With the grating of iron, the bolt gave way to sheer Texan force. He twisted the handle.
Wait, the deadbolt had been undone to begin with. What kind of town was this? The sheriff of Gilman almost killed in a mine and didn’t even have the sense to lock his front door? Another massive twist and the deadbolt came back out of place.
“About time,” an irritated voice said as the door swung open.
Standing on the front porch, tapping her shoe impatiently, was his favorite busybody.
“Why, Mrs. Clinton. Um…welcome.” Cal felt a headache coming on. Wasn’t the Temperance League, church, and chance meetings on the street enough times a week to see this woman?
“Don’t stand there like a child. Help me with this bag.” The woman hurled an expansive carpet bag at him.
With a grunt, he got two hands around the massive thing that looked about to tear apart from its own weight.
Rather than waiting for a by-your-leave, Mrs. Clinton sailed past him into the dining room. She swung her hawkish gaze over to the open piano keyboard. “Practicing your piano, Ginny? That’s a good girl. I brought you some more fabric pieces.” She motioned back to Cal. “Just set them right here on the table, Mr. Westwood.”
Of course his law enforcement duties included being her personal porter. Keeping his jaw tightly closed, Cal swung the bag forward.
With the bang of bad leg against table leg, Sheriff Thompson rushed to save the roast and the potatoes from Mrs. Clinton’s carpet bag as the thing landed on the table with a frightening thud.
“For you, Ginny.” Mrs. Clinton waved her ring-encased fingers over the bag.
Even the wind blowing in through the sheer curtains died as Ginny tiptoed forward and peeked inside the carpet bag. Her jaw quivered. “But Mrs. Clinton. You said we were making a quilt. This must be enough for hundreds.”
“We need one for every orphan.” Mrs. Clinton jutted her plump chin out.
Now the quivering in Ginny’s jaw extended to her hands, which gripped the handles of the carpet bag. “We don’t have any orphans.”
“Which means we’re due for a rapid influx anytime. And I’m telling you, it was hard to get enough fabric to keep them all warm. Why, Mrs. Jones who lives back across from the church, she objected when I confiscated a few of her dresses to use for scraps. Just a few, I say, and she has dozens. Mrs. Jones looked at me, tiny little thing that she is with that wispy blonde hair, and says to me, ‘Mrs. Clinton, my husband bought me those dresses, and he likes to see me wear them.’ And I said to her, ‘Mrs. Jones, you being the opportunist you are, marrying an older man and all, your husband’s going to be dead and all you’ll be wearing is black for mourning. So hand over those dresses and save the freezing children.’”
Slowly, Cal inched shut his sagging jaw. As much as inventing an Orphan Aid Society had benefited his own personal life, he began to feel guilt for the force of terror he had unleashed on the town.
Two feet away, Ginny dropped her fingers from the carpet bag handle. In stunned silence, she sank to a sitting position.
Sheriff Thompson merely smiled and reached behind him for an extra plate. “Would you like to have some dinner, Mrs. Clinton? We were still eating and my Ginny makes the best desserts.”
“Why yes, we all love her pies.” Mrs. Clinton patted Ginny absently on the shoulder. Then the woman’s gaze strayed to Cal’s chair. “I see Sheriff Thompson finally gave you that homework I issued.”
“Yes, ma’am, he did,” Cal said in as level a voice as he could muster. How had a woman like Mrs. Clinton ever attained the married state? Had she used a shotgun for persuasion?
“Now, Ginny, since you volunteered to keep Cal accountable, you’ll help him picket the saloon.” Mrs. Clinton patted back a wisp of graying hair.
Instead of answering, Ginny stared at the carpet bag, her gaze moving up and down in a vaguely hypnotic motion.
Help? He didn’t intend to picket the saloon at all, though the image of Ginny standing outside with those silly pamphlets almost made the idea tempting.
“Has Ginny been performing her daily scrutinizing satisfactorily, Mr. Westwood? I assume her partnership has been a significant help to your wayward tendencies.”
“Um, sure…” That was when it struck him—how to convince Ginny Thompson to allow a man to accompany her. If Mrs. Clinton wasn’t capable of the feat, well then, he’d better resign himself to lavender shirts and forced proposals forthwith. “I was thinking of a way Ginny could—”
“Miss Thompson.” Mrs. Clinton stared severely at him.
