“Uh…yeah,” Ginny said, mouth hanging open.
A woman wearing a black dress, her head topped by the brown hair of middle-age, sidled up beside her. “You know this Cal Westwood well?” Widow Sullivan asked.
Ginny groaned. “Too well.”
“You say too well. Why?”
Ginny slid a raspberry triangle next to an orange one and wonder of wonders, they actually fit.
“No, horrible color combination.” Cherry scooted the triangles out of her hand.
Obviously useless in this endeavor, Ginny sank back against a heavily wallpapered panel and turned her full attention to Widow Sullivan. “Because he’s ruining my casework.”
“Ruining?” The widow raised her carefully plucked eyebrows.
“I’m here today, aren’t I?” Ginny lifted her shoulders in a frustrated movement. “I should be at the office solving cases.”
Widow Sullivan, who seemed to be doing considerably less cutting or sewing than anyone else in the room, leaned closer. “You feel like he doesn’t want you to catch criminals?”
Ginny narrowed her eyes in a piercing stare. Never talk about sheriff business with civilians. That was the cardinal rule of law enforcement work. “Yes, I do.” She used a tone of finality to make the widow disappear in a cloud of dust, and then she turned to Cherry. Studying how Cherry’s white fingers flew, she tried to arrange the pieces into matching rows.
“Will Mrs. Clinton mind if I use this?” Cherry held a jelly lid up toward the still-present Widow Sullivan.
The woman took a sharp step back. “How would I know?”
Placing the lid down, Cherry straightened her curls. “Um, because she invited you to live with her.”
Ginny’s eyebrows went up. How had she missed that important fact?
Sending three quilting pieces flying onto the immaculately swept hardwood floor, Mrs. Clinton elbowed her way in. “Why, that’s much better. Good work, girls.”
Unfortunately, no thanks to herself. Ginny sighed. “Is Mr. Clinton feeling better?”
“Better?” Mrs. Clinton moved her chin.
“The black eye?”
“Oh yes, nasty bruise. Got it falling off a horse, he said. Now, I’ve known my mister since he was wearing knickers and never yet saw a horse that could throw him. I told him to go shoot that horse straight off because if the beast could give my man a black eye, the monster’s probably off killing other people in his spare time.”
Ginny drew the corners of her mouth in. Falling off a horse? A likely story. She needed to do some investigating. But first things first. She had a quilt to make, and a piano to play, because no way this side of the Missouri was she letting Cal Westwood get the satisfaction of seeing her fail.
~*~
Humming a cattle-rustling tune, Cal walked over to the general store to pick up a sandwich. This morning Ginny had thrust a tin pail of lunch into his hands, and he could not deny her toasted fish and wheat rolls smelled delicious. But one couldn’t always smell the toxins in food. A sandwich was safer. Besides, he needed to talk to Peter Foote since he was just about the only posse volunteer in the town of Gilman.
“Cal!” Cherry bounced out of an aisle.
He should have picked a different store. Did the saloon sell sandwiches? Then again, he’d have to deal with Mrs. Clinton if he entered the saloon. Cherry versus Mrs. Clinton—tough choice.
“I found just the shirt for you to wear to the Fourth of July picnic.” Cherry held up a lavender monstrosity with silver cuff links. “And only seven dollars.”
Seven dollars! He hadn’t even known they made men’s shirts in lavender. “I will not wear that.”
“But, Cal, you promised.” She dragged out “promised” in her most wheedling tone.
Maybe the men who’d ended up engaged to Cherry against their wills weren’t plain stupid. Maybe it was that girl.
She thrust the silky fabric into his hands. “You can go buy it right now. I think Peter might even be running a sale.”
“Look, Cherry. I really don’t think I can go with you.”
Her face drooped. “You mean you’re going with Ginny after all?”
He wanted to kick himself and almost did. He’d given his word, to Cherry, and more importantly to the sheriff, that he’d go with Ginny if he didn’t go with Cherry. Well…words could be broken.
