Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Grabbing the bedpost, he dragged himself to an upright position. Through the fog of flickering lights, he reached for his pistol. The wood floor swayed back and forth.

  No time to turn on a light, he fumbled for his pistol belt.

  The floor gave way in front of the knitting ladies’ room. Clutching for the doorknob, he fell inward. “Evacuate!”

  An elderly lady, with a rag cap hung crossways over one ear, pulled her covers to her chin.

  “No need to panic, ma’am. I’m the assistant sheriff, and I’m evacuating the boarding house.” He tried to help the lady wrap her quilt around her shoulders, but the fabric slipped between his fingers.

  “Are you feeling quite well, sir?” The elderly lady peered over her spectacles.

  “I’ll manage.” By virtue of keeping one hand on the wall at all times, he got down the flight of stairs.

  Downstairs, a ring of cowhands nodded on the couch with burned-out cigar butts hanging out of their mouths.

  Just a few more people to get to safety, and then he could sleep, too. Cal’s head rolled forward, and he had to tense every muscle to keep from crumpling. “Get out of the boardinghouse at once!” Cal aimed both guns at the stairs, ready for the rabid creature.

  “I like it right here.” The cowhand’s cigar butt dropped out of his mouth.

  “Leave. I’m sheriff, and that’s an order.”

  A middle-aged woman with an air of greatness swept into the room. “What’s going on?” She held herself rigid in her black suit.

  “There’s a dangerous creature in the boarding house. Now if you will evacuate, ma’am.”

  The woman’s shoulders sagged forward in relief as if a wildcat was better news than what she had feared. Cal blinked. He stumbled on something.

  “Stop pointing your gun in my face.” The cowhand knocked his hand.

  “I’m not.” He had the gun leveled at the stairs. Didn’t he? “A wildcat, we have to evacuate.” Cal’s voice didn’t sound like his own.

  A piercing scream rose from the landing above. All jumped.

  The room swayed back and forth as he rounded the corner to the stairway and aimed his pistol.

  The scratching of nails came from the top stair. He braced himself.

  Purr. A small cat tripped out of the room, white fur matted down.

  A cat? But the wildcat. And that’s when the dainty white creature threw open its jaws and screamed.

  Oh. The pounding in his head came back double force.

  “Scared by a pussycat?” A cowhand shoved his way into view. The man now jawed on a full-length cigar rather than the previous smoldering stub.

  Cal swallowed.

  Four more cowhands appeared behind the first. “Good to know a lawman is keeping us safe here in Gilman. Safe from cats, that is.” They chuckled.

  Cal gulped and tucked his guns back into his belt. “Never hurts to be careful.”

  “Yeah. Some kittens know how to scratch.” Another cowhand threw back his head to laugh.

  The knitting lady rounded the corner, a shawl covering her faded flannel nightdress. “If you men are quite done with your antics, I’m going back to bed.”

  Cal sank into the nearest chair.

  3

  Ginny hid behind a maple tree. The bark scratched her face, but the rising sun warmed her back.

  “Did you hear about that scoundrel, Cal Westwood?” A few feet away, Mrs. Clinton planted her hands on her hips, flaring her maroon skirt.

  Miss Lilac, a gray-haired Temperance League lady, patted her spectacles and shook her head.

  “He was drunk! Drunk in my house, no less!” Mrs. Clinton projected her voice with the power of an opera singer.

  Miss Lilac clicked her false teeth. “My. My.”

  “He needs reforming, that’s what.” Mrs. Clinton held her head higher. “Extensive reforming. I knew I created the Temperance League for a purpose.”

  Miss Lilac clucked approvingly and adjusted her lace shawl.

  From the depths of her pearl-studded reticule, Mrs. Clinton whipped out a notebook. “I’ll plan the first session immediately.” She chewed on the end of her pencil. “Men who drink often do other things.”

  “What other things?” Miss Lilac asked in a throaty whisper.

  “Send their mothers to the poor house, kill faithful dogs,” Mrs. Clinton’s voice dropped, and Ginny had to lean forward to catch the next words, “beat orphans.”

  Miss Lilac wrinkled her face. “Pshaw. Silas drinks, and he doesn’t do that.”

