Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Cal followed Ginny out of the store.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, she whipped around. “I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe it. I hate you!”

  He expected a dirty glare to accompany the words, but instead, she collapsed into the bench outside the general store and bawled into her filthy dress sleeve. Digging into his pant pockets, he found a spare handkerchief. Cherry never had returned his other one. She was probably hanging it on her mantel right now, staring at it as she planned her lavender torture chamber of a home.

  “Here.” He held the handkerchief out. The angry tears streamed down Ginny’s cheeks, wetting the black of her eyelashes. The red of her cheeks matched the rims around her eyes—and her lips. She had the most kissable lips he’d ever seen.

  She pushed the offered cloth away as her mouth moved between sobs. “Just because Peter won’t ask me now, doesn’t mean I’m going with you.” She rose and stomped away.

  Yes, definitely the most kissable lips. Not that it mattered. As a lawman, one had the responsibility to pay attention to details, even trivial ones. Never knew what bit of information might be the final piece in solving a case.

  “Why, Ginny. I’ve been looking for you all morning.” Sheriff Thompson ambled up to the bench. He peered at Ginny’s turned back. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Coughing up one last sob, she rubbed her sleeve across her eyes and walked back. “Fine, Uncle Zak.” She hiccupped as she said it.

  The sheriff’s gaze stayed on her, a concerned look on his face. “Did an animal attack you, honey? That’s a lot of dirt on your dress.”

  She shook her head with another little hiccup. “I just ruined my dress, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. But I’m sure you can wash it up.” The sheriff turned to Cal. “I’ve been up and down John Clinton’s list, and I haven’t found one person in the mine that day who would have dynamited our shaft.”

  Cal scanned the deserted streets. Though the curtains in all the nearby windows were drawn, one never knew who had their ear pressed to a covered window. “Let’s take this conversation to the office.”

  Sheriff Thompson nodded.

  Ginny pushed between the two of them to grab the sheriff’s arm. “Did you notice Mr. Clinton got a black eye two days ago, Uncle Zak?”

  Cal raised his eyebrows. “How?”

  “He wanted to take me and you ruined it,” she hissed, falling back a step from her uncle. “You know how often Peter’s asked me to accompany him to the Fourth of July picnic? Never.”

  “I’ve asked you multiple times.” Cal lowered his voice to a whisper, too.

  “What’s that you’re saying, Ginny?” Uncle Zak fell back a pace.

  With the back of her hand, Ginny wiped away glistening tears. “Mr. Clinton said the black eye came from a horse, but Mrs. Clinton says he’s an excellent rider. Also, about those plum preserves that went missing in the general store, the same jar lids were sitting underneath Mrs. Clinton’s sink.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Now, honey, there are lots of the same kind of lid.”

  Cal coughed. “Your Ladies’ Aid Society plum preserve case is scarcely a matter of importance.”

  “Now be polite, Westwood.” Sheriff Thompson patted his niece on the shoulder. “But he does have a point, dear.”

  She glared at Cal. “I also have a suspect.” Taking hold of her Uncle Zak’s hand, she leaned up to his ear and whispered something.

  Sheriff Thompson nodded with incomprehensible patience. “I’ll talk to her and see what I can find out.”

  Cal didn’t bother to ask who.

  The sheriff’s boots made a clicking noise as they hit pebbled ground. “I thought we’d sit down today and look over that list of men in the mine again. Maybe ride up Monday and interview each of the miners?”

  Cal nodded his assent.

  “Next Saturday is the Fourth of July. Have you found a nice young lady to take yet?” A broad smile crept over Sheriff Thompson’s face.

  Cal directed a surreptitious glance at Ginny. But her face remained unyielding as ever. His hand constricted as he thought of lavender shirts. “Not exactly.”

  The sheriff looked to Ginny. “My niece doesn’t have one either. The two of you should make a day of it.”

  “Excuse me, but I’ll pick who I want to go with, Uncle Zak.” Her floppy hat, which blew around her ears like horse blinders, somewhat diminished the firm stare she directed at both of them.

  Uncle Zak frowned. “Did someone already ask you? I don’t remember you telling me.”

