Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Something soft and slippery pressed against Cal’s ear. He jumped three inches off the bench.

  Cherry leaned forward to press her lips to his ear. “I would have volunteered, you know,” she whispered. “But I didn’t want to ruin you being sweet on me and all with accountability.”

  Pulling up the collar of his shirt to wipe off saliva, he stood. “Why do you think I’m interested in you?” He tried to control his voice as he waited for his inner ear to dry out.

  “Because Ginny told me, of course.” Cherry fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You can’t keep a secret in this town.”

  Ginny! He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Enough was enough. No, the limits of enough had been crossed about three weeks ago. This now breached even the Constitution. Cruel and unusual punishment, anyone?

  High time he took control of the situation. If Ginny intended on using her free time to beleaguer him, then he’d just make sure she didn’t have any.

  “Cal Westwood,” Mrs. Clinton said in a voice that sounded as if she’d already tried his name a couple times.

  He lifted his gaze.

  “You have completed your homework, we hope.”

  A frown crossed his face. Homework? “You didn’t give me homework.” Not that he remembered anyway. Surely any kind of homework Mrs. Clinton had invented would be scarring enough to remain seared in his memory.

  “I sent it home with Sheriff Thompson after church on Sunday. I cannot believe he forgot to give it to you.”

  Inwardly, Cal blessed the sheriff.

  “You shall get it from Sheriff Thompson immediately after the close of our meeting tonight and have the packet complete and ready to be presented by next week’s meeting.”

  Not happening. Sitting down, hands spread flat on the desk, he took a moment to suppress his self-respect. Then, he raised his hand.

  After staring suspiciously for a full minute, Mrs. Clinton clanged her gavel against the gong. “The chair will now recognize, Calvin Westwood. You may take the floor, Mr. Westwood.”

  “Why chair? You’re not even sitting on a chair. You’re at the podium.” Miss Lilac tittered above the crowd in a throaty voice.

  Ignoring her, Cal moved to the center aisle. “I have a suggestion for the Temperance League that will aid their noble work in this town.”

  A frown pressed Mrs. Clinton’s large lips together. “Yes?”

  “I’ve noticed that Gilman does not have an Orphan Aid Society. In all of the townsin Texas, where I am from, the upstanding women of the town give considerable effort to—”

  “Texas.” Mrs. Clinton snorted. “Texas is a debauched state. Why just last year my cousin—”

  He didn’t wait for the rest of the story, and though it tasted worse than Temperance League drink going down, he swallowed his pride in his home state. The only way to fight fire was with fire and to defeat someone as deranged as Ginny Thompson mandated a scorched earth policy. “You make an excellent point about Texas, Mrs. Clinton. Such a large state with its violence, scandal, and reprobates cannot live up to the stellar reputation you ladies have worked so hard to build in the town of Gilman.”

  Various gray heads, including Mrs. Clinton’s, nodded approvingly.

  “Yet, even Texas supports its orphans. Indeed, the church ladies there spend considerable time equipping their Orphan Aid Society.”

  “Oh.” A look of importance spread over Mrs. Clinton’s face. Even now, he could see her crafting her first speech for a Gilman’s Orphan Aid Society.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he continued. “They knit blankets, sew quilts, can food, craft children’s toys—”

  Miss Lilac coughed into a bit of lace. “But Mr. Westwood, we don’t have any orphans in Gilman.” Her voice quavered and her blue eyes widened with the solemnity of her statement.

  His eyes rolled halfway up before he exercised the self-control to stop them. Gilman also didn’t have more than one drunk worth speaking of, but that didn’t stop them from having a Temperance League.

  With the appearance of a deflated balloon, Mrs. Clinton sank back. “Miss Lilac is correct, Mr. Westwood.”

  He could almost hear her tacking on an “unfortunately.” He wasn’t about to give up yet. “But what is the town of Gilman if not prepared to help in any circumstance? What would you do if an orphan arrived? Just imagine the feelings of that bedraggled child as he plods into the town of Gilman, torn rags dripping sewage water, his stomach shriveled, hungry eyes.”

