Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Why would a non-criminal need privacy? Cal did make a good point about Uncle Zak’s general reliability. If Cal wasn’t the embezzler though, why would he lie to her?

  “Let’s get the horses.” Uncle Zak limped forward. “And I can assure you, Westwood is an upstanding lawman with outstanding references, not an embezzler.”

  She started after him. Now that the danger had dissipated, she winced each time her left foot hit the ground. A few too many falls today, but all in the pursuit of duty. She spared Cal a glare as she brushed by him.

  His gaze fixed on her while he helped Uncle Zak over the crest of the hill to Mr. Clinton’s office and the horses.

  Then, when the office was in sight, Cal beat her to the black stallion. “Here you are.” He oozed fake politeness as he handed her the reins. Then he glanced at Uncle Zak. “What were you thinking, letting an innocent young lady like your niece in on a case like this? Why, she’s limping. Might even have broken her ankle.”

  “I’m not limping.” Ignoring the pain, she stomped toward the horse.

  “Let me assist you.” As Cal forcibly took her arm, he stepped on her injured foot, probably on purpose.

  “You verminous—”

  “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? I had no idea our escape today had injured you so much.” Counterfeit concern spread across Cal’s face.

  He made it sound like they’d just scrambled up a two-thousand-foot ravine pursued by ravenous mountain lions. She opened her mouth.

  Uncle Zak rushed to her side, dragging his hurt leg behind. “You know, I think Cal may be right, honey. This is a dangerous game we’re playing out here. More dangerous than you know.”

  “But Uncle Zak!”

  “No buts. You’re off the case.” Uncle Zak helped her up and then turned back to his own horse.

  “I was never even properly on the case.” She groaned and sank into the saddle.

  When Uncle Zak’s back was fully turned, Cal looked at her and slowly smiled.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’ll regret that monkey business.”

  Cal’s cool gaze met hers. “No, I think you’ll regret that.” With one leap, he mounted his sorrel. Dust spewed up under pounding hooves.

  5

  Crazy as a rabid coon in hunting season was one thing. He’d dealt with crazy before. Ginny Thompson took looney in the head to a whole new level.

  Cal swung off his sorrel, jerked off the saddle, and ran the curry comb down the horse’s back with more than necessary vigor. For the love of Mike, they were in the middle of a high-efficiency, lethal gang operation that had almost cost them their lives just this morning in the silver mine. And she’d chosen to waste time poisoning him? His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Maybe she was a gang member.

  Finished, Cal threw the comb to the ground. No, joining a gang would be too logical for Ginny. How was she related to an upstanding citizen like Sheriff Thompson? Maybe she was a changeling from a renegade Indian tribe.

  Kicking the stable door shut, he looped the sorrel’s reins over the unfinished wood. He had a case to solve. This gang wouldn’t claim another victim if he could help it. He’d sworn that over Isaacs’s dead body.

  His stomach twisted inside him in an unabashed plea for food, but he didn’t need to glance at the sun to know the boarding house supper was long past served.

  Where to start on gang work? He needed a list of suspects and eyes on the plains and mountains to discover the gang’s whereabouts. Sheriff Thompson couldn’t take a full day of riding with that leg of his, and Cal himself could only do so much.

  Brushing dirt off his hands, he gazed overtop of the wooden stable barriers to the caked-down straw on the fringe of the building. Outside the rough window, one lazy puff of smoke rose up followed by another. He crossed the distance in three strides.

  Several cowhands sprawled against the weathered structure. Each leaned one boot behind, their hats tilted downward in classic loitering pose. Cal rolled his eyes. There was a reason he’d gone to law school.

  “Howdy, Deputy,” the largest cowhand said. “Locked up any more kittens today?” The rest of the man’s compatriots exploded into chortles of laughter that sent the cigar smoke up their nostrils.

  He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of rolling his eyes. “I need information about intruders on the plains and mountains. What have you seen recently?”

  “What kind of intruders—the small, fluffy variety?” The large cowhand tipped back his greasy chin to laugh and hit the back of his head against a stable post.

