Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  He laughed.

  Another temperance lady tapped his shoulder. “Please, sir. We’ve worked hard on this.”

  He folded his hands on his lap. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Behind the smoke screen and waving streamers, a shadowy figure appeared and a voice that sounded like Mrs. Clinton’s recited in a solemn tone. “In certain environments, there arise seedy women who attempt to lead men astray. You will know such women by the way they dress.”

  Miss Lilac played a dramatic entrance note on the piano and Mrs. Clinton emerged from the smoke. Overtop of her neck-high, black silk dress, red fabric that looked suspiciously like the remains of her dining room curtains folded about Mrs. Clinton in scanty strips.

  From the left side of the stage, Miss Lilac kept up an eerie tune on the piano, which lost its haunting nature every time Miss Lilac hit the broken C key.

  Mrs. Clinton spread her hands wide. “Women like this will lead you into sin. Have you ever seen such a woman, Mr. Westwood?”

  “A woman like you?” He shook his head. “Nope.”

  The smoke hadn’t dissipated yet, and the piano music kept pounding.

  “Enough, Lilac,” Mrs. Clinton commanded. “If he denies all vice, we shall bring forward the contract.” From the podium, Mrs. Clinton extracted a tube of parchment. With a thump, the scroll unrolled until it extended from her raised right arm to the floor. Bearing it forward in both hands, she placed the document on Cal’s desk. “Sign.”

  His eyes widened. “What is it?”

  “A contract to keep you from further debauchery.”

  Cal stared at the woman.

  Mrs. Clinton began reading in an austere voice. “Rule number one. I will always cross on the opposite side of the street from any establishment that sells liquor and stay at least fifty yards away from the entrance.”

  Cal leaned back. “Gilman’s streets aren’t fifty yards wide.”

  Mrs. Clinton glared at him. “Rule number two: I will not associate, speak, or interact with anyone under the influence of liquor of any sort.”

  “You don’t want me to arrest drunken criminals?” He tapped his long fingers against the desk.

  Mrs. Clinton retreated to the podium and seized up her gavel. She hit the gong and it rang so hard Ginny could feel her eardrums wobbling. “You will sign.”

  Cal stood. “I’m not signing. Thank you for the…unusual evening.”

  With a dramatic sigh, Mrs. Clinton turned to Miss Lilac. “You leave us no choice, then.” She made a magnificent hand gesture. “Bring forth the reforming concoction.”

  After tottering backstage, Miss Lilac reappeared clasping an open-faced silver cup. She held it forth. Even from a seat away, Ginny could smell the stench.

  “It’s made of cayenne pepper, mustard—” Miss Lilac began in a squeaky tone.

  Mrs. Clinton coughed loudly. “The ingredients are unimportant. It will make you not desire debaucheries for many days, and so protect your soul.”

  Impatience radiated from all six feet of Cal’s frame. “I don’t desire debaucheries.”

  “Drink,” Mrs. Clinton ordered.

  “No,” Cal said.

  Mrs. Clinton shifted her dark gaze to Ginny. “I’m holding you responsible for this.”

  “Me?” Ginny’s eyes widened.

  “As the only female in the sheriff’s office, you have a responsibility to further the temperance agenda. You haven’t even been to a meeting.” Mrs. Clinton paused and continued her glaring.

  Ginny jumped to her feet. “I’ll be a dedicated member from now on, I promise. I could spearhead a connection with the Colorado Women’s Suffrage Association. Start a resolution to expand the school, I—”

  “No.” Mrs. Clinton stared down her angular nose. “You have failed to have a reforming effect on those closest to your circle of influence. I must hereby eject you from this meeting, and bar you from all league meetings hereafter.”

  No! Ginny sent her desk flying back as she leaped for Cal. “Please drink it, Mr. Westwood.” She clasped Cal’s hand. His skin felt warm as his calluses scraped against her skin.

  “What?” Cal gave her a curious stare. “No.”

  “Please, Mr. Westwood. If you don’t, they’ll hate me forever. I’ll be anathema in the town.” And never win the sheriff election.

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “That concoction’s foul.”