  “No.” She glared at Cal. “But I’m quite capable of finding myself someone. That is, if I decide to go with a man.”

  The wind blew back what was left of Sheriff Thompson’s not-yet-gray hair. “Now, Ginny, you can’t go around avoiding men. Someday you’ll want to settle down, have a little church wedding, babies.”

  Ginny with a baby? Cal’s eyes widened as he tried to picture that. She’d probably kill it.

  Red rose around her cheeks. “That scarcely has anything to do with the Fourth of July picnic.”

  Sheriff Thompson shook his head. “Now, now, Ginny. If you don’t see men socially, how will you pick one?”

  “I—” The pink in her cheeks spread down her neck.

  “And make sure you pick a good-looking one. I don’t want ugly grandnieces and nephews.” The sheriff smiled affably.

  Cal cleared his throat. “Your uncle has a point, Gina. You don’t want a reputation as the girl who won’t go out with men. So if you just go with me to this Fourth of July picnic—”

  “No.” Ginny’s voice rose above the pointed roof of the sheriff’s office.

  The corners of Sheriff Thompson’s mouth moved up. “See, just think how nice that would be, Ginny. And with Cal being a stranger in town and all, it would only be common politeness to go with him.”

  She shook her head vigorously and swept through the sheriff’s office door.

  Cal followed her. “That way we could look for evidence together.” He turned and looked over his shoulder at Sheriff Thompson. “Almost like official sheriff’s office business. Part of the job, don’t you think, sir?”

  The sheriff removed his hat. “It certainly could be useful for you to go with Cal.”

  “I’ll resign as secretary first.” Ginny plopped herself on her desk chair.

  Cal’s breathing grew heavier as he chewed his lip, and the lavender house full of giggling children with black curls invaded his conscious again. He leaned over the desk toward Ginny, his back to Sheriff Thompson. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Please, Ginny. Just this once. It’s important.”

  “Why?” She narrowed her eyes into a stare.

  “Otherwise, Mrs. Clinton is insisting I go with Cherry. I’m sorry I ruined Peter’s offer for you. Just do me this one favor, and you can go with him next year. All right?”

  She crossed her arms. “You deserve to go with Cherry.”

  “Let’s take a look at that list,” Sheriff Thompson called from his inner office.

  Cal stood up and plodded toward the back as he envisioned lavender shirts, lavender dishes, lavender curtains wrapping around his neck to strangle him.

  The sheriff spread a paper across his desk. “These are the mine workers.”

  Cal stared at the worn floors. Was solving the Silverman gang’s case worth wearing lavender? On one hand, he would go down in history books as the man who cracked the most dangerous gang in the west. On the other hand, it was lavender.

  10

  Small rock fragments covered the cabin floor. A crack in the shuttered window gave a glimpse of the entrance to the Iron Mask mine.

  Leaning forward, Cal rested his elbows on his knees as he prepared to interrogate the last mine worker. “How long have you worked for Mr. Clinton?”

  The dust-covered man removed his cap. “Five years now it’ll be. Me and the missus, we were headed out west, but then outlaws came, stole the wag
on, stole the supplies. I was mighty thankful when Mr. Clinton gave me the job here.”

  The pen made scratching noises on the worn log book as Cal wrote down notes. All but three of the mine employees working the day of the cave-in had been here for four years or more, and even those three seemed unlikely candidates for gang informants. He looked up from the ink-covered pages. “Have you noticed anything suspicious around the mine recently?”

  The miner’s sooty face wrinkled in the dusky light that seeped through cracks in the rough wood of the shack. “I did hear some yelling in the office four nights ago. By the time I checked it out though, the place was clear. There was just a little light burning in the back where Mr. Clinton was drawing up payroll.”

  Elbows on the armrests of the roughhewn chair, Cal watched the miner. Four nights ago would fit Ginny’s black-eye schedule for Mr. Clinton. But why give the mine’s proprietor a black eye? Kidnap, torture, and kill fit the Silverman gang’s modus operandus. But a black eye? A black eye sounded more like an insulted woman than the Silverman gang.

  The miner twisted his battered hat in his hands as he stood. “I have to be rounding up the crew for end-of-day cleanup. Unless you’ve got more questions, sir?”

