“How about you stop acting like a deranged person, and I’ll treat you with civility?”
She pursed her lips. “As in civilly let me back on the case?”
“No. As in I’ll say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and let you go first through doorways.”
“You already do that.”
“My point exactly.” He tilted his Stetson lower.
Now the sun had risen higher in the sky, painting the mountain greenery yellow as valuable time slipped away. “Just tell me about the gang.”
“Not a chance.”
Infuriating man. “You are the most wretched man I have ever met.” She didn’t stop for breath. “By refusing my help with the gang situation you are aiding and abetting criminals. I am a native Gilman citizen and I—”
“Just find a new victim to inflict yourself on please.” He clenched his teeth on the last word. “I have work to do.”
She let him go. She had important research to do in town. Catching the Silverman gang would look good on her list of achievements when Uncle Zak retired and she ran for sheriff.
~*~
First stop, the general store. She needed to check the populace for guilty faces and suspicious limps. Whoever set off that dynamite in the mine yesterday could have been hurt, too.
Using a bright bolt of red fabric as cover, she hung back in the dry goods section of the store and watched the register. Peering over the top of the bolt, she watched Peter add up an order for an elderly lady. The woman walked with a cane and, judging by her heavy limp, she definitely had a damaged right leg. But that probably had more to do with age than dynamite. Still, one should be cautious. She strained to hear their conversation while Peter folded three yards of eyelet lace for Limping Lady.
He held out the wrapped package. “Should I get someone to carry this home for you?”
Limping Lady patted Peter’s hand with her own gnarled one. “Thank you. You’re a good boy. Not like that lawman who just came to town.”
“Oh?” Peter said in a familiar monotone.
“Yes.” Limping Lady’s face lit up. “Did you hear that Mr. Westwood arrived to his mother’s funeral drunk? His own mother.”
“Now, you can’t believe everything you hear in a small town.” Peter’s drawl elongated the words as he flashed a friendly smile at the woman. How he managed to be polite to every character that walked into his store, let alone actually care about them, Ginny never would know.
Limping Lady shook her head firmly. “I got this information from the best source—Mrs. Clinton. Why that lawman even arrived to her house drunk, broke all the dishes in her china cabinet, and then followed up by giving Mr. Clinton a black eye. I saw Mr. Clinton in town just today. The right side of his face all swollen up.”
Mr. Clinton had a black eye? Ginny strained forward. Now where exactly would he have gotten that? The Cal story, while gratifying, was obviously false. Sad, because she’d sincerely love to throw him in jail for assault. Once there, she wouldn’t have let Cal have any of Silas’s pie or sweet tea either. Anyway, she’d definitely stop at the Clinton’s house next.
Pushing the red bolt of fabric back into place, she slipped toward the front door but not before becoming privy to more of Limping Lady’s saga. “Did you hear that after both his parents died, instead of taking care of his twin brothers, who were just ten at the time, he sent them to the circus to earn their living on the trapeze bar? The circus! Can you imagine?”
Limping Lady’s chattering voice died out behind Ginny as she passed through the shop door.
“Have a good day, Ginny,” Peter called after her.
Stuffing her fidgeting hands into her pockets, Ginny nodded. “Same to you.”
~*~
Cal tugged on his boots as the morning sun streamed in through the overly large windows of the Thompson’s backroom. The Lord’s Day came next in the week. This fact spoiled the posse expedition, but after scouting around all Saturday, he’d only found one volunteer anyway.
A town clerk—Robert something—had offered, but he wasn’t even convinced the man knew how to hold a gun. Silas also volunteered and was quite offended to have been turned down. The drunkard also refused to accept the logical explanation that a man should spend at least a month out of jail before taking part in law enforcement work.
“But I know lawmen work best of anyone in town, seeing as I spend so much time with the sheriff and all,” Silas had said.
Not happening. Cal tugged on a not-quite-ironed shirt. Maybe tomorrow he’d ride around the mountains himself, see what he could find.