  One of the smaller cowhands shifted his Stetson back from his eyes. “I could have skinned that cat for you. Or are you scared of blood?”

  Cal’s back stiffened from his shirt line all the way up to the top of his neck. “You are delaying a law operation and aiding criminals by refusing to answer.”

  The large cowhand recovered his balance and stood on two feet instead of one. “Whatcha’ goin’ to do about it? Sic lawmen cats on us?”

  Eyeing the man with the scorn he deserved, Cal rested his hands on his gun belt. “I could have you thrown in jail.”

  “Might not be so bad. I hear the sheriff’s niece makes the best pies.”

  What was wrong with this town? Cal narrowly refrained from throwing up his hands. “What Miss Thompson does or does not make is none of your business. Especially as you wouldn’t be getting any.”

  “Going to pull out the chain gangs and bread and water act, eh?” The big cowhand tilted his head back and roared with laughter again. This time he managed not to crack his head against the stable. “Sheriff Thompson’s soft. He wouldn’t ever allow that.”

  The man underestimated the force of the law in Gilman? He’d change that. Cal squinted at the cowhand. “Those horses you ride, how much do you pay in taxes per head?”

  The tall cowhand clamped his mouth shut on his cigar as he looked nervously to the others.

  “I thought as much. You can either give me the information I want, or I’ll send you all off to tax court pronto. Your choice for the next ten minutes. After that, I’m doing both.”

  The big cowhand almost swallowed his cigar. “What you wanna know?”

  Cal sighed. “As I said, what you’ve seen on the plains or mountains. Any suspicious characters? Suspicious activities?”

  The cowhand chewed the end of his cigar, reducing it to a pulpy consistency. One hand went up to scratch underneath his Stetson. “I don’t rightly know.” He turned to his compatriots. “What about y’all?”

  The smaller cowhand rubbed his knuckles over his forehead as if to press out memories. “There was that man planting wheat. Who in their right mind would plant wheat when they could be cattle ranching?”

  The big cowhand slapped the little one. “Not that sort of unordinary, Pokey. Criminal unordinary.”

  “Oh. I got confused, boss.”

  The third cowhand tipped his hat up just enough to squint at Cal. “I did see a couple men who spoke all unnatural like. One was wearing a gray suit. Thought it was mighty strange for men up in the mountains.”

  Leaning forward, Cal focused his attention on quite possibly the most intelligent cowhand of the bunch. “What were they doing?”

  The cowhand twisted the red bandanna he wore around his index finger. “Riding around in circles and swearing a lot. They set up camp south of the Gilman mine. Built a fire and cooked the most horrible goulash I’ve ever smelled. One whiff, and we took our cows downwind. It was ‘nuff to turn a good heifer’s stomach permanent like.”

  For one second, Cal had to look away. If the bandanna-toting one was the most intelligent, that was just sad. But now he had an area in which to start the manhunt. “Anything else?”

  In unison, the cowhands shook their heads, making a wavering smoke pattern with their cigars.

  The toe of Cal’s boot kicked up dust as he turned away.

  “You’re not going to tax us now, are you?” the big cowhand called after him.

  “I shoul
d.”

  As Cal walked away, the fading sun made long shadows. Next mission, find Sheriff Thompson and come up with a list of people who had access to that mine shaft this morning.

  Orange sunbeams poured through the door of the sheriff’s office as Cal crossed the threshold. Inside, the western sun bathed the office. Moving past Ginny’s happily empty desk, he scowled. He prided himself on being an open-minded man, and he’d hesitantly endorsed Sheriff Thompson’s reliance on a woman in law enforcement work. But congratulations to Ginny. She had just singlehandedly set back his view of women about six centuries.

  Entering his office, he searched for any notes, or paperwork, or preferably lists of mineworkers Sheriff Thompson might have left him. The scratched finish of the oak desk stared back at him, entirely innocent of anything resembling paper or ink. A scowl took over his mouth. Now he got the unenviable task of visiting the Thompson house. That, or wait until tomorrow morning.

  No. He had a case to solve and a murderous gang to put behind bars. He wouldn’t let one slip of a girl interfere with that. How old was Ginny anyway?

  Not yet twenty he’d wager.