Ah yes. Interrupting was another of Mrs. Clinton’s virtues. “I was thinking of a way Miss Thompson could truly aid my recovery.” He nearly choked on the word recovery. He’d been a deacon at the Houston church.
“And that was?”
Cal shoved his hands into his pockets. This was his last chance. “Fourth of July picnics supply a vast amount of alcohol.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to convince the town to serve soda water for fifteen years now.” Mrs. Clinton’s intense gaze shifted to Sheriff Thompson.
“Having someone by my side to hold me accountable would be truly useful.” He sneaked a glance at Ginny, but she remained frozen, observing the carpet bag with horrified awe.
Mrs. Clinton raised her eyelashes one fraction in an unimpressed stare. “Your point being, Mr. Westwood?”
He’d never thought of it before, but Mrs. Clinton would have made a good judge. She probably could have scared criminals into confession just by talking to them. “I think Gin—er, Miss Thompson, should attend the picnic with me.”
Mrs. Clinton’s face broke into an entirely uncharacteristic expression reminiscent of gingerbread houses and grandmotherly old women. “That’s an excellent idea.” She turned to Ginny. “If you need any assistance preparing for this mission of mercy, Ginny, I would be happy to help.”
Cal imagined he heard a crack as the carpet bag’s fixating power broke.
Jumping up from her seat, Ginny knocked her chair back. “I already told Cal I’m not going with him.”
“Nonsense, child. You volunteered to hold him accountable. You’re going.” Mrs. Clinton shoved the carpet bag closer to Ginny. Her hawk eyes turned to Cal. “And you be a gentleman to our Ginny. I shan’t have you carrying on in a drunken rage or anything like that.”
Of course it was the town busybody’s responsibility to protect Gina’s honor, not her male relative sitting two feet away. Sheriff Thompson just kept smiling happily as he polished off a slice of beef.
“Anyway, have to be going, eat supper with the mister and all. Good-bye.” With a hearty wave of her hand, Mrs. Clinton left.
A fatherly smile played around the corners of Sheriff Thompson’s mouth as he leaned back in his seat. “I guess that’s all settled, then. I’m sure you both will have a wonderful time together.”
Wonderful? One side of Cal’s mouth screwed up. Did the general store sell poison antidotes? He’d definitely have to ask Peter about that before the picnic.
~*~
Ginny let forth a sigh. In the clearing just north of Gilman, the few men interested in forming a posse stood aiming fire pieces at the hay bale target Cal had crafted earlier that morning.
All in all, as men and some female spectators straggled in through the morning, the number never exceeded a dozen. Peter begged off because of shop duties, and Uncle Zak stayed to man the sheriff’s office. Cherry had arrived a half hour ago and taken a seat on a fallen pine to the side.
Standing next to the firing line, Ginny watched Cal take another dead-center shot with his revolver, as his other one still smoked from action. She groaned. His shooting abilities weren’t helping her chances at the sheriff position. At least he wasn’t a Texas Ranger. That was her only consolation. A credential like that would be nigh on impossible to beat.
Only one thing for it: humble herself enough to learn from experience. Only one posse recruit remained and he was laboriously cleaning a ru
sted rifle, so it wasn’t as if Cal didn’t have time.
Marching up to Cal, she cleared her throat. “Teach me to shoot as good as you.”
He shifted his Stetson further down over his eyes. “You mean as well?”
“Because the Texan drawl is known for its precise grammar?” She rolled her eyes.
“Insulting my state isn’t going to make me any more likely to teach you to shoot.” He rested his hands on his gun belt.
“Teach? I’m an excellent shot.”
He shifted one unimpressed eyebrow up as he stared at her.
“You’re just better.” The words tasted like wormwood going down. Whatever that antiquated word meant. Was it just worms burrowing holes in a rotten tree branch or was there a wormwood tree that wormwood came from?
“I’ll pass.” The sun glinted off his revolver as he raised it for another shot.
“But Cal—”
“No.” His voice was impatiently gruff.