The walk to church stretched interminably. The Thompson house stood way to the west of town, and Ginny had an ‘I-will-tolerate-you-because-it’s-Sunday attitude’ that proved incredibly wearing. Eventually, however, the square frame of the schoolhouse, which doubled as the Temperance League meeting place and church as well, loomed ahead.
Sheriff Thompson motioned him first. “Come on in. Sit in our pew.”
Squinting his eyes for a moment, Cal took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that church would be much different than the Temperance League.
Then, he shook his head. If he wanted the slightest hope of garnering anything but ire from this sermon, he couldn’t sit next to Ginny.
Making heroic efforts to banish all thoughts of these windows covered with gauze and Mrs. Clinton’s booming voice filling the room, he stepped inside. Within, the school desks had been shoved aside and replaced by pews. While not all abacuses had disappeared, red cloth covered the world geography maps, and a skillfully wrought cross made of barbed wire hung up front.
The preacher, or at least Cal assumed the man was the preacher, walked up to the crate-shaped pulpit and announced a hymn. Miss Lilac, clad in gray rather than her usual black, made her way up to the piano.
A grimace stretched Cal’s face. He tried to sing. Really he did, but every time Miss Lilac missed that signature C note, the Temperance League music reverberated through his head.
Three songs later, the chords ended and the preacher stood. “Today our message will be about law and sin.”
Magnificent, another Temperance League-themed message against the evils of drink, gambling, and smoking.
The preacher laid out his Bible and a pile of notes on the pulpit. “The law is something we are prone to look at as merely external, a list of dos and do nots to guide us through life. We respect those in positions of authority since they follow the list.”
Feet rustled in pews as the congregation settled in.
“Those with more obvious flaws, the outcasts, the fallen, the neighbor no one likes, these we judge. But there is a law higher than mere outward appearances. A law by which we will all be judged whether pillars of our communities or outcasts.”
Feet rustled again as every head craned.
Why did everyone look out the window? Cal spared one glance to the glass. The most interesting part of the view was a cottonwood tree. This was actually a first-rate sermon, something he hadn’t expected from the town of Gilman, yet the whole congregation wasted it staring out the window at a cottonwood tree. Hands resting on the pew Bible he’d pulled out, Cal leaned forward.
The preacher leafed through a few pages of notes. “The Holy Scriptures say in Hebrews 7:19 ‘For the law made nothing perfect, but the bringing in of a better hope did; by the which we draw nigh unto God.’”
Every eye in the congregation glued on that window just behind Cal. Refusing to let them distract him, he focused his attention more studiously on the preacher.
“No one stands above this better hope, even those in the most respected positions—reverends, teachers, lawmen.”
Whole benches jiggled as the congregation turned not only heads, but their entire bodies toward the cottonwood tree out the window.
What was wrong with the town of Gilman? Did they think themselves above the gospel?
“All need to grasp this incredible gift of salvation.”
That’s when
it struck Cal. They weren’t staring at the cottonwood tree. They were staring at him.
He slumped back into the hardwood pew. Not only was he a drunk, he was also a heathen.
Would it help to tell Mrs. Clinton that he’d served as deacon at his church back in Houston? No, of course not.
Flipping the pew Bible open to the book of Judges, he tried to lose himself in conquests and blood and forget that dozens of people stared accusingly at him. When that effort failed, he surveyed the church population to see if any looked remotely posse worthy. None did. Then the sermon ended. Clothing rustled as the buzz of conversation struck up.
“Good morning.” A lady on the older side of young, dressed only in black, smiled at Cal.
He nodded in acknowledgment.
The woman in black moved closer. “I hear you hail from Texas, Mr. Westwood.”
Like a chunky bird of prey, Mrs. Clinton appeared at the woman’s side. “You don’t want to talk about Mr. Westwood’s time in Texas. Not good for your innocent ears.” She turned to him. “This is Widow Sullivan, by the way. Brand new to town, so I expect you to treat her with proper decorum.”
