They walked along the dusty trail from the Thompson house to the main town. Her slippers made a flapping noise as they brushed against pebbles and cactus roots. Somewhere in the distance, a blue bird chirped.
“That’s the schoolhouse and the church.” She pointed toward the all-too-familiar white-washed building.
“I know that.” He took a longer stride to keep up with her scurrying pace.
“Hush up. I’m showing you the town.” She reached for his arm. Her slim fingers touched his forearm. “Hurry up and…” She was right by his side. So very close. Her hand went limp as her words trailed off. Her breathing came faster, her face flushing.
“No, I believe when a lady tires on a stroll and wants a man’s arm, it goes like this.” He moved his hand over hers. He was only doing it to watch her vehement denial, not because he liked the feel of her small fingers intertwined with his.
He looked down and met her green-eyed gaze. Her fingers on his arm were rigid and she looked as skittish as a deer in the hunt. “I’m not tired, thank you.”
“You’re the one that took my arm.”
“I wasn’t…” She ran her tongue over her lips. Her gaze shifted left and then right in an uncomfortable arc. All at once, she jumped.
He followed the line of her sight. The only thing over there was the shabby storefront of the general store and Peter sweeping. No customers had arrived yet—probably because other people in this town had the sense to stay in bed past the crack of dawn on a Saturday.
Peter raised his hand in greeting.
“That is Miss Lilac’s house.” Ginny said in a rush. With her free hand, she pointed to a front yard enclosed by a picket fence with flowering vines weaving tendrils in and out of the white posts. “Now, quick down this street.”
“Why?”
“Um. We talked about doing a little target practice down by the creek. You have your revolvers?”
“Always.”
“Good.” Dropping his arm, she flew past the house. He didn’t catch her until several hundred yards further on where the outskirts of the town turned into evergreen trees.
Leaning against the closest one, her chest heaved with short breaths. “I never should have worn these shoes.”.
He touched the bark of the tree as he leaned against the other side. “No one should wear those shoes. They’re hideous.”
Turning to him, she furrowed her forehead. “Do you suppose people notice shoes when they look at one?”
He stared blankly at her.
“Never mind.” She wiped her hands on her skirt front, making sap stains across the dirty fabric. Paying no attention to him, she muttered on. “And this dress, it’s awful, too. Why didn’t I think of that before going to town?”
Wind blew through the trees that blocked the view of town. Cal cocked his head. “Ginny, are you all right?”
~*~
“Yes.” With a deep breath, Ginny composed herself. True, Peter Foote had seen her in the most unflattering garb she owned, but once they were married he’d see her in many disheveled moments, so he might as well become accustomed to it.
Smoothing her skirts, Ginny turned to Cal. “If you will select a target, I’m ready to begin. Oh, and I need to borrow a revolver. Petticoats, unfortunately, do not accommodate a holster with ease.”
“You want to have a shooting match?”
“Yes.” She’d finally make up for her atrocious showing on the stallion. Riding an animal might give one some perfunctory advantage in catching outlaws, but marksmanship was the key to making an expert sheriff.
She’d best him here and then see how smug he was. She’d been practicing since she wore short skirts, and not even Uncle Zak could beat her aim.
“How about that aspen?” He pointed to a tree perhaps fifteen yards away.
She scoffed. “What do you think I am—an amateur?”
His mouth pressed together skeptically. “All right, then. See the old bird’s nest on the lowest branch of the pine on the hill?”
If she squinted, she could barely see it. It must have been at least fifty yards.
“Closest shot to it wins.”
“What if the shot lodges in the dirt?” She dug the shoe of her boot into the aforementioned substance.
“Then you don’t win.”
He spoke so confidently. She’d aim for the tree girth. That was difficult enough of a shot at this distance. Then she’d at least be able to find her bullet and prove her success.
Her fingers wrapped around the grip as she held the revolver up, barrel at eye level. Holding the weapon steady, she slowly squeezed in the trigger.