So much for humbling herself. She turned on her heel and stomped over the moist ground to Cherry’s fallen pine tree.
“He won’t help me with target practice.” Ginny flopped down by Cherry and shot a glare toward Cal. The sun overhead blazed down on the clearing’s grass as another shot broke the mountain stillness.
“Won’t help you with target practice, or won’t be target practice, dear?”
“What?” Ginny whipped around to Cherry, who was peacefully shaping her cuticle with a peeled birch twig.
“You’ll never get a man to help you by glaring at him.” Cherry angled the twig down and gave one last nudge to her nail bed.
“If I had a large rock, I’d try that, but Uncle Zak might frown on giving his guest a concussion.”
“I didn’t mean a rock, dear.” Cherry tsked reproachfully. “Try flattery.”
“What?” Ginny stared at her gibberish speaking friend.
“You’re a beautiful enough woman, and he obviously admires you. Use some feminine charm.”
“I don’t have feminine charm.” Ginny stared glumly at the pebbles protruding from the grass. She wouldn’t have a sheriff’s job either if she didn’t somehow learn to best, or at least equal, Cal in a shooting match. Not to mention that Cal didn’t admire her law enforcement abilities near as much as he ought.
“Sure you do, dear. Now just do…” Cherry dropped her voice to a whisper as she summarized what, according to her, was the basis of male and female interaction.
At the end of the disturbing speech, Ginny blinked. “It won’t work.”
“Of course it will work. He’s a man, isn’t he?”
“Cal’s not that stupid.” He didn’t recognize the essential nature of her job, but he still wasn’t that stupid. Or maybe he did recognize the essential nature of her work at the sheriff’s office and was trying to remove her from the action in order to increase his chances of capturing the sheriff position. Now that was a thought.
If that was the case, she needed to fight even harder for her rightful position. Making her decision, she stood. “Very well, I’ll try your plan, Cherry.”
With a deep breath, she set one foot after the other and walked up to Cal. Cartridges littered the grass around the hay bale now.
“Cal.” Ginny eyed him.
He stood taller than Peter, manly in physique from his rugged chest to firmly planted feet. Dust splashed up to his calves, and the creases of his hand-held gunpowder residue. Surely, he wouldn’t be ignorant enough to fall for such childish manipulation as Cherry suggested? If he did, her respect for him would drop faster than a rock down a well.
Cal groaned and turned to her.
“You’re good at shooting.”
“Yes, because I’m a law enforcement officer and have to be. And, no, I am not helping you murder me, or some poor bystander when you miss me by teaching you target practice.”
That “teach” word again. She was an excellent shot. He was just more excellent. Cherry said to ignore any slights. Ginny’s hands twisted around each other as she kept her gaze nervously on the ground for a moment. Cherry said the nervousness bit was important. “Is it really true the Silverman gang has killed people?” Of course it was true; they were a gang.
“Yes, they’re a gang.”
Good. Cal wasn’t as feebleminded as Cherry thought all men were. “I dream sometimes about them.” Ginny said and bit her lower lip. This was where Cherry said she had to clutch Cal’s arm and appear frightened. Could she really abase herself enough to do that?
Cal just stood there, leaving a discomforting silence.
“I lost my parents in a gun fight.” Now she was just talking without thinking, though she was doing the nervous piece well.
“You did?” He creased his forehead.
Yes, but why had that come out of her mouth to Cal? “It was nothing.”
“Losing a parent is never nothing. How did it happen?”
“They were coming out here in a wagon train and got attacked. An outlaw gang, the survivors said. Uncle Zak was going to meet my parents and he just found me.” The words spilled over each other in an anxious rush.
“I’m so sorry, Gina.”
Cal didn’t need to know about her parents, and now he was looking at her with those blue eyes all sympathetic-like, and he needed to stop. He looked manly and caring, and he reached his hand out to touch her shoulder. His chest moved up and down as he breathed right at her eye level. The edge of his gun belt just touched her side and it made her think loco things like maybe it wouldn’t be all bad if Cal stayed in town, or Cal’s gun arm might feel a lot nicer around her waist than Peter Foote’s broom arm.
