They stopped at the jagged, faded hem of the oversized gray dress. Mrs. Gable smiled. It was not a kind smile. "Beautiful fabric, isn't it?" Mrs. Gable said. Nelly looked up.
"Yes, ma'am." "It's imported," Mrs. Croft added, stepping closer. "Four dollars a yard. I'm having a winter coat made of it for my niece." Nelly nodded politely.
She pulled her hands behind her back. Mrs. Gable let out a low, breathless chuckle. "It is certainly no fabric for a farm girl, though. Looking at you, child, I suppose any fabric at all would be an improvement." Mrs. Croft covered her mouth.
She let out a sharp, piercing laugh. The sound echoed off the tin ceiling. "Really, Harriet?" Mrs. Croft whispered, though not quietly enough. "It looks as though she's wearing a potato sack left out in the rain. You would think the granddaughter of a war hero would have a shred of dignity."
"Pride doesn't keep you warm, Eunice," Mrs. Gable replied. "But neither does that dreadful garment." They laughed again. Nelly did not cry. She simply lowered her head.
Her shoulders tightened. She stared at the floorboards, wishing the wood would open up and hide her. At the counter, Cora stiffened. Her hands gripped the edge of the wood. She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
She took a slow, deep breath, swallowing the sharp retort that burned in her throat. She could not afford to anger the wives of the men who bought her eggs and milk. "Nelly," Cora said. Her voice was steady, but it carried a slight tremble. "Come here, please."
Nelly hurried to her mother's side. "We are leaving," Cora said. She picked up her small sack of oats. She took Nelly's hand. They walked past the two women without looking up, pushing through the heavy mercantile doors and stepping out into the freezing wind.
They did not notice the tall man standing just inside the entryway. Josiah Langden had just stepped out of the shadows near the stove. He was a cattleman. He owned the sprawling Broken Ridge Ranch 20 miles out of town. He employed 40 men.
He shipped cattle on the new railroad all the way to Chicago. He was, by every measure, a millionaire. But he did not dress like one. He wore a faded canvas coat, heavy leather chaps, and a wide-brimmed hat dusted with trail dirt. Josiah had heard every word.
He had seen the little blonde girl looking at the red flannel. He had seen the way the women looked at her. He had heard the laughter. Josiah knew that sound. He had a daughter of his own.
Her name was Eliza. She was nine years old. Since Josiah's wife passed away, Eliza was his entire world. If anyone ever looked at his Eliza the way those women had just looked at the Thornton girl, Josiah knew he would have torn the store apart with his bare hands. But Cora Thornton had not shouted.
She had simply absorbed the blow to protect her daughter. Josiah watched the widow and the little girl disappear down the frozen, rutted street. He slowly turned his head and looked at Mrs. Gable and Mrs. Croft. They were still chuckling, admiring the red flannel. Josiah walked up to the fabric counter.
His boots struck the floorboards with heavy, deliberate thuds. The sound was loud enough to make both women turn around. Mrs. Gable's smile faltered. She recognized him. Everyone in Clearwater recognized Josiah Langden.