  A rattling noise came from somewhere inside the building. Straightening up, he moved his hand to his holster. Only the toes of his boots touched the floor as he glided to the back of the structure.

  “Hey, can you let me out now?”

  Through the open door of Sheriff Thompson’s office, he saw Silas sitting inside prison bars. The man rattled the iron door hinge.

  “What are you even doing in jail? The place was empty when we left. Did the sheriff have to lock you up after he got back?” Cal glanced at the keychain across the wall.

  “No, sir. I was good. I swear, sir. I just got awful lonely out on the streets like, and it was getting hot, so I walked in here to get a bit of home flavor.”

  Cal skidded his eyebrows up. “And locked yourself in?”

  “It didn’t feel quite right otherwise.”

  Cal groaned and shook his head.

  “Can you let me out now?” Silas repeated somewhere between a whine and a request.

  With a sigh, Cal walked over to the wall and took up the keys. Fingering them, he looked at Silas. “No more case evidence shams, though, or I’ll lock you up for a week—at the least.”

  Silas scratched the stubble on his face. “It was lonely today, but I like jail mostly. Could I have a whole apple pie for myself if I stayed a week?”

  “No!” What kind of a town was it where one couldn’t even threaten citizens with jail?

  “I would get my sweet tea, though, right?” Silas’ eyes held a confident air.

  “Absolutely not!”

  The man paled. “What about my comfy blanket?”

  Cal clenched the keys. “No, you’d be in a real jail, latrine pan and all.”

  Inside the bars, Silas dropped to his knees, making the floorboards shiver. “I won’t ever do it again. Promise I won’t, sir. Please don’t lock me in jail with a latrine pan! I wouldn’t ever done it in the first place ‘cept it was Ginny’s idea.”

  Mid-step to the jail door’s padlock, Cal froze. Ginny? Again! Did the woman have so little to do with her time that she picked random victims to inflict herself upon? The rather flimsy jail lock mechanism rattled as he inserted the key.

  After pausing to fold his comfy blanket, scrape the bottoms of a pie tin, and empty a sweet tea glass, Silas finally exited.

  Cal locked the barred jail door and the outside office. As the lock tumbled into place, he wasted two seconds wondering what had possessed Sheriff Thompson to leave the office unlocked when they left for the day.

  No matter. Soon as he caught the gang, he’d leave this backwoods town behind him forever.

  ~*~

  A velvety twilight hung over the streets. Cal’s insides grumbled as he headed to the Thompson house. He glanced south, toward the boarding house. Since he’d awakened the landlady for the cat incident, she’d been remarkably remiss in saving food for him when he missed meals.

  Minutes later, he rapped against the stained wood of the Thompson’s front door. Maybe Ginny wouldn’t answer.

  The door flew open to a very…well, beautiful Ginny. Attired in a white fabric that seemed too gauzy to qualify as western wear, she wore a smile on her face and her mountain-brown hair fell loose around her face.

  The smile vanished as soon as she saw him. “What do you want?”

  “Where’s your uncle?”

  She used her bare toe to kick a pebble off the door mat onto the top porch step. “Why? Trying to ruin my law enforcement career even more?”

  “You don’t have a law enforcement career. You’re a secretary.”

  “Secretaries are notoriously underestimated. Haven’t you ever read a dime novel?”

  “Most recently, I was putting outlaws behind bars. Try that before you start living in your make-believe crime-solving world.” He kicked her pebble back through the doorway.

  “Cal?” Sheriff Thompson approached from the side of house, a bucket and rake in his hands. “I was just getting the tomatoes ready for the Fourth of July. Have you been waiting long?”

  With Ginny around, much too long, but Cal didn’t say that. “I gathered some information on the situation that I wanted to discuss.”

  A broad smile crossed the sheriff’s face. “Always the hard worker. I knew I hired the right man for this job. Come on in then.”

  Glaring, Ginny held open the white screen door for them to enter.

  The sheriff wiped his hands on his overalls and looked to her. “We’ll just be out in the back room, Ginny. If you—”

  “I know.” Her voice hit the words with the downward momentum of a scythe. “I’m not wanted in your man discussion. I guess I’ll just busy myself in the kitchen. Want pancakes?”