“You promised if you didn’t take Ginny you’d take me. Now if you take Ginny, I accept that as a prior commitment. But if you refuse me just for the sake of refusing me, then you’ll have broken my heart for pleasure, and I’ll tell Mrs. Clinton that you’re a no-good scoundrel.”
Not Mrs. Clinton again. He took a deep breath. Flirt with death by poison or get engaged against his will. Death by poison and he’d end up in heaven. Engaged to Cherry and he’d end up in a house with that woman and ten children who all giggled like her for the rest of his life.
He’d go with Ginny.
“Well, are you?” Cherry repeated.
Gritting his teeth, he made his mouth speak the words. “Yes, I’m going with Ginny.”
~*~
An afternoon with Cherry. A first. Ginny knit her fingers together. For the chance to get piano help and avoid the embarrassment of playing chopsticks in church, spending time with Cherry had to be worth it. Right?
There was a rap on the door. Ginny moved to answer it.
“How are you?” Cherry skimmed through the doorway, pink dress flaring out around her legs. “First things first. Where’s that piano you were telling me about?”
Ginny led the way to the mahogany piece of finery.
“I brought a hymn book.” Cherry fished in her puffy handbag and plopped a blue book on the piano stand. “Try this one.”
Pages flipped with the ominous sound of creasing, and Cherry pointed to number one hundred and forty-four, “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.”
Was that first note a C or a G? Better question, where was the C key on the piano? Or the G? This seemed like a rather depressing song, all about the glories of heaven while here she was stuck on earth and saddled with the inglorious task of leading an entire congregation in “Chopsticks” for church worship.
Cherry scooted next to her on the bench. “Start here. Then the bottom hand does this.” Fingers scooting up and down the ivory keys, she pointed out notes in rapid succession.
Ginny’s jaw gaped. “How do you do that?”
“Not hard. Come on, you can do it.”
Fingers faltering, Ginny tried her best. Within the hour, the song sounded a little like the one in the hymn book.
Abandoning orchestra director duties, Cherry settled back on the davenport by the piano and leaned her chin on her hand. “Ginny.”
“Uh-huh.” She peered at the music in front of her and tried an F chord. No, that didn’t sound right.
“Do people in this town like me?”
Staring at the notes on the page, Ginny tried to make her fingers slide into the positions indicated. “What kind of people?”
“Men people.”
Abandoning the hymnbook, Ginny dropped her gaze to the floor. She gulped. “Well…”
“Go ahead. Say it.”
Taking another gulp of air, Ginny swiveled slowly on the bench. “They do see you as somewhat of a…flirt.”
Cherry scrunched her mouth up. “Because I talk to them?”
Head down, Ginny stared at the tips of her fingernails. “And sort of, well…push yourself on them.”
Cherry shrugged. “Men want to be in control all the time. Have you noticed that? When they like a girl, then anything is fair. They’ll knock on her door twenty times a day, no matter how she feels about them. But if a girl likes them, then they want her to stay quiet and not bother them. If a man can pester a girl to death, why shouldn’t she be allowed the same privilege?”
Ginny stopped studying her fingernails and squirmed back on the bench. “I guess it is a somewhat lopsided system.”
“Somewhat? Have you ever noted the pr
ogression of a relationship? First, the man asks the girl out. Then, the man tells the girl he loves her. Next, the man asks the girl’s parents for permission to marry her. And then the man proposes. Do you see something wrong with this picture?”
The dining room clock ticked its pendulum back and forth, offering no way out of this conversation. Ginny rubbed her hand across her forehead where sweat gathered. Cherry had a point. Why, she’d liked Peter Foote for at least a year now, and what had she done about it? One big, fat nothing.
Slowly, Ginny ran her tongue across her lips. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”
“Exactly. Nobody does. And the only way we womenfolk can take back any power in the equation is by flirting. Don’t you see? It’s the culturally acceptable way to right the system.”
“I don’t really flirt.”
“Don’t or won’t? It’s quite simple, really. The first thing to remember is that men are irresistibly drawn to women. Now, some may deny it, but when it comes right down to it, men need women and they know it. Their strategy is to deny it and try to make women desperate enough for a man so they’ll put up with courtship rituals for the slight chance of getting one. But the truth is, if every woman in the world refused every man right now, the men would get desperate before the women.”