  “Please, Cal. Lawmen protect citizens.” Her voice rose in desperation. She wouldn’t have called herself a citizen, or him a lawman, if she weren’t so desperate. He was actually a criminal.

  He glanced at the foaming liquid. “How does drinking this protect you?”

  She clasped his hand with both of hers. “Please.”

  “You’re indebted to me for this.”

  Releasing her hand, he crashed back into the seat and lifted the cup. As he drained it, his face twisted into contortions Ginny hadn’t known possible for humans.

  “And gunpowder, ipecac, and herbs,” Miss Lilac finished and sank back into her seat with a contented little sigh.

  A satisfied smile spread across Mrs. Clinton’s face. “Now let us sing our anthem. All rise, hands up to represent the Colosseum of truth.”

  “Does she mean colossus?” Cal whispered toward Miss Lilac.

  Miss Lilac lifted her shriveled shoulders in a shrug.

  He coughed, and his stomach made a strange gurgling noise. The slow lines of music moved forward as quaking voices rose along with Mrs. Clinton’s off-key singing attempts. On the last bar, he leaned forward and clenched his hand against his stomach. His face turned a strange shade of purple as he sucked in shallow breaths.

  “See how the reprobate repents in humiliation.” Mrs. Clinton nodded approvingly from the podium.

  “Thank you for your time,” Cal said in a scratchy tone and lunged for the exit. He didn’t stop to close the door.

  4

  The orange sun was creeping up over the plains when Ginny arrived at the sheriff’s office. She gave her tin pail one last swing. Cal was almost gone, the silver mine expedition was today, and life was good.

  Dropping her lunch by her desk, she peered her head around the door of Uncle Zak's office. “When are we leaving?”

  Uncle Zak pored over some sort of telegram. He squinted, brow furrowed. “As soon as Cal gets here with the horses, honey.”

  A satisfied smile crept across her face. That event could take a while. More likely than not, Cal had already fled town. She only hoped another lawman arrested him for his misdeeds, since her uncle hadn’t. She inclined her head to try to read Uncle Zak’s paper upside down.

  He stuffed the paper into his pocket.

  For a moment, his grimace obscured her happy day. When Uncle Zak found out that Cal had left, maybe he’d start trusting her again.

  “Sorry I’m late,” a masculine voice called through the doorway.

  She spun around. Outside, three horses stood tethered to the hitching post. Cal's face looked a little gray, but he smiled.

  “Just on time.” Uncle Zak grabbed his coat and headed outdoors.

  With a scowl, she followed.

  Moving toward Cal, she flipped her hand out. “Reins, please.”

  He smiled at her and extended the reins to a gentle brown mare.

  Was he trying to relegate her to a secretarial horse? She’d show him. She was a lawman—woman, and not a crooked one either.

  A black stallion stood beside the mare, pawing the ground.

  “I’d like that one.” She pointed to the black.

  Cal glanced at her. “Sure you can handle the stallion?”

  Uncle Zak walked up to her side and patted her shoulder. “It’s an easy ride. Just stay close.”

  She scowled. Sometimes Uncle Zak still treated her like she was in short skirts, but he took the mare, and Cal handed over the stallion’s reins.

  Throwing the reins over his own sorrel beast, who stood annoyingly still, Cal offered her a hand up.

&n
bsp; She narrowed her eyes into a piercing glare aimed to make him recoil in fear. Unfortunately, the glare failed.

  She squeezed back against the stallion to give herself some distance for thought.

  “Wouldn’t have pegged the sheriff’s niece for a blushing violet,” Cal said, hand still extended.

  Her mouth flew open.

  “Thought you were out bareback riding for criminals and stringing nooses.”

  She almost smiled at him. “I am, of course.”

  His eyes twinkled as he flashed a grin.

  Cal Westwood was teasing her. He didn’t take her job one whit seriously. Shoulders square, she lifted her chin. “You’d probably hide from the light of day, if you’d seen half the sights I have.”

  Cal coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. He held his hands out in a stirrup.

  With an imperious look, she dug her boot hard into his flesh and stepped up. Once astride the stallion, she looked down at him. “What’s the worst you’ve seen?”

  The teasing light left his face. “Gang shootout at Longhorn’s Pass,” he muttered and strode over to his sorrel horse.