Must please Mrs. Clinton to aid gang information collection. Must please Mrs. Clinton. Must…if only he could shoot something. “A pleasure to meet you, Widow Sullivan.” Cal glumly took her extended hand and kept looking at the crowd.
The widow bobbed a curtsey. “The pleasure is mine. Tell me, were you involved in law work there as well?”
“Oh no.” Mrs. Clinton huffed importantly. “I believe his involvement in Texas was of a much more sordid nature.”
“Is that right, Mr. Westwood?” Widow Sullivan widened her eyes. "I would like to hear more.”
He shrugged. Let Widow Sullivan think what she willed. The rest of the town certainly did.
“Of course I’m right.” Mrs. Clinton shook out her skirts. “Why look, he’s even wearing guns into a house of peace.” She glared at his not-empty holsters and then dragged Widow Sullivan away.
Stealing back the modicum of peace left after Mrs. Clinton had breathed in a room, Cal turned his attention to more important matters. A younger man stood at the back of the schoolhouse chatting with the congregation as they walked out. His voice had a soft-spoken quality, but in a town like this, one could definitely do worse.
Squeezing around a large-sized lady and stepping over two infants of the crawling variety, Cal picked his way back between church aisles.
Once he reached the man, he had to wait for a pre-adolescent girl in a pink-striped dress to stop begging for candy before he could extend his hand. “Cal Westwood, assistant sheriff.”
A slow smile stretched the man’s face. “I’ve heard your name a lot. I’m Peter Foote, owner of the general store here in town.”
Cal nodded. “There have been some disturbances out in the mountains. I’m rounding up a posse to check them out. Will you join?”
The noise of tipping church pews, the swoosh of skirts, and something thin and hard dug into Cal’s forearm.
“I’m so glad I caught you. I was afraid you were leaving.” Cherry’s sounded breathless as she dug her gloved fingers deeper into his skin.
“Good day.” Cal disengaged his arm.
“Did you make up your mind yet? Are you going to the Fourth of July picnic with Ginny?” Behind Cherry, people milled loudly, but her high-pitched voice cut through the sound.
He switched his gaze to Peter, who leaned back against a church pew with a patient smile. Turning back to Cherry, Cal massaged the fingernail marks on his arm.
“Well?” Cherry did a strange little hop back and forth between both feet.
“I’m definitely not going with Ginny.”
An aura of light glowed through Cherry’s entire face as she bloomed into the brightest of smiles. “It’s settled, then. You’re going with me.” She giggled and did a little shoulder roll. “Bye-bye for now.” With a wave of her hand, she floated out the schoolhouse door.
With a sigh, he watched her leave. At least she was decent looking and didn’t boom orders like Mrs. Clinton. Besides, it would be worth any sacrifice to avoid going with Ginny.
“Now don’t you go breaking your word to that girl just because she doesn’t have a father to come after you with a shotgun.” Mrs. Clinton’s voice blasted in his ear.
Cal stepped away.
The woman pressed her lips into a straight line and narrowed her eyes. Then, with a swish of prodigiously full skirts, she marched out the church door.
Cal moved his hand up to cover his ringing ear. If you alienate Mrs. Clinton we lose all chance of gaining gang info from her husband. Sheriff Thompson’s words repeated in his mind. Of all the wretched women to be married to a silver mine owner.
“You’re going to the Fourth of July picnic with Cherry?” Peter Foote’s voice recaptured Cal’s attention.
Turning, he saw a strangely amused expression on Peter’s face. The man needn’t act so entertained. He’d wager he wasn’t the first male in this town to be ensnared into going to an event with Cherry. “I suppose.”
“Going with Cherry…” Peter nodded and grinned.
More people elbowed their way out of the narrow entrance.
Frowning, Cal moved out of the aisle toward Peter.
“You’re a brave man, you know.”