  The mention of pancakes made Cal’s stomach twist inside him again. He dearly wanted to say ‘yes,’ but the pancakes would likely be poisoned. Still, dying of poison versus dying of hunger…at least the former was quicker.

  “She’s still aggravated about being off the case.” With a hand to Cal’s shoulder, Sheriff Thompson directed him to the backroom. “Hate to rile my niece that way, but some things just aren’t safe.”

  Cal nodded. Anything with Ginny involved was the furthest thing from safe.

  Horn chairs and a settee topped by faded yellow cushions filled the small backroom. Plopping down in one chair, Sheriff Thompson lifted his leg to rest on a roughhewn bench. “You have news of the gang?”

  Cal leaned back onto a cushion compacted by wear. “The local ranch hands have led me to believe there could be a gang encampment just south of the mines. I’d like to put a posse together. Also, I’ll need a list of everyone who had access to the mine shaft this morning.”

  The sheriff chewed his lip. “I’m not sure what volunteers we’ll get for a posse, and John Clinton’s terrible closed mouth about his business dealings, but I’ll see what I can scare up.”

  “Your pancakes.” Barging through the house door, Ginny slapped a metal tin piled high with pancakes onto Sheriff Thompson’s bench with a thwack.

  “Pancakes? At this time of night, dear?” Sheriff Thompson directed a paternal look of worry at her unhappy face.

  “Boredom overcame me. I didn’t have anything else to do.” She enunciated the words with accusing pointedness. “But if you don’t want them, I’ll just be gone.” She snatched up the tray.

  Cal lunged for one edge. “If they’re just going to waste, I could eat them.”

  “Why, look at me.” Sheriff Thompson sat up straighter. “So wrapped up in legal matters, I’ve completely neglected host duties. I should send you off before dinner’s completely over at the boarding house.” He glanced out back at the rising moon.

  One eye focused on the pancakes, Cal kept the other on Ginny. She paused, tray in hand. Since she’d offered the pancakes to her uncle, he’d wager they weren’t poisoned. Neglecting manners and the sheriff’s soliloquy, he nudge
d one cake off the tray into his hand. The aroma made his stomach hop in anticipation. Buckwheat scent filled his nostrils, and he bit into it. Ginny was a good cook. Shame that such an ability was wasted on the one woman in town whose cooking he—under ordinary circumstances—wouldn’t dare touch.

  “Dinner at the boarding house?” Sheriff Thompson mentioned again.

  “Already missed it hours ago.” Cal slid two more pancakes into his hand. No. Make that three. Who knew how long until she disappeared with the tray of sustenance?

  The sheriff frowned. “And they don’t save any for the latecomers? What kind of second-rate boarding house is the town of Gilman running?”

  “It depends on who’s late.” Cal helped four more pancakes find their way onto his plate.

  The sheriff wrinkled his brow. “Surely, the law is a respected source of business at any boarding establishment?”

  “Didn’t get off to the best start with the proprietor.” Maple syrup or butter or preferably both would nicely compliment the next two pancakes he slipped off the tray.

  Sheriff Thompson frowned severely. “I have to speak to that no-account proprietor.” He shook his head and then, looking back at Cal, smiled again. “But that won’t help tonight. Pancakes ain’t no real meal. Is there still ham in the icebox, Ginny?”

  She moved her chin chest-ward in an icy nod.

  “And we need to dig out those pickles Miss Lilac brought over. I think I’ve still got that can of tomato jelly from last fall.” The sheriff turned to Cal. “What about chocolate cake? Cherry brought over a huge slab of it for me to take to the office when she heard about the fall I had with my leg. Seeing as we’re all here now, might as well enjoy it.”

  The muscles of Cal’s mouth pressed together. He doubted Cherry’s philanthropic feelings toward older men’s sprained legs, but at least whatever she cooked had a significantly lower chance of containing poison than anything Ginny touched.

  Sheriff Thompson gripped the wicker chair handles as he pushed himself to a standing position. His leg hit the ground, and he winced.