  Mrs. Clinton raised her first and second chin. “You are young in the ways of the world, Miss Lilac. I know about these things.”

  Cal Westwood rounded the corner of the street, a stack of papers in hand. Ginny sank behind the tree. A horsefly circled her face, and she had to press her finger under her nose to avoid sneezing.

  Taking long strides, Cal hustled toward the sheriff’s office. He had black circles underneath his eyes, but otherwise he seemed recovered. “Good morning.” He nodded in acknowledgement of the two older ladies.

  Mrs. Clinton’s eyes narrowed. “I need to speak with you.” Her voice had the sharp edge of a meat cleaver.

  He glanced toward the sheriff’s office and then back at the ladies. “I’m a quarter hour late already, ma’am. Maybe later?”

  Mrs. Clinton crossed her arms. “As leader of the Temperance League of Gilman, it is my moral duty to speak with you.”

  “I have work to do.” He kept walking.

  “You will attend the Temperance League meeting tonight,” Mrs. Clinton fired at his turned back.

  Cal rotated, and he didn’t look pleased. “I have more important duties than your Temperance League.”

  “More important duties than avoiding the evils of debauchery?” Mrs. Clinton jutted her chin forward with self-righteous fervor.

  He shifted up one eyebrow. “Debauchery?”

  Mrs. Clinton smoothed her dress. “And your drunkard tendencies.”

  Ginny squirmed against the tree. Still, he was a criminal and needed to be run out of town.

  His back went stiff. “I am not a drunkard.”

  Mrs. Clinton lifted her gaze to the heavens and sighed dramatically. “And so all reprobates deny their sins.”

  Eyebrows digging down, Cal stiffened his jaw. “Good-bye, ma’am.” He turned and marched toward the sheriff’s office.

  As soon as Cal had disappeared within the white-washed building, Ginny swatted the horsefly and ran after Cal.

  Inside, Uncle Zak leaned over her desk, rummaging through papers. “You’re late, Ginny.”

  “Sorry,” she said between quick breaths. “What did I miss?”

  Uncle Zak didn’t answer, just shook his head, turned away, and entered Cal’s office. The heel of her boot scraped across floorboards as she skidded to her knees in front of the closed door and pressed her ear to the latch hole.

  “I need to get us an invitation to the mine. That man Mr. Clinton mentioned worries me.” Uncle Zak’s voice rasped.

  “Mr. Clinton’s not telling us everything he knows,” Cal said. “Did you see how his face twitched when he said the man was gone?”

  “Hmm…” Uncle Zak’s foot tapping rattled the board that Ginny kneeled on. “We need to obtain his trust, so we’ll know if he’s getting blackmailed.”

  “At least it’s Mr. Clinton and not Mrs. Clinton.”

  “Problem?”

  Cal sighed. “She accosted me and attempted to coerce me into attending her temperance league.”

  “Oh.” Uncle Zak made a surprised noise. “Then you need to go.”

  “I have more important things to do than watch church ladies knit.”

  “Mrs. Clinton rules the Clinton roost. Alienate her, and we have no chance of gaining Mr. Clinton’s trust.” Uncle Zak’s tone was all-business.

  “But, sir,” Cal started.

  She imagined him squirming in discomfort and smiled.

  Uncle Zak chuckled. “Gilman’s Tempera
nce League can’t be worse than your work with outlaw gangs.”

  Ginny jolted back. Outlaw gangs! Then the door handle twisted from the inside. She stumbled to her feet and ran back to the jail.

  “Ginny,” Uncle Zak called.

  Holding a lacy handkerchief as if she’d just been freshening up, Ginny breezed back into the room.

  “I want you to deliver the fine notices tomorrow. I’ll be out at the silver mine with Mr. Westwood.”

  Her handkerchief dropped to the floor. “But Uncle Zak, I need to go with you.”

  He frowned. “We need someone to man the sheriff’s office.”

  “Let Cal do it.” She squeezed her sweaty hands into fists, though was it truly safe to leave him alone with important documents?

  “Do what?” Cal’s boots scuffed the floor as he entered the main room.

  “Sit here and watch the office.” Ginny pointed one disdainful finger to her chair that sat by the doorway. She should have gotten the office and put Cal by the door.