Ginny thought of batting her eyelashes at Cal Westwood and begging to be back on the gang case. A large knot formed in her stomach. “If Colorado passed women’s suffrage like Wyoming did, that would solve the problem.” And be a heap of a lot easier.
“Solve the problem?” Cherry cleared her throat with a touch of scorn. “Hardly. Fighting for the vote would merely alert men we’re aware of the power imbalance. Give me a man, and with a few flirtatious gestures, I’ll have him in line before you can even call a vote. Subterfuge is the way to get what you want.”
Ginny thought of the ice box. “Do you want a piece of pie?”
“Sure. Just remember, the key thing in flirting is to remind men of their need for us.”
Ginny’s boots clicked as she walked toward the kitchen. Halfway there, she stopped and turned back to Cherry. If she could remind Cal Westwood how much he needed a native guide on this gang case, maybe he’d stop corrupting Uncle Zak’s mind against her. “How?”
“Feminine wiles, beautiful dresses, secret rendezvous, passionate kisses, the list continues.”
“Rendezvous? That sounds so…scandalous.” Ginny frowned. She’d been thinking more along the lines of a round of target practice. Perhaps thrashing Cal soundly in his own territory would show him what an excellent asset she was.
“Scandalous is exactly what you want. I met a man behind the jams and jellies aisle in Peter Foote’s store one day. The strawberry smell lent a certain risqué atmosphere to the morning.”
Jams and jellies, Ginny sighed. Some peace officer she was. She hadn’t even solved the preserves case yet, let alone rounded up and shot the gang. “Didn’t notice anyone stealing plum preserves when you were there, did you?”
Cherry drummed the arms of the davenport. “The preserve jars at Peter’s, hmm. Didn’t he recently start stocking ones with a funny crown shape on the top?”
“Uh…” Ginny tried to picture a preserve jar lid. Even the ones in her own pantry didn’t readily come to mind.
“I think I saw the same kind of lid in Mrs. Clinton’s china cupboard this morning.”
Ginny clutched the doorframe molding. “I always suspected her.” Her hand slipped back down, as she slumped her shoulders. “Maybe she bought it.”
“You know Mrs. Clinton. She’s had a boycott on Peter’s store ever since he first started shelving alcohol there nine months ago.”
“She does? What does she do for fabric…or food?”
“I think she buys from the mine store up by Mr. Clinton’s office.” Cherry straightened one of her curls. “Anyway, she wouldn’t have bought that jar lid.”
Wind flapped through the cotton window draperies as Ginny drummed the molding. “But would she have stolen it? A boycott doesn’t exactly outlaw stealing, I guess.”
“Naw.” Cherry dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “Mrs. Clinton is much too pompous to steal. What about Widow Sullivan? She had a strange reaction when I showed her that lid, and she’s been living at the Clintons’ house.”
Widow Sullivan? Now why hadn’t she thought of that? She definitely had some investigating to do. Striking her most intimidating pose, Ginny looked down at Cherry. “Don’t tell anyone about our conversation today. This is official sheriff business.”
Cherry primped another black curl. “Oh, of course not. Go and catch the crooks. And let me know if you need any more help. I’d really best be going now.”
On Cherry’s way out, Ginny pressed a cherry pie into her hand. “Thank you for the piano help.”
“Certainly, I’ll be back tomorrow.” Pulling her lace gloves back on, Cherry took the pie. “I really should hate you, though. Not only do you have that impressive sheriff secretary job, Cal’s interested in you. And you went and agreed to go with him to the Fourth of July picnic even when you knew I wanted him.”
“Cal is not interested in–” Ginny jerked back. “Wait! Fourth of July picnic? I’ll never go with him.”
“Now don’t get flustered.” Cherry patted Ginny’s shoulder with her lace glove. “I’ll find someone else. It is kind of cute, the sheriff’s niece sparking with the next sheriff of Gilman. You’d make a really sweet pair, you know.”
“We are not—”
“If you need any tips for catching a man, I’m more than happy to help.” Cherry tucked the pie under her arm.