  “No, that’s all.”

  The afternoon sun had intensified by the time Cal exited the shack and met Sheriff Thompson behind the shack where the horses were tethered. The sparse grass up here on the mountains had already turned brown a month ago and the horses shifted restlessly on the parched earth.

  The sheriff adjusted his saddle before swinging up. “Find anything?”

  With a shrug, Cal leapt onto his own horse. “Any chance that Mr. Clinton is affiliated with the Silverman gang? These men all love him enough to blow up a mine for him.”

  A wind from the mountains blew through the horses’ manes. Sheriff Thompson shook his head. “I trust John.”

  Cal’s sorrel side-stepped a cactus and picked its way down a shallower incline. “Then my interrogations were a waste. What about you?” The miners had all seemed like decent men, more likely to get killed by a gang than join one.

  The sheriff let several minutes go by without answering as they rode through the dry heat down the steep incline. “I did find something, but I want to be very sure before I confront anyone with it.”

  Pulling back on the reins of his sorrel to slow the horse, Cal waited.

  The sheriff twisted around to reach his saddle bags and pulled out a small, black object. Brilliant afternoon sunlight obscured the view. Cal squinted. “What is it?”

  “An expensive woman’s purse. The clasp is solid gold. I found it wedged under the back of John’s desk.”

  “Mrs. Clinton’s?” Up ahead, the town of Gilman drew closer.

  Sheriff Thompson frowned. “I don’t think so. It’s got the initials R. J. embroidered on it.”

  One hand on the reins, Cal shifted the sorrel away from red rocks onto softer ground. “Interesting, though it sounds more like a liaison than gang work.”

  A wave of disappointment crossed the sheriff’s face. Ignoring his horse, he stared blankly off to the horizon. “I know, but I just can’t imagine John would participate in that sort of thing.”

  Cal could not only imagine the man married to Mrs. Clinton participating in that sort of thing, he had a hard time condemning such an act as vigorously as he should.

  Minutes later, both horses kicked up the pebbles that lined the slope down to the Thompson house. The sheriff adjusted his seat. “Either way, I want to keep it private until I know more.”

  “Sure.” It wasn’t as if Gilman held hordes of friends that Cal was longing to share this news with. “I’ll stable your horse.”

  A half hour later, after wiping down both horses, Cal paused in front of the Thompson back door. Inside, Ginny rattled supper dishes and the savory aroma of beef wafted outside. He closed his fingers around the wood doorframe. How did one convince a woman to allow him to accompany her? Scratch that. How did one convince a woman like Ginny Thompson to allow that?

  Only one thing for it—try. He crossed the threshold.

  A pink-cheeked Ginny with a floral apron wrapped around her cream-colored dress appeared in the hallway as Sheriff Thompson clomped his way down the pine stairs. Her dress made the brown of her hair more vivid as it curled around her temples. Since yesterday, a single freckle had appeared just under her cheekbones.

  With a shake of his head, Cal regained his focus. He must convince Ginny to accompany him to the picnic so that Cherry didn’t tell Mrs. Clinton he’d jilted her, and Mrs. Clinton didn’t make him choose between proposing to Cherry and never entering the Iron Mask mine again.

  “How were the interrogations? Did you find anything? Tell me all about it at dinner. Please, Uncle Zak. I gave you all the case evidence I gathered.” Ginny bounced toward Sheriff Thompson. Her attention lighted on Cal, and her expression turned sullen. “There’s food on the stove.” She pointed one disgruntled finger toward the kitchen to dismiss him.

  Hand on the wooden staircase rail, Sheriff Thompson paused mid-step. “Why, Cal will eat with us, honey.”

  “Yeah, eat us out of house and home.” She stormed back to the kitchen.

  Taking care to first wipe the dirt off his boots, Cal followed her. “Can I take the food out, set the table, wash dishes?”

  She shoved a stack of pewter into his hands. “Sure, but I’m still not going to the picnic with you.”

  “But Ginny—”

  She slapped beef roast on the plates along with a whole potato. “Eat.”