Bang! The revolver recoiled with the .45 caliber shot. She couldn’t see the bullet mark from here, but it felt like a good shot.
The pine needles crunched under her feet as she crossed down to the creek that fed into the Eagle River and then back up the uneven forest floor to the pine tree.
Standing at the base of the tree, she examined the rough bark. “Ha!” Here was her bullet, not in the trunk but wedged in the base of the branch where the bird’s nest sat. She smiled to herself. Even with a lucky shot, he’d never beat that.
She whipped out a pocket knife and marked her bullet with a notch and crossed back to Cal. “Your turn.”
Cal slid his gun out of the holster and knelt on the forest floor. Elbow on his knee, he leaned forward with the action. His right hand clasped over his left on the pistol butt. His breath stopped as he slid his finger over the trigger.
The shot rang out.
This time they both crossed the space together.
Her fingers explored the rough bark again. He looked up higher on the branch and the splintered twigs of the nest.
“Don’t feel bad. It was a hard shot.” Her tone was only mildly patronizing. She smiled as she looked at her perfect bullet still lodged in the tree.
Cal kept up the fruitless endeavor of searching the tree branches. His bullet was probably lodged in the ground somewhere yards away.
“Here.” He turned to her and pointed.
Her shooting arm fell, revolver hanging down like dead weight. A crisp bullet hole split the lowest part of the nest, leaving a tunnel-shaped exit hole. “You hit the mark.” Her jaw sagged with the statement.
Cal smirked. “We train well in Texas.”
The sunlight filtering down from overhead should have turned to gloom and rain at the words. “You won.” The words tasted like month-old milk in her mouth.
“I am a law enforcement professional.”
Leaning back against the sap-stained pine bark, she just looked at him. All six feet of defined muscles, Texan swagger, and now marksmanship abilities? Sweat formed on his chest, making his skin glisten underneath his partially unbuttoned shirt. His fingers just touched the revolver that hung at his hip, and he still smiled from the shooting victory. Gilman would wait in line to vote for this man. It wasn’t fair.
She slipped down to the needle-covered ground. Tucking her legs up under her, she stared glumly at the gurgling creek below.
Cal walked over and sat down next to her. His legs stretched out over the pine needles, large boots making impressions on the ground.
Her gaze sank to her crocheted slippers. Gilman would probably vote for him based on footwear alone. This was a disaster.
He moved closer to her. A bird chirped from the branches above as the sun cast weird shadows through the trees. “Miss Thompson.”
“Uh-huh.” Chin in her hands, she stared at the creek below as the water swirled, bubbling joyfully over rocks with no regard for today’s miserable events.
“You look beautiful.”
Her chin snapped up. His gaze was on her. He moved his hand over top of hers to rest on her knee.
Not only had she just lost perhaps the most important shooting match of her life thus far, she was alone in the forest with a young man. The Temperance League would be scandalized. She scooted up straighter against the tree and pulled her hand and knee to herself
.
“Shakespeare said in the famed lover’s tragedy, Romeo and Juliet, parting is such sweet sorrow.” He paused.
“What? We’re sitting next to each other. That makes no sense.”
“I forgot all the romantic Shakespeare lines.” Then he tacked on, “Your eyes look like emeralds cast down from the sky.”
“What?” She blinked.
He moved closer to her and reached over to brush a stray wisp of hair from her face. “I mean your skin is creamy as fresh milk. Your lips could make the loveliest of eastern belles envy.”
Her jaw dropped as she scooted several inches away. “Are you in love with me?”
Hands dropping, he sagged back against the tree trunk. “Of course not. You poisoned me. I’m just trying to get you to go to the picnic with me.”
“I will never go with you to that picnic. And yes, I did accidentally intoxicate you while trying to cure your headache, and I’m glad I did. You have no respect for the valuable contributions I bring to the sheriff’s office. You took me off the gang case. I bet you wouldn’t have done the same to a male secretary.”
Gaze still aimed heavenward, he groaned. “If you want to be respected like a man, fight like a man. Not this backbiting, dagger between the ribs, conniving business.”