“Anyway, I just think if my parents had been able to shoot better, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Or if Uncle Zak had only come an hour earlier. But maybe then he would have died, too. She turned away from him. Why had she listened to Cherry’s ridiculous idea?
“Ginny.” Cal reached out and touched her. “I’ll teach you if you want.”
“Oh?” She twisted back.
“Self-defense is important.”
She actually intended this sharpshooting to lend to the protection of the town, not herself, but there was no need to expose that thought at this precise moment.
“Now, the first thing with accuracy is to steady your arm.” He handed his revolver to her. “Like this.” He brought his hand under hers, steadying it while he moved his other behind her back.
The action felt uncomfortably similar to an embrace. No matter. Focus on the weapon.
“Move your hand further up the grip.” He wrapped his other arm around her to shift her fingers. His shoulders touched the back of her head, disheveling her hair as her skirt brushed against his legs.
“It’ll minimize the recoil as well as allow you to shoot your next shot more quickly.”
The lesson continued, and as the hay bales filled with bullets, she learned some excellent tips. Of course, if women were allowed in law enforcement academies she wouldn’t have needed Cal. But still.
Her hair blew into his face as the sharp Colorado wind, aided by his shoulder pressing into her hair, dislodged her hair pins. She shot her hand up to fix a strand that fell loose. Her elbow collided into his chest. “Sorry.”
Turned into him with the revolver lowered, it felt like an embrace.
Another hair pin slipped and half her hair fell down.
His finger crept forward so just the edge of it touched the lock. She was staring into his eyes and having quite a bit of trouble breathing.
“Brown’s a lovely color,” he said in a low voice.
She pulled away from him. “I…”
A loud voice from across the clearing broke the air. “You tell me if that man of yours isn’t treating you well. I’ll run him out of town myself.” Mrs. Clinton stood on the sidelines of the range, her expansive parasol planted firmly on the ground as she leaned onto it.
“He’s not my…” Ginny shouted across the distance and then stopped mid-breath. “You’ll
do what?”
“Run him out of town. And that’s not idle talk.” Mrs. Clinton emphasized her words with the much abused parasol.
Run Cal Westwood out of town. Perhaps where she had failed, Mrs. Clinton could succeed. But was that what she wanted? She sneaked a glance at him. Stance spread, hands on gun belt and a full head taller than her, he looked quite lawman-like. Which was the entire problem.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Clinton. You know drunkards tend to abuse women.” Not that Cal was a drunkard, so see? Not a lie. With a twist of her hand, Ginny got her hair back in order and jabbed in a hairpin. When she looked up, Cal gazed at her with wounded blue eyes.
In a flash, that emotion vanished, leaving only anger. “You’re going to lie about me, Ginny? Really?”
“That’s Miss Thompson to you,” Mrs. Clinton cut in.
Shoving his guns back into his holster, Cal turned away.
~*~
“Where’s your uncle?” Cal called from the adjoining office.
He was a wretched man. Not only did she spend every night piecing quilt squares and every afternoon playing piano chords, now she had to go to the Fourth of July picnic with him. That was enough reason to still those guilty twinges she’d had since she called him a drunkard to Mrs. Clinton’s face. Another prickle of guilt shot up her leg. “Why should I tell you?”
“I have pressing business with him.” As irritated as Cal’s voice sounded, it just couldn’t capture a forceful tone while slipping under the edges of the office door and traveling over the floorboards.
“I’m going into town.” Ginny swung up her parasol and headed out the door.
“I need him.”
With a snap, she flung the door shut. She might have to go to the Fourth of July picnic with Cal Westwood, but she intended that to be the last event he ever attended in the town of Gilman. And she had a plan. Perhaps, after all, Cherry was right and flirting was not an entirely useless art.
Ten o’clock in the morning, just the time when Mrs. Clinton headed out to do her visiting calls. Keeping her ears open for sounds of Cal behind her, Ginny increased her pace down the overcast road.
Just outside the general store, she spied Mrs. Clinton and Miss Lilac walking up from the cross street. A glance inside showed Peter industriously sorting merchandise. Ginny glanced at him and then back at the approaching women. Perhaps she should stage this carefully orchestrated scene somewhere else? But Cherry said men liked to be jealous.
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