  For an instant, he wondered if Cherry could cook. Not that it much mattered when merely talking to her could turn one’s stomach. His jaw clenched as he tried to convince himself for the thousandth time that catching the Silverman gang really was worth this. Avenging Isaacs’s death, he just needed to focus on that.

  Not too long after the three of them sat down to dinner, the impressive beef roast centerpiece had half disappeared. Sheriff Thompson shoved his seat back. “I keep forgetting, Cal. Mrs. Clinton gave this to me for you.” Reaching back to the heavily stained bookshelves behind, Sheriff Thompson tugged out a yellow-colored packet. The seams of the huge envelope strained with the amount of paper shoved inside.

  Sighing, Cal took the packet and twisted open the string that held the thing closed. With effort, he managed to wiggle his fingers far enough into the bursting envelope to slip the first page out. The paper displayed numbered instructions with a check box after each line. He scanned the words. Picket the saloon, making sure to stay at least one hundred feet away to avoid temptation. Directions on creating the picket sign are below. He skimmed down the ten checkpoints finding words like use colorful paper, find ten-foot-high stake, recruit three volunteers to stand with you. Pushing aside the first page, he tipped over the rest of the packet. Pile after pile of pamphlets streamed out.

  He rolled his eyes and turned back to the first page. Pass out the enclosed pamphlets to each passerby.

  Ginny leaned over the potato plate, almost digging an elbow into the beef, to snatch up a pamphlet. “The bottle kills,” she read aloud. Her smirk was almost worse than the five-inch-tall skull and cross bones on the front cover. She held up the pamphlet displaying Mrs. Clinton’s precise handwriting. “Can you really get a skin disease from alcohol, Uncle Zak?”

  Cal leaned over the curve of her shoulder to see what gibberish Mrs. Clinton had invented. How many hours had she labored over these pamphlets?

  Ginny brought her hand up to his chest and pushed. “There are dozens. Read your own pamphlet.”

  Her fingers left a tingling sensation even after she jerked her hand back. Her dark eyelashes contrasted with the light tan of her face. Her green eyes burned with an intensity hot enough to exhaust a civilized girl. There was a gold fleck in the right one that only appeared in a certain light.

  His face furrowed into a frown. She’d poisoned him; he disliked her. And she still wouldn’t go to the picnic with him. Wit
h a groan, he plucked up another pamphlet. The inside cover depicted a man with dark bruises. Mrs. Clinton did have a knack for the artistic, or had she hired someone?

  Ginny stuck a pamphlet in front of Sheriff Thompson’s nose and he tilted his head as he peered at it.

  “The dangerous skin diseases alcohol can spread. Hmm…” The lines around the sheriff’s eyes puckered.

  Cal held another pamphlet up to the light from the paned window. “These are marks from a fist fight, not some strange alcohol-born pathogen. Look there.” He stabbed the pamphlet with his finger. “Those are four distinct knuckle marks.”

  With a shrug, Sheriff Thompson pushed the pamphlet away and went back to his roast. “Maybe she meant alcohol leads to fist fights.”

  Or maybe Mrs. Clinton was entirely incompetent—a novel idea, that.

  “Who will you recruit to help you pass these out?” An angelic smile lifted Ginny’s face as she twirled her fork around the greens on her plate.

  Honestly? Sweeping the top paper back into the envelope before she could read more, Cal grabbed for the pamphlets.

  “Be careful. You creased one.” She pointed an accusing finger at a mangled paper.

  “I do not care.” A napkin landed in with the pamphlets as he proceeded to shove the whole mess back into the envelope. But he still needed her to go with him to the Fourth of July picnic. “Thank you, though.”

  A sharp rapping noise came from the front entrance. Sheriff Thompson propped his bad leg higher on a dining room chair. “Can you get that, Ginny?”

  Wiping the bit of biscuit left on her plate over the dollop of strawberry jam sitting next to it, she gulped the bite and pushed her chair back.

  “I’ll get it for you.” Cal shoved back his chair with an alacrity that scratched the wood floor below. Navigating two rag rugs and narrowly missing one potted vase, he reached the hallway and fumbled over the door lock. The rusted bolt looked like it hadn’t been unlocked in years. He struggled with the deadbolt knob.