An’ Pa thinks bein’ a miner’s better’n bein’ a farmer! The more she saw of the world, the lower her opinion of her father’s notions got.

There was a cluster of businesses on a street with a sign that optimistically declared it to be “Main Street.” Anna spotted a barber’s pole and the three balls of a pawn shop before Matt Holcroft pulled up in front of a red-painted building with a fancy sign over the door that announced it as “Clay’s Main Mercantile.” She scrambled out the back of the wagon to join her aunt on the dusty red-dirt street. Matt drove off, and they went inside.

This was literally the first time Anna had been inside a store of any kind in her entire life, since her Ma had made her wait outside and all she’d ever been able to see was the counter where you paid for things, and where the candies were in their big jars, and the sheer amount of things for sale took her breath away. The walls were lined with shelves all full to bursting, from the floor up to the rafters. There were barrels and bags piled high in every space where they could be piled. There were two counters running the length of the store; the one on the right had canned and bottled and boxed food and the like behind it and piled in pyramids on it, with a big jar of peppermints beside a large brass contraption. The one on the left had everything that wasn’t food behind it, from fabric to chinaware. A balding man with a handlebar mustache and a spotless white apron tended the right-hand counter; a round, brown-haired woman in a brown dress and a similar apron tended the left-hand one. Each of them had a boy, also in a white apron, beside them, and two more boys sat in chairs next to a pile of baskets in front of the right-hand counter. At the rear was a stove—cold—with a cluster of ladderback chairs—half of them occupied with men smoking. Two of the men at the stove were playing checkers on the top of a barrel. Despite the stink of sulfur, the air was still full of interesting scents she couldn’t identify, though they were all pleasant.

“Mornin’, Jim, Abby,” said Aunt Jinny—and to Anna’s relief, her aunt’s overalls and shirt did not occasion as much as a raised eyebrow. Aunt Jinny put the basket she was carrying down on the counter in front of the man. “Here’s them potions y’all arst fer, Jim.”

“And glad t’hev ’em, Miz Jinny,” the man said. “Am I a-gonna git back any of what I owes y’all fer the last batch terday?”

Aunt Jinny laughed. “Reckon so, Jim, but it’ll be Abby doin’ th’ honors. This here’s m’niece, Anna Jones. We aims t’ make her a ‘Sunday best’ with all the gewgaws and frou-frous.”

While Jim unpacked the basket, Anna’s aunt engaged the services of Abby at the “dry goods” counter. A long and serious discussion ensued over lengths of printed calico and muslin, with several being held up to Anna’s face to see if they “would suit.” Eventually several yards of a soft pink covered in sprigs of white roses were selected, followed by thread, matching white ribbon, pearl buttons, and even, to her astonishment, a white lace collar.