"Miss Josie, it's -"
"Puh-lease, Nell. Everyone saw me almost pass out. They'll assume I'm confused."
Nell pursed her lips and trailed. I slowed when I reached the edge of the market, taking in the goods displayed on the back of wagons or spread out on blankets. Nell was right about there being a mix: a bearded old man with gold teeth grinned as I passed a wagon bed filled with dented bronze candelabras. Two Native American women ceased talking when I reached their display of leather decorative items. Roughly hewn furniture, lanterns, horse tack, handmade blankets … there was a little bit of everything in the nineteenth century version of a flea market.
The handmade, hammered silver jewelry with polished rocks displayed by a little Indian girl caught my eye, and I did my best to crouch without grimacing to see better.
"Did you make all this?" I asked.
The girl's eyes widened. She shook her head and pointed to a sloppily woven, leather bracelet adorned with wooden beads that lay among several others of much better skill.
I smiled and picked it up. "It's beautiful."
"I sew better than I braid. I make clothing, too." The girl smiled hesitantly.
I opened my purse and dumped coins into my palm, not recognizing any of them. Standing, I turned to Nell.
"What are these?" I asked.
Nell sorted them in my palm. "Half cent, full cent, half dimes, dimes, quarter, half dollar, dollars."
"So if I give her a quarter?" I asked, struggling to follow the different sizes.
"A quarter?" Nell appeared appalled. "Ain't worth the half-cent she'll charge!"
"I'm not following you at all," I said.
"The quarter is worth fifty of the half-cent," Nell explained.
"Ooohhh. That I understand." I plucked the quarter free and replaced the rest of my change. I held it out to the little girl, whose eyes bulged larger than the coin offered.
Satisfied with myself, I continued onward, the bracelet in my hand.
We reached the end of the small market, and my focus shifted to the horses being herded into a corral nearby by men who appeared to be authentic cowboys.
Amazing.
"Miss Josephine."
I turned at the unfamiliar voice to see the Native American who had accompanied the sheriff to John's approaching, the little girl trailing him with a look of distress on her features. He held out the quarter.
"We do not need your pity," he said firmly. His dark eyes flashed with fire, and his features were taut. He wasn't scowling, but he wasn't friendly either. He regarded me as if I were an alien.
"It was not pity," I said. "Kindness. You brought me back to my father."