thread.
“Don’t be bothering the lady, mister,” the clerk called out.
Miranda heard a sigh, and the man turned away. “Just making friendly small talk,” he answered, sounding irritated. “When you travel alone a lot, it feels good to see and talk to people.”
“Only when they want to talk,” the clerk replied. “Mrs. Hayes there lost her father recently to no-good raiders, and she’s still in mourning.”
Miranda felt the stranger turn. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said.