“Did you just label my entire gender as capricious and scheming?”
“You’re the one that intoxicated me.” He sat straighter and looked at her.
His holster touched the pine needle covered earth. She eyed the embossed leather. “I’m not going with you.”
“I’ll buy you a dress or something to replace that filthy rag.”
“I cannot be bribed, Mr. Westwood.” Though if he switched his offer from a dress to a revolver, she’d be tempted.
He sat stolidly against the tree. She stood up. “Excursion over. I’m going home.”
With a groan and a mutter about how he wished he was ungentlemanly enough to let her walk home alone, Cal stood.
“This direction.” Ginny led the way down to the water. “We’ll follow the creek bed and wind around north.”
In a stride, he caught up. “That way will take twice as long. We’re going back through town.”
“No!” She glanced down at her dress. Sitting had only stained it more, and her left slipper was unraveling.
“You never even showed me the general store,” he said, as if to coax her.
“I don’t care.” She placed one foot on the first stepping stone.
“You promised to show me the town. Unless, of course, you’d rather just go to the Fourth of July picnic with me.”
She twirled around on one foot. He looked calculatingly at her. Why had she made such an inane promise? For a moment, she wondered if going to the picnic with him might be less dreadful than Peter seeing her in this get up. What would Peter think if she went with Cal?
She gritted her teeth and fell into martyr-like doom. “I’ll show you the store.” Brushing the remaining pine needles off her dress, she crossed the creek and marched up the hill.
As they emerged from the tree line onto the Gilman town clearing, she stared straight ahead, chin in the air. They reached the main street and the general store loomed ahead. She shivered.
Cal held back. “You really want to be seen in town looking such a wreck? You could just go with me on the Fourth of July.”
“Stop talking.” With the air of a general, she marched over to the open door. Peter stood out front washing the glass window. “This is our general store. Your tour is now over.” She looked ready to turn and flee.
Cal’s boots kicked up dust as he moved in front of her. “No, let me buy you an ice cream. I insist. Spirit of town friendliness.”
“I just want to go home,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
He leaned in to her ear. “If it’s that outlandish outfit you’re worried about, we could just go to the Fourth of July picnic.”
“Shh!” She pulled away just as Peter approached.
~*~
“Good morning, Peter.” Cal nodded. “Your drugstore counter open?”
The man’s eyebrows came up. “I guess I can dig the stuff out. Isn’t it early though for ice cream?”
“Sounds great.” Cal hustled Ginny into the store.
“What do you want?” Peter asked as he donned a white butcher’s apron and moved behind the counter. Holding up a carton of bottled fruit extracts in one hand, he set an ice cream churn on the counter with his other.
Cal captured the bottles from his hand. “I’ll make it.” He yanked a glass out of the high cabinets behind the counter. “Like raspberry-cinnamon ice cream?”
The sun coming in from the open door gave him a full-on glance of the red bubbling liquid with strange brown streaks as she said, “No.”
Twisting off the cap, he poured the stuff into a bowl. He twisted toward Peter. “Where’s your ice cream?”
Peter stooped down and dug around in an ice box until he produced a tin container. “I really wouldn’t suggest that combination though.”
Jerking the lid off the tin, Cal plunged a scoop in. Three sloppy scoops of ice cream splashed into the bowl. Grabbing an egg beater out of a drawer of other utensils, he gave the concoction one jerky slosh and then set the raspberry-cinnamon pool down in front of her.
Instead of staring disdainfully at it, she eyed Peter.
Peter set a pail of soapy water on the counter and glanced back at her with curiosity. His gaze moved from the sagging straw hat to the ink stains, all the way down to Ginny’s green slippers. He coughed. “The two of you are out and about early this morning.”
Ginny winced. “Yes. Sorry to bother you so early, Peter.”
“No bother. I was actually going to look for you today.”