  Every head in the place turned to Cal. He let his voice sink and rise, projecting up to the rafters as he played the emotional atmosphere of the room.

  “The child knocks on the schoolhouse door, hoping against hope for some ray of light to strike his withered life.” He paused. Dramatic silence hung over the room like the gray gauze the Temperance League had strung for the last meeting. “Instead of hope, the child is greeted with cold reality. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t help orphans in this town,’ the schoolmarm says and the child plods away into the wilderness of the mountains…to die.”

  Miss Lilac bawled fountains into her lace handkerchief. “That’s such…a sad story!”

  Beside him, sobbing hiccups wracked Cherry’s slender rib cage. “Can I b-borrow your handkerchief, Mr. Westwood?”

  Still standing, he produced faded yellow cotton out of his pocket as he watched the range of emotions moving across Mrs. Clinton’s face.

  She hit her gavel against the gong. “I think we can all agree that Mr. Westwood has made a heartfelt point and saved many innocent children from horrible deaths. Ladies, we will begin work on an Orphan Aid Society tomorrow morning at sunrise in this building.” Mrs. Clinton’s voice held the gravity of a tomb digger as she emphasized each word with chief-magistrate style greatness. “I believe we shall start with a quilt.”

  But Cal didn’t sit down; he wasn’t done yet. “As I am sure you are aware, every great project needs a leader capable of channeling that greatness.”

  Mrs. Clinton smiled and nodded. “I know.”

  “And delegate leaders to form the foundations of each facet of the project.”

  Mrs. Clinton’s smile faded a bit, but she still nodded.

  “I would like to nominate Miss Virginia Thompson to lead the quilting endeavor. Her fame with a needle has surely reached beyond the walls of the Thompson home. Additionally, her care and compassion for strangers,” he stared right at Ginny for this part, “is known to be unparalleled.”

  If you were comparing her care and compassion with that found in jails. Actually, he took that back. Even in federal penitentiaries, inmates didn’t usually poison each other. They preferred a clean skull-bashing.

  “What about the school children?” Miss Lilac squeaked. “Don’t they need to learn things tomorrow?”

  Mrs. Clinton dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “Saving children’s lives is more important than educating children.”

  A woman in the back bounced out of her seat. “My daughter works her fingers to the bones to teach the children of this town! If you knew half the ignorance, discipline problems, and prejudice she tolerates to teach the spoiled children of this ungrateful town.”

  Mrs. Clinton straightened her back. “Your daughter gets paid handsomely for her efforts. If it wasn’t for my husband’s generous donations, this town wouldn’t have a schoolhouse. So I scarcely think it a crime if for one morning we use the building to help orphans.”

  “The reverend’s coming to teach Greek tomorrow morning,” Miss Lilac said. “It wouldn’t do to upset him.”

  A frown emerged on Mrs. Clinton’s lips. She exhaled a much-put-upon sigh. “All right. We will meet at my house. But it’s still at sunrise and only because of the reverend.” She gave the schoolmarm’s mother an accusing stare.

  The woman sniffed. “If you really wanted to help the reverend, you’d find someone to play piano for church.”

  Miss Lilac turned a defensive shade of red. “I play piano.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, but you know how your hay fever worsens in the summer months. The reverend said after church last Sunday that we’ll all be singing a cappella by the end of the month if he doesn’t get a volunteer soon.”

  Miss Lilac twisted around in her seat, scrunching the black silk of her dress. “That’s right. I forgot. I swear, I don’t know what’s going on with my memory these days. Maybe my hay fever won’t be so bad this year. I do so hate to let the reverend down.”

  A perfect opportunity. Cal rested his hands on his belt. “I know someone who would love to play in church for you.”

  Miss Lilac clacked her dentures together. “Who?”

  “Ginny Thompson, trained professionally by Mrs. Clinton herself.”

  A blush came to Mrs. Clinton’s powdered cheeks. “I just paid for the lessons, never learned to play myself.” She looked at Ginny with a broad smile. “Sounds wonderful. I will finally hear that melodic harmony I ensured you were taught. We’ll pick hymns tomorrow while you’re organizing the quilting.”