Cal kept his unimpressed expression. “I think I can handle one outrageous female.” After all, he’d handled fifty-five of them in that temperance meeting. Which reminded him…he’d have to go again one of these days. Must please Mrs. Clinton. A sick sensation settled in the pit of his stomach.
A knowing grin spread across Peter’s face. “You are a lawman so I expect you’ve dealt with difficult situations before. But then, you don’t know our Colorado girls.”
Knowing what? “Sure. About the posse though, are you coming?”
“Colorado girls like to get what they want. And you know what happened on the other Fourth of Julys.” That knowing grin still plastered Peter’s face.
“No, I don’t.” And Cal wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Now the posse—”
Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Ended up engaged to her date each time.”
“That’s nice.” Cal leaned back against the pew. “If they would just hurry up and marry her before this Fourth of July, I’d be saved a lot of inconvenience. On to the posse—”
“Well now, it’s not as simple as all that.” Peter drawled slower than any Texan. “The men, they said they ain’t never proposed to her.”
Cal stared at Peter. “You have to propose to get engaged.”
“Not with Cherry you don’t. Seems she pestered them into an alliance.”
Wind blew in the schoolhouse doors and a little shower of dust fell from the rafters. Cal flicked the stuff off his shirt. “Sounds like some less than intelligent men. Now the posse—”
“Those Julys and Augusts were exciting months for the town of Gilman. She had the whole Temperance League in an uproar, insisting the men be as good as their word and marry her. Only, every time each man said she misconstrued the whole thing.”
Cal blinked. “You mean they never asked her?”
“It all depends on who you believe.”
Cal eyed Peter and his cheerful, but pitying expression. Cal reached down to his pistols. The polished metal of the grip felt vastly reassuring.
“I have to be going. Supper at Mother’s house. But yes, I’ll join your posse. Just let me know when and where, and I’ll close up the store for the day.”
“Good.” Cal moved his hand away from the pistol. “And I appreciate the warning, but I think I can navigate the treacheries of one picnic.” Hopefully. He ran his finger up and down the pistol grip again. There had to be an easier way of pacifying Mrs. Clinton.
“If you say so, lawman. But if you do, you’ll be the first.” With those comforting words, Peter walked out of the mostly empty schoolhouse. His store-bought boots clipped ominously on the wood.
Cal ran his tongue over the front of his teeth. He’d battled the Silverman gang for three years now. Surely, he could avoid one girl’s schemes long enough to solve the gang case.
A burst of red calico shot into the schoolhouse’s doors. “Uncle Zak sent me to tell you, Cal. Oh!” Ginny dropped into a church pew, panting for breath. “I thought Peter was still with you.”
“You just missed him.” He pointed to the door. “If you hurry, you’ll catch him.”
A completely unexpected blush rose in her cheeks. “No, I, well, I won’t, wouldn’t, I, mean, I can’t bother him.”
Was Ginny stuttering? He moved closer to the door. “What does the sheriff want?”
“Oh, nothing.” She quickly turned away.
He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said—”
Hand on the door, she twisted back. “Mrs. Clinton did mention the Temperance League, though. Tuesday night, and she insists you attend.”
“Even the Spanish Inquisition realized you can’t expect a man to willingly show up for torture.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. The small, red appendage slipped past white teeth a full finger’s width before she withdrew it. “Don’t throw your absolutely useless university learning at me. Uncle Zak said we have to keep lines of communication open with the Clintons, so you’ll be there.” With that, she flounced out of the room.
Groaning, Cal stooped to place the pew Bible back in the bench. This whole town was possessed. And Ginny obviously needed more to do if she had time to think up so many annoying schemes. He had a posse to gather and a gang to catch, and he was already wasting an evening on a ridiculous Temperance League.
Time to get some work done. The faster he caught the gang, the faster he was out of Gilman and back to Houston where people acted rational once in a blue moon.
7
Monday evening found the normal little crowd gathered around the tables and chairs outside the general store. Ginny watched Mr. Clinton reign as checkers king on the far left table while others dug spoons into Peter’s Monday special, iced raspberry cream.
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