  “Oh. Did you lose anyone?”

  “My best friend.” His gaze averted, his fists clenched. The perfect lone-wolf lawman.

  How did one compete with that? She’d need to lose a best friend to gunshot wounds..

  ~*~

  Ginny rode the next two hours in silence, but she spared Cal a glare here or there as she fought him for the lead.

  Uncle Zak brought up the rear. Finally, the Iron Mask silver mine rose up ahead on the mountain pass.

  The overhead sun glared against rock, and even the patch of color the sparse evergreens lent to the landscape looked sun-chapped. The dry wind tugged at her hair as she leaned forward, urging the stallion on. Cal’s miserable sorrel, whose coat was the shade of day-old coffee, still managed to keep up.

  Uncle Zak lagged behind, but Cal edged close. As his horse drew even, its sides heaving in and out with breathsless than a pace away, he reached out and slapped her stallion’s neck. “Would have thought a horse that size could go faster.”

  As she swiveled in the saddle, her dusty skirt twisted up around her legs and she caught the glint of mirth in his eyes.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Westwood.”

  “I touched your horse, not you.”

  As if that justified his criminal behavior. She held her chin high. Her experience with men was on the limited side, but she was getting the distinct feeling he’d been trying to get her attention. Perhaps he planned on using her as an unwitting accomplice for his next embezzling scheme. Her skirt rode up, exposing another inch of leg above her boots. Leaning over, she tried to tug it down.

  “Going to fall off that horse?” He was looking at her again.

  She jerked back to upright. “No, but I’ll beat you to that cabin.” She pointed up the mountain to Mr. Clinton’s office.

  He glanced back at Uncle Zak.

  Uncle Zak chuckled. “Don’t dawdle on my account. The way my leg feels right now, this horse is walking the whole way.”

  “See you there.” Tearing off her hat, she leaned into the horse. She would have whispered to the animal, only it seemed like a rather dumb horse, large but dumb—like some men she knew. She glanced at Cal.

  The clip of the sorrel’s hooves pounded to the left, and Cal had the inside track to Mr. Clinton’s office.

  She kicked her horse. He grunted—and slowed down! Halfway to the office, and Cal led by three lengths. Digging her feet into the black’s side, she shoved forward up the slope of his neck. “You are wind, wind,” she screeched into the beast’s ears.

  For once, the blasted creature listened. With a yank of its head, the stallion took off. They sped up the hill, almost astride with Cal’s sorrel, within paces of the cabin. She leaned forward with the motion. The stallion broke right.

  Leather dug into her skin as she tried to keep a hold of the reins.

  The wretched beast had the bit between its teeth. It went tearing toward a gully between mountain crests.

  At a speed faster than gravity should allow, the beast hurtled down the incline. Thrusting herself back, she leaned with all her weight against the reins. Down below, the jagged rocks of the ravine waited for them. “Slow down! Whoa.”

  Ignoring her, the beast barreled on. Loose gravel slipped beneath the stallion’s feet. The animal almost plunged forward only to catch itself. It veered further north along the slope of the hill. Ginny yanked the reins again. The stallion reared.

  Feet sliding out of stirrups, she grabbed for the saddle pommel. The rocks below loomed large. The stallion’s hoofs came down with a jarring crash tossing her body up even as she clung to the pommel. She looked right to the rocky ground as she pondered jumping.

  The pounding of galloping hoofbeats sounded behind her. She twisted around as Cal’s sorrel came astride.

  Dust surrounded them as Cal maneuvered the sorrel next to her, and the two horses ran as one.

  Leaning forward in the saddle, he grabbed for her reins that flapped in the wind. The stallion swerved right again, back up the mountain face.

  Fingers twisted around the pommel, Ginny tried to inch her way toward the loose reins. The stallion tossed its head.

  “Hang on,” Cal yelled over the dust. He swung across the filthy plume of dust and the tumultuous crash of pounding hoofs onto her saddle.

  She half-twisted around. “You just—”

  On their left, the obedient sorrel penned the stallion in, forcing it to slow.

  Cal pressed into her back as he leaned over her. He snagged the flapping reins. “Whoa. Whoa, boy. Easy there now.” Behind her, he pressed his knee into the stallion’s left flank.

