The man’s second brow rose at Mal’s use of the word ingenuous. Mal enjoyed leveling the playing field a bit by throwing a ten-dollar word into the mix. Men like Prissy Pants never expected it, which put them off their guard. Exactly where Malachi wanted them.
“Have the cook put together a box supper for me.” Mal strolled around the side of the podium. Prissy Pants backed up a step. A few of the diners at tables closest to the front of the room turned their heads to stare. Casually dropping an elbow onto the corner of the lectern, Mal leaned in. “Whatever he’s got on hand will suffice. I’ll be back in ten minutes to collect it, then I’ll be outta your hair for good. Work for you?”
Prissy Pants nodded as he edged away from the podium, trying to increase the distance between himself and Malachi. His eyes darted to the dining room patrons, then back. He swallowed. “I-I’ll see to it at once, sir.”
And he did, leaving his station to deliver Mal’s order directly to the kitchen. After he’d pocketed the five dollars, of course.
Mal tipped his hat and smiled at the couple behind him. The lady shied away, skittish-like, but the cowboy escorting her nodded approval. Nice to know there were a few fellas who respected a workingman’s dust more than a clean-shaven jaw.
Mal ventured down to Main Street and located a livery, where he made arrangements to rent a horse, saddle, and tack. Still having a few minutes to kill, he wandered down to the courthouse square to get a feel for the town, then circled around and hiked the three blocks back to the hotel. When he returned for his meal, the line for the dining room had dwindled to nothing. Prissy Pants handed over his boxed supper without a word, but the censure still etched in the man’s face got Mal to thinking as he stepped out onto the boardwalk.
He’d left Montana in such a hurry he hadn’t packed more than the essentials, figuring he could buy whatever he needed along the way. Only, a place like Harper’s Station wasn’t likely to carry men’s shaving gear in its dry goods store. Not much call for male toiletries in a women’s colony. Showing up on Emma’s doorstep scruffy and mangy because he was in a hurry to get there was one thing. Staying that way for the duration of his visit was another.
Malachi stuffed the boxed supper into the saddlebag he’d slung over his shoulder, then ran a hand over his jaw, the whiskers setting his palm to itching. Better pick up a razor and some shaving soap before he headed out. Besides, he still needed to get directions. Emma’d written him that the largest store in Seymour bought goods from her ladies, and judging by the size of the false front he’d spied across the street from the courthouse, Fischer’s Emporium was the biggest store in town. Might as well take out two birds with one shot.
Cutting through the vacant lots behind the hotel, Mal headed back to Main Street. Jogging slightly to avoid the freight wagon rolling toward him, he hopped onto the boardwalk and made his way down to the large store on the corner. A stocky fellow with a white apron tied about his waist stood in front, sweeping the boardwalk with more vigor than the task required. His head bent, he muttered beneath his breath, stopping abruptly when Malachi’s boots trudged across the boards he’d just swept.
The man’s shoulders straightened as he met Mal’s gaze, but the frown on his face stayed rooted in place. “I’m about to close up for the night, mister. If you got a big order, better come back in the morning.”
“All I need is a razor and soap. Shouldn’t take but a minute.” Mal tried to soften him up with a friendly smile, but the fella’s frown must’ve been carved from granite. It didn’t budge. “I’m on my way out of town tonight,” Mal explained. “I’d be much obliged if you could see your way to letting me make a purchase before you close.”
The man sighed and turned his back as he opened the store’s door. “Better my place than some other getting your coin, I suppose. Come on in.” A bell rang as the door opened. “Just hurry it up. I got a meetin’ with Sheriff Tabor in a few minutes to see about a personal matter.”
“I won’t take but a minute,” Mal promised, “if you could just—”
“Razors’re over there.” Fischer gestured toward a middle aisle with a pointed finger.
Mal headed toward the shelves of soaps, breezing past the wide selection of ladies’ bath goods, to find the razors. Bypassing the fancy pearl-handled ones more prominently displayed, he grabbed a plain one from the bottom shelf, a lather brush, and a round cake of shaving soap, then strode back to the counter and laid his items in front of the foul-tempered clerk.
“A dollar and two bits for the razor, fifty cents for the brush, and four for the soap. Comes to a dollar seventy-nine.”