  That beautiful pair of colts hung low on Cal’s gun belt and his hand brushed aggravatingly close to one. “I’m a lawman, I need—”

  “And I’m not?”

  He looked at her, brow furrowed. “That is an accurate statement.”

  “I’m trained in this type of work. You need me, Uncle Zak.” She flung her hands up.

  Uncle Zak shook his head. “I have Cal.”

  Her lips pressed together so hard she couldn’t feel them anymore. One, two, three, she counted to ten and imagined herself a lawyer in a pinstripe suit. “I need to make a proper record of the silver mine visit. I have to come.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. The sheriff’s office needs manning.” Uncle Zak moved toward the jail.

  Cal slid his blue-eyed gaze over to her. “Couldn’t we just lock up the place?”

  Uncle Zak gnawed his upper lip. “I suppose the town wouldn’t perish if the sheriff’s office closed for one day…”

  A satisfied smile spread across Ginny’s face, marred only by the fact that Cal also smiled. Once she locked him up for his crimes, he wouldn’t smile so much. “Though we can’t be forgetting the preserves case at the general store, Uncle Zak.”

  Cal jammed on his Stetson. “An incident like that is scarcely a priority.”

  “Much you care about arresting wrongdoers,” Ginny muttered.

  ~*~

  Ginny tugged a dress out of her closet. Blue and too frilly. She tossed it on her bed. A yellow dress followed. What about black? Yes, black was just the color for a woman on a mission to redeem a reprobate from his sordid ways.

  Buttoning the collar three-quarters of the way up her neck, she rolled down the sleeves until her wrist bones didn’t dare peek out. Even Mrs. Clinton would have to approve of this dress.

  A very plain, black sunbonnet with a tubular appearance finished the outfit. She glanced at the clock—six thirty. One half hour left before the Ladies’ Temperance Society of Gilman started its reforming work. She would ensure this was a reforming embezzler Cal Westwood never forgot.

  At precisely five minutes before seven, Ginny swung open the schoolhouse door and glanced around for Cal. Instead, a swarm of ladies over forty swept her into their mass.

  “Haven’t seen you at our meetings in a while,” a wrinkled-faced lady missing her two front teeth said as she squeezed Ginny’s hand. Next to her, Miss Lilac stood underneath a massive hat.

  “You mean ever.” Mrs. Clinton gave Ginny a severe glance. Her ample skirt flounced in black curves and her matching jewelry glittered.

  Underneath her bonnet, Ginny bobbed a curtsy. “I shall be at all future ones.” She needed their husbands’ votes for the sheriff election.

  Turning, she looked for a place to sit. The schoolhouse interior had been transformed. Childish desks had disappeared under shrouds of somber gray cloth. Gray tulle covered every window, giving the schoolhouse the air of a secret society. World geography maps and abacuses had been bundled away to give place to a podium topped by an enormous gong.

  Striding up front, Mrs. Clinton brought a brass hammer down hard against the gong. The noise echoed across the wooden floor. “Attention, temperance warriors.”

  After Ginny’s teeth stopped rattling, she scooted into the nearest desk.

  “Today we have important work—assaulting a sinner lost in his ways.”

  “Assaulting?” the missing-front-teeth lady asked.

  Mrs. Clinton spread her hands as she raised them upward. “Remember we are temperance warriors.”

  The schoolhouse door creaked and Cal Westwood stepped in. He couldn’t have looked more the picture of the morose reprobate if he’d tried. His black Stetson tipped forward over his eyes. His open duster hung to his knees. Pushing back the coat, he had looped his thumbs into his gun belt and he glared unrepentantly at the entire room.

  “Are you ready to turn from your degenerate way of life, Mr. Westwood?” Mrs. Clinton’s voice boomed from the dais.

  Cal’s hands came up. “I’m a lawman, and I don’t even smoke or gamble. How much more upstanding is there?”

  Guilt riddled Ginny’s conscience, leaving it to resemble Swiss cheese. She knotted her hands around each other and shoved away the guilt. Sure, he might not be an actual drunkard, but he was an embezzler.

  Leaning over the podium, Mrs. Clinton rested both elbows on the wood and stared. The position likely would have worked better if Cal had been ten inches shorter. “Don’t contradict your conscience, young man.”

  “You are not my conscience.” He crossed his arms.