  His arms tensed as the stallion fought for its head. Slowly, the beast veered left. Cal pulled harder, his sorrel pressed closer, and the stallion circled to a reluctant halt.

  “You all right?” Cal touched her shoulder.

  From her head that touched his shoulder, to her legs that rested against his, her whole body touched him in this narrow saddle.

  She flipped one leg and her disheveled skirts up over the saddle. Even worse, now she sat almost in his arms. Her hand flipped back against his chest with the movement. Quickly, she pressed her hands down against the saddle where she perched. And touched his leg.

  Her heart started to race. “I…I’m fine.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Sure?”

  She nodded again.

  He swung off the horse and reached for her.

  Piecing together what was left of her dignity, she said, “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Westwood” and jumped down.

  Her knees buckled as her high-heeled boots hit the rocky ground. The horse spooked, and her one leg twisted beneath her as she landed in an unceremonious heap of dusty petticoats.

  Cal ran to grab the horse.

  The screech of a hawk gliding over the mountains broke the silence as Ginny picked herself up.

  Well, she hoped Mr. City-educated crook was happy. He’d just seen her demonstrate complete incompetence. He’d better enjoy it, since it wouldn’t happen again.

  She limped up to look for the mining cabin. Fortunately, a convenient crest blocked Uncle Zak’s view of her dilemma.

  Cal strode forward, the stallion’s reins in hand. “If you keep him on a tighter rein, you shouldn’t have that problem. I can show you—”

  “I’ll walk.” She jerked the black’s reins down and dared the wild-eyed monster to resist the metallic tug of bit in mouth. Man won over beast every time; this horse just hadn’t learned that yet.

  Silence fell along with overheated sunrays. Uninvited, Cal walked beside her while his annoying sorrel followed along like a lapdog.

  “You been to a mine before?” His voice was deeper than Uncle Zak’s.

  She shot him a breezy stare. “Of course. And you? Too much of a city-dweller to enter a mine?”

  A laugh rumbl
ed from his throat. “No. In Texas it’s coal, not silver, though. They say with enough heat and pressure, living organisms turn into coal.”

  “Would I could turn you into coal.” Her voice was more of a grunt than a whisper.

  “Hey, I just saved your neck. And I drank sewage for you.”

  True. “All right. If I had the power to turn you into coal, I wouldn’t use it.” Unless he tried any criminal schemes in Gilman. By sheer will-power she forced out, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  He smiled, but she kept a studied silence for the rest of the walk to the mine office.

  Outside the cabin, a few Indian paintbrush blooms brightened the ground. Mr. Clinton stood on the packed dirt outside, breathing fast.

  “Mr. Clinton.” Cal extended his hand.

  The whiskers of Mr. Clinton’s mustache twitched. “Didn’t expect you here.”

  “Sheriff Thompson and I came to tour the mine.”

  Ginny scowled. Stupid man, didn’t even mention the most valuable part of the team—her.

  Mr. Clinton frowned, making his pinched face constrict even further.

  “Tell them it’s not safe for outsiders to be going down the mine shafts,” a voice called from inside.

  “Who’s that?” Cal stepped closer.

  “Just my secretary.” Mr. Clinton’s fingers trembled.

  “Mind if I step inside?” Cal shouldered Mr. Clinton aside and shoved open the door. His fingers encircled his gun handle as he burst through the entrance.

  Inside, a sparse man drummed his fingers on the desk. Cal’s hand didn’t leave his gun. “Declare any weapons you have.”

  Outside, Mr. Clinton’s breathing grew heavier. “Little Bobby wouldn’t hurt no one. No one!”

  Ginny flew through the door, her voice shrill. “Cal Westwood, take your hand off that gun. That’s Mr. Clinton’s grandnephew, not some gang member. I think I’ll add assault to Mrs. Clinton’s list of your crimes.”

  Cal puckered his brow, and though his gaze stayed on the secretary, his hand left his holster. “That mine tour, then.”

  Mr. Clinton hemmed for a full half-minute before he switched to hawing. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Uncle Zak walked through the doorway. “Just here to keep you safe, John. Now give us a mining cart, and we’ll be going.”