  Ginny squirmed in the hardback desk. Choruses of angels or perhaps a bell choir should have accompanied the sight.

  Sitting back on the bench, Cal basked in the glow of the glorious vision.

  “I never really agreed to quilt or to—” Ginny began, still twisting about on her seat.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Clinton straightened. “You’ll be there at sunrise sharp. Meeting adjourned.” She even forgot to hit her gavel, and she entirely neglected the closing anthem.

  A peaceful smile spread across Cal’s face. Every life needed a perfect day.

  He made for the door.

  The dismayed look in Ginny’s green eyes sent heavenly thrills of joy through his heart. He’d hoped for a glare, but, apparently, she was too soundly defeated.

  The schoolhouse door creaked as he exited. Just as his foot landed on patchy Colorado grass, Cherry caught him.

  All right. So maybe not a perfect day, but close.

  “I was thinking about the Fourth of July picnic.” Her voice had a bubbly quality, like pink lemonade puffed out of a steam engine’s boiler.

  He tapped his holster. Twelve seconds without a sound would mean he could politely leave, right?

  “I think we should match. What are you wearing?”

  He gave her a wary glance. “Um…brown shirt probably. Maybe tan.”

  Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “No, I don’t care for brown and tan, completely fades my complexion.” She paused to tap one finger on her ruby lips. “How about lavender? I saw the loveliest piece of lavender fabric at Peter Foote’s store, and two weeks would just give me time to make up the most darling dress.”

  He stared at her.

  “Why thank you! Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Mind what?” Surely, she couldn’t expect that any many would wear lavender.

  “Wearing lavender. I do look beautiful in lavender, and it’s so kind of you to humor me. I just adore you already.” Without warning, she leaned up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’d better get sewing.”

  He watched her rapidly disappearing back. Did she think he had just agreed to wear lavender to the Fourth of July? Because he might have to take the crazy girl to the picnic to please Mrs. Clinton’s blasted notions, but there was no way in Texas that he would ever wear lavender.

  A bountiful skirt ploughed into him and Mrs. Clinton’s plump face appeared at shoulder height. “You make that girl happy, hear me? If you start breaking hearts in my town, I swear I’ll have my husband run you out of Gilman.” She rolled her r.

  As she turned and marched away, Cal swallowed hard. Mrs. Clinton probably could run him out of town, or at least ban him from the mine and make him utterly useless to the gang case.

  A Texas Ranger would give his last drop of blood to catch a criminal. Would he wear lavender?

  A white hand contrasted by a black cuff plucked his sleeve. “I enjoyed your speech immensely I’ll have you know,” a quiet voice said.

  “Why, Widow Sullivan. Didn’t see you there.” His hands instinctively slid closer to his holsters. People shouldn’t sneak up behind lawmen.

  “The orphans and the starving children. That was so…shall we say sincere?”

  Through the darkness, he tried to make out her face. He couldn’t quite read it.

  “Tell me, have you often swindled a crowd before?”

  He pulled back a step. “I didn’t swindle The Temperance League.”

  The widow parted her lips, revealing pearly teeth. “No use turning red. I read the article in the Moobeetie paper. Don’t worry, your work this night is safe with me.” With that, Widow Sullivan turned on her black heel and disappeared into the darkness.

  He shrugged and started down the dusty streets to the boarding house. Just past the sheriff’s office, he halted mid-step. He had promised Sheriff Thompson he’d stay the night again. With a groan, he made an about-face.

  Maybe Silas had it right sleeping in the jail. At least in jail there were solid bars to keep out lavender-wearing flirts and their frustratingly essential henchmen.

  8

  The squares, triangles, and octagons swam before Ginny’s eyes, mocking her with their vivid paisleys and ginghams. Mentally, she planned the update in her brown notebook. Points for Cal, one for getting her off the case, one for worming his way into her house, twenty-five hundred for sticking her with this horrendous sewing project. She didn’t sew; she baked. And quilt? Why cut up fabric into smaller pieces just to sew them back together in larger pieces?

  Stabbing a pin into a slithering bit of gingham, she opened her mouth. “Why don’t we just make a crazy quilt?”