“I do not want to catch Cal Westwood.” Well, maybe in a large net barbed with poisoned darts. Or in a jail cell. If he’d lied about his hometown, who knew what other illegal activity he’d lied about?
“Sure you do. Have a great day, dear.” With a flutter of her gloved hand, Cherry sailed out the door.
~*~
Five thirty on the dot and Cal walked into the Thompson home. He’d had a long week at work, but he still hadn’t made any progress on the gang case. Maybe tonight he’d think of something.
A delightful aroma wafted through the doorway to his right. He sniffed. Fresh bread. And was that sausage? He stepped inside.
Clamping an iron frying pan down on the stove, Ginny rattled dishes throughout the kitchen. “You told Cherry that you were going to the Fourth of July dance with me.”
After a moment of thought, he reached over her for the bread basket. With the direction this conversation headed, it didn’t seem likely he’d be invited to partake of dinner.
“You told her that I’d go with you.”
“Only because you poisoned me, and while I was staggering down the street, severely lacking in brain function, I got into a situation. So you better pay up. Not that going with a back-stabber like you is much better than going with Cherry.” This bread tasted really good.
Unfortunately, a moment later, she snatched the particularly crusty and succulent loaf out of his hands. “I’m absolutely not going with you.”
Her beautifully curved waist was about hand level. Not that he’d slide his hand around it. Even though her red lips pursed and her brown hair, damp from the sweat of the kitchen range, frizzed adorably around her moist forehead, he’d never consider pressing his lips to hers.
“You need to untell Cherry immediately, before half the town thinks we’re sparking.” Ginny’s voice jarred his thoughts.
“You promised to do something with me.”
“I did not.” A pot on the stove began to bubble, jiggling its lid. Ginny grabbed for it.
Her back was turned, so he returned to the bread basket. The soft, buttery rolls melted between his fingers. “Remember that discussion a couple weeks back about showing me around the town.”
Her chin went up. Abandoning the pot, which now bubbled so furiously it looked like it might fly off the stove at any moment, she brought her arms across her c
hest. “Fine. I shall perform my promise, but not on the Fourth of July.”
He bit into the buttery roll and his stomach growled for something more substantial. Perhaps he’d save this argument for after dinner.
9
Saturday morning—the one morning given to man to rest, yet Cal woke to pounding on the shuttered door of the backroom.
“I don’t have all day.” Ginny’s voice penetrated the individual shutters.
“Did something happen?” he called through the door as he grabbed for his trousers. Gang information maybe? There was no answer, only the sound of Ginny’s tapping foot on the slatted floor outside. Seizing up last night’s shirt, he slipped it on and began the furious task of buttoning with sleep-numbed fingers.
Her irritated voice barged through the shutters again. “Do you always get dressed at the rate of an elderly widow invited to a funeral, or are you just being ornery?”
Digging his feet into his boots, he snapped open the door. His gaze ran up and down the apparition that confronted him. She looked…peculiar. Ink stained the filthy brown dress she wore, and the straw hat clamped down on her hair appeared to have been made for a horse’s head, or maybe an elephant’s. Five sunflowers, withered almost past the point of recognition, topped the hat.
He blinked, but the apparition stayed very solid and un-dreamlike. “Why are you here at this hour?” Outside, the sun had barely crested the horizon.
“To fulfill my promise.”
“Promise?” He noticed her shoes. The green crocheted adornments topped with mounds of fluffy white yarn that encased her feet were…well, unspeakable.
“I promised to show you the town, and show it to you I will.”
He edged a step back from the green footwear. They looked ready to come to life in some horrible nightmare. “Just go to the Fourth of July picnic with me. That will fulfill your promise.” Despite himself, his gaze riveted to the footwear. “Who knitted those things? An insane aunt?”
Ginny snorted. “If I had an aunt, she’d be the very picture of health. Can you hurry up now?”
Squinting in the morning light, he cocked his head to get a better look at her. He could refuse to go. But he’d already gotten dressed, and maybe if he conceded to this new bit of Ginny insanity, she’d go to the Fourth of July picnic with him.
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