Free The Law and Miss Mary by Dorothy Clark Page A

eyes. No matter how beautiful those eyes were.
    Danny had brown eyes.
    Sam sucked in air, fought the pressure in his chest. The approaching victory suddenly felt hollow. Danny and Ma would never know he was holding fast to the promise he made them to be so rich and important nobody would ever sneer at any of them again. At seven years old, he had thought that promise could take the place of the food and warmth God never sent in spite of his prayers. He had thought the promise was strong enough to keep them alive—the way it did him. But Danny was too small, and his ma too weak. Their sickness got worse until it killed them. He had tried to take care of them, but he could not save them.
    Sam’s face tightened. He glanced toward the sky. I failed you and Danny then, Ma, but I will not fail you now. I will keep my promise to make you proud of me.
    He emerged from the trees and reined south, headed for Chestnut Street and the stables behind the jail.
    The jail.
    The tight ball of unease returned to his stomach. What sort of place was a jail for a kid?

    “I am certain it would work out well for your store, Mrs. Simpson.” Mary gave the grocer’s wife a warm, encouraging smile. “Marketing baskets can become very heavy before one reaches home, and I believe many of your customers would be willing to pay a small stipend for Ben to relieve them of that burden. I believe they would welcome such a service, and favor your store with their custom for offering it.” She placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder, drawing the stout woman’s attention to the boy who was all shiny clean and dressed in clothes that had once belonged to Ivy’s sons.
    Mrs. Simpson glanced at her husband, who was stacking burlap bags in the corner, and shook her head. “You will have to gain Mr. Simpson’s approval, Miss Randolph. And I am quite certain he will refuse you.” There was commiseration in her eyes.
    Mary thought it likely the woman was right, but she would not give up without a fight. Ben had been so happy when she had explained this idea to him. “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Simpson.” She lifted her chin, turned toward the corner to speak with Mr. Simpson and almost bumped into a small, elderly woman. “Oh! Forgive me, madam, I—”
    “The fault is mine, dear.” The woman placed a blotchy, thin-skinned hand on her arm. “I overheard a bit of your conversation and moved closer where I could shamelessly eavesdrop on the rest.” The woman smiled, and the creases and wrinkles in her face deepened. “My hearing is not what it used to be. But I heard enough to know you have an excellent suggestion, young lady. If you will permit me to help, I believe the three of us—” another smile included Mrs. Simpson “—can convince Mr. Simpson it would prosper his store. Do you agree, Martha?”
    Mrs. Simpson nodded.
    Mary stared, stunned by the elderly woman’s offer, and doubtful of its value. Still…Mr. Simpson held no fondness for her. And Mrs. Simpson had agreed. She smiled at the tiny woman. “I should be most appreciative of your help, madam.”
    “Good!” The woman returned her smile. “Now, ladies, let us see to Mr. Simpson.”
    Mary grinned. She could not help it. The woman’s faded blue eyes were fairly twinkling. She was obviously delighted at the prospect of a challenge. But how could she help?
    The woman sobered. She slid her basket off her arm and set it and a small piece of paper on the long wood counter. “Here is my list, Martha. But, as I shall not have to carry my basket myself, add a quart of molasses, a bag of tea and a good portion of honeycomb. Oh. And two of those lemons—fresh ones, mind you. I must say, this is a most helpful idea. But tell me, what is the cost for this young man to carry my basket home for me?”
    Cost? Mary took a closer look at the elderly woman beside her. How clever to persuade Mr. Simpson through his pocketbook. She should have considered that. But she had thought only in terms of a