  Mrs. Clinton’s voice rose above the noise of clacking scissors made by the throng of women crowded around her dining room table. “These are orphans who have not had proper training or instruction. We will not corrupt their minds further with non-regular quilt patterns.”

  Miss Lilac adjusted her spectacles. “I had an aunt once who sewed crazy quilts. Hers were lovely, and my mother used to display them”

  “No one cares what your aunt did. These are orphans we’re talking about.” Mrs. Clinton stared severely at the woman, who pulled down her spectacles further on her nose and clacked her scissors.

  The schoolmarm’s mother dumped another pile of quilting pieces on the table in front of Ginny. She stared hopelessly at the field of color covering the mahogany table. There were hours left until noon and she already had a headache. With one finger, she pushed a paisley square toward a red octagon. Did these pieces even fit together?

  Her gaze shifted to the front door, an over-polished red affair with silver-painted trim. When she said she’d investigate the Clintons’ house, this had not been what she had in mind. Why wasn’t she in the sheriff’s office working on the gang case?

  “The squares must lie flat, Ginny.” Mrs. Clinton announced the words as if speaking to a large parade. “Here is the list of hymns for the Sunday after the Fourth of July. I chose four, just like every worship service should have. Once, the day my first son turned ten, they played five hymns instead. It might not have been sacrilegious, but it was close.”

  Piano. Ginny’s heart sank. She had almost erased the disastrous memory of Cal volunteering her for piano duty before the woman brought it up again. How did she tell Mrs. Clinton that she’d completely wasted two years’ worth of piano lesson money? Mrs. Clinton could have been helping some orphan, letting the sallow-cheeked, linsey-woolsey-clothed thing revel in the joy of music rather than wasting her money on such an ungrateful wretch as Ginny Thompson.

  “Hey Ginny, you need some help?” Cherry scooted up to her elbow and began rearranging scraps of cloth. In seconds, a perfect patchwork square emerged.

  Ginny’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”

  “Auntie Lilac taught me after Mother died.”

  Ginny shook her head in amazement. “You don’t know how to play the piano, do you?”

  “Why sure I do. You don�
�t think Auntie would miss teaching me that, do you?” Cherry giggled. “Oh, and we need a can lid or something to trace the curves for the appliqués.”

  With effort, Ginny suppressed the violently disturbing image of sewing appliqués as well as quilt squares and focused on the task at hand. “Would you…I mean, if you don’t mind, would you teach me…” She felt her tongue going dry as she struggled to end the sentence.

  “Help you polish up for that piano playing in church? Of course.” Cherry patted Ginny’s shoulder. “I thought it was awful brave of you to agree to it all the sudden like that. I fainted the first time I did a public performance, right there in the middle of the schoolhouse when I was just seven years old, remember? But I lived it down fine afterward. So don’t you worry a bit. I’ll get you all practiced up and in no time, you’ll be pounding out those hymns like an expert.”

  Ginny felt like embracing the girl. “If you really don’t mind…”

  “Mind? Of course not. What are friends for? Now, you do have a piano, right? Because I can just run over to your house after quilting today. Maybe two-thirty?”

  Mouth frozen in wordless awe, Ginny nodded.

  Laying down the quilt pieces, Cherry swung open the door of a massive china cupboard behind her. “Maybe there are lids in here. Is Cal still staying at your place, by the way?”

  “Yes.” Thanks to Uncle Zak’s persistence and the personal vendetta that fate had against her.

  “He’s done with work at about five thirty, right?”

  Ginny nodded skeptically.

  “Not to worry. This afternoon is about you and piano practice. I’ll probably toddle off home at four thirty to help Auntie with the Tuesday baking. She’s still spry, but she leaves the oven fire burning after she’s done. Quite dangerous, you know.”

  Still blinking, Ginny watched as Cherry rummaged fearlessly through the glasses and cans in Mrs. Clinton’s china cabinet while stringing sentences together like Christmas popcorn.

  “Anyway, don’t want you thinking I’m just helping you with piano to see Cal. You’re a good friend, and a man should never get between girlfriends, right?” Cherry almost dropped an empty canning jar but managed to catch it in her left hand.