Her gaze sailed up. Cal blinked. Did she just suck in her breath, or did he imagine it? Leaning forward over the counter and the glass of cinnamon slop, Cal watched.
“You were?” Ginny tried to brush back the hair that escaped the hat and now dangled over her face. Honestly, she attempted a thankless endeavor. Her hair looked darling all windswept like that.
“Yes.” Peter smiled at her.
Frowning, Cal seized up the glass in front of him and chugged a swallow. He gasped to stop himself from spitting, but neither Ginny nor Peter seemed to notice.
“Why?” Her eyelashes did strange, feminine things as she pressed against the counter.
Taking up the soap pail, Peter carefully dunked a rag into it. For some irrational reason, Cal felt another frown coming.
“I wondered if you’d go to the Fourth of July picnic with me.” Peter gave the rag a swish.
No! Cal’s hands left the counter as he jerked upright. He needed Ginny to avoid Mrs. Clinton and Cherry’s machinations.
“I’d love to.” Ginny’s voice quavered as she said it. Behind her back, she pressed her wet hands against the ink-stained dress until the whites of her knuckles showed.
Peter extracted the rag and wiped up ice cream residue on his counter. “Shall I pick you up at three that afternoon?”
Before Ginny’s eager nod had time to get halfway to her chin, Cal pushed between Peter and the counter. “That won’t work.”
Both Peter and Ginny’s heads swiveled. With a cough, he tried to block out the awkwardness of their stares. “I mean, Peter, how long have you lived in this town?”
The man wrinkled his brow. “Long as this town’s existed. My na and pa came here with us brothers on the wagon train.”
“You know everyone in town?”
Peter nodded slowly. “Reckon I do.”
“You see?” Triumph tinged Cal’s voice as he wiped sweat off his hands onto his trousers.
Peter knit his brow and stopped slopping the wet rag across the counter. “I don’t understand.”
“You could ask any number of girls in Gilman to accompany you. But I’m a stranger. Wouldn’t it be polite to let me ask Ginny?” He couldn’t wear lavender; he just couldn’t. How wo
uld he ever show his face in Houston again?
Anger spread across Ginny’s face. She clamped her hands down on the counter. “This is my choice.”
Ignoring her, Peter nodded slowly. “I do see your point.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Cal knows lots of girls. I’d be happy to introduce him to more.”
Peter cocked his head. “That is true, Cal. Ginny could introduce you to some ladies.”
Yeah, except then Cherry would claim he broke her heart, and Mrs. Clinton would take up the mantra and insist her husband never let him near the mine again unless he took Cherry. And then Cherry would tell Mrs. Clinton he’d proposed. And he’d be left with the uncomfortable choice of soiling the Texas Ranger’s good name by leaving a case unsolved, or destroying his life by marrying that woman.
“It’s a week until the picnic. I really don’t think a girl who barely knows me would have a good time or—” Cal hunted desperately for some kind of excuse. Cherry’s children would probably all be girls. In his thoughts, they started marching toward him, female children attired in disturbing lavender outfits. They giggled eerily beneath bouncy black curls.
“It would be nice if you could go with a girl you knew well.” A contemplative expression stretched across Peter’s face.
Jumping forward, Ginny clutched the counter. “No. He knows girls besides me. Promise. Why, there’s Cherry. She would love to go with him.”
Cal’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He could already see the grotesquely lavish engagement stone Cherry would pick out for herself. Even if he managed to solve the gang case before the actual wedding transpired, would he be forced to buy the ring to pacify Mrs. Clinton long enough to catch the gang?
Leaning forward, Peter tapped his shoulder. “No man with a heart inflicts Cherry on a stranger. You go right along and ask Ginny.” Straightening, he turned to Ginny. “Just forget I asked. I’ll find someone else to go with.”
“What if I want to go with you?” Her voice was close to a wail.
Peter shook his head and went back to his washrag. “Thanks for stopping by, Miss Thompson. Next time, I’d suggest a different combination for the ice cream.” Plucking up her glass, Peter dumped it into a pail beneath the sink.
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