  The duster stretched across his chest and even the cloth looked disapproving—and surprisingly masculine. She would have taken him for a Texas Ranger if she hadn’t known better. Why didn’t the Rangers accept women? When she’d discovered that sad fact at the tender age of ten, her life ambitions had been crushed. That was only until she turned eleven and decided on becoming Gilman’s sheriff instead.

  Sweat dripped from Mrs. Clinton’s gray hair. “My temperance league maintains the virtues and morals of this town. Without our influence, depravity would reign, evil would run rampant in the streets, and—”

  He coughed loudly. “That’s actually the sheriff’s job, ma’am, and I need to get back to it.”

  Mrs. Clinton turned away from him to the temperance ladies. As a group, they leaned forward, sagging eyelids stretched open in interest. “See how far the rebellious have fallen in this town? Our duty as—”

  Wood crashed against the doorframe, as Cal slammed the door behind him.

  The elderly ladies gasped. Jumping up, Ginny ran to the covered window and peeked through a gap in the tulle. Thrusting the window up, she leaned her head out and struggled to hear the words Cal muttered.

  A few minutes later, the schoolhouse door opened with a measured slowness. Hat in hand, a calmer Cal entered.

  “Good evening, ladies.” He gave the room a polite nod. “Thank you for dedicating this evening to,” he coughed, “reaching out to me. Where shall I sit?”

  Eyes narrow, Mrs. Clinton gestured to an open seat up front by Miss Lilac.

  He scooted into the bench and smiled at Miss Lilac. She revealed her false teeth as she wrinkled back a smile.

  In order to keep a closer eye on Cal, Ginny moved up two rows, stumbling over a wrought-iron desk chair in the process. It would never do to have him pickpocketing temperance ladies’ timepieces or anything of that sort.

  Up front, Mrs. Clinton cleared her throat. “Men who consort at bars often have other vices.” She held up a framed picture of a man smoking. “Do you see what this is, Mr. Westwood?”

  He tipped his chair back toward Ginny, supporting himself with one hand on the shellacked wood of her desk. “A dragon’s fuel canister?” he whispered.

  Ginny’s face flamed hot as fire.

  “Your attention, Mr. Westwood!” Mrs. Clinton boomed.

  With a resounding crash, his chair went back to the upright position. “A cigar, ma’am.” />
  Mrs. Clinton turned to the rest of the room. “He knows what it is! He has sullied himself with these criminal instruments.”

  Cal cleared his throat and looked Mrs. Clinton in the eye. “I don’t actually smoke, ma’am, but I was born in America. I know a cigar when I see it.”

  Mrs. Clinton snorted. “A likely story.” Digging behind the podium into the many folds of a black leather pouch, Mrs. Clinton produced a daguerreotype. “Do you know what this is?”

  He squinted towards the indecipherable bit of picture. Around him, elderly ladies adjusted spectacles and leaned forward. Cal rubbed his eyes. “A rather faded magazine clipping?”

  Mrs. Clinton slammed her gavel against the huge gong. “Don’t be smart with me, young man.”

  “I can’t make out the picture myself,” Miss Lilac said in a chirping voice.

  Mrs. Clinton hmphed loudly. “That’s because you’re losing your vision.” Looking back to the stage, she swept the picture behind the podium. “Never mind. I have an alternate plan.”

  “I don’t think the alternate plan is appropriate,” Miss Lilac said as loudly as her wispy voice allowed.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Clinton shook out her skirts. “This is a teaching moment.”

  “That’s not what the board said when you suggested it.” Miss Lilac shook her head, but Mrs. Clinton had already left the stage for a small room behind.

  Miss Lilac sighed and moved to the piano. Other ladies followed Miss Lilac and seized up black and red streamers from a box backstage. The lady missing her front teeth produced a tinder box and lit a clay pot of coal, which proceeded to send up a smoky vapor.

  “Is all of your town this odd?” Cal’s voice made Ginny jump. He tipped his chair back again, placing his body much too close to hers.

  She pressed her lips together. “Pay attention.”

  “To what?” His gaze was on her. Those blue eyes weren’t just soulful, they were penetrating.

  She stabbed her finger toward the smoke-filled platform. “The meeting.” She summoned her sternest face.