That’s when Cal caught up with her, breathing a bit heavily. “This isn’t a game. I need your uncle.”
She lounged back against the glass store front and tilted her head up. The gray clouds overhead looked quite majestic. “So, you want me to go to the picnic with you?”
“Yes.” His voice clipped the air. He had a very square jaw. “Now, where is your uncle?”
“You’re asking me to the picnic.” Ginny attempted Cherry’s signature eye flutter, but a cloud moved and the overhead sun got in the way. If she was forced to go with Cal, would Peter still consider buying her basket? Eating with him would make going with Cal considerably less dreadful. Yes, dreadful. Spending time in Cal’s company was dreadful; she didn’t need to convince herself of that.
From the corner of her eye, she sneaked a peek across the street. Mrs. Clinton and Miss Lilac were watching. Miss Lilac tilted back the black umbrella she always carried whenever the slightest cloud appeared and jutted her head forward. The resemblance to a tortoise was truly remarkable.
Ginny looked back at Cal. Sullen was the only way to describe his expression. “You want me to go to the Fourth of July picnic with you?”
The star pinned to his jacket was tarnished on the points now. “Already asked and got my answer three nights ago. Your uncle—”
Bearing her teeth down on her lip, she summoned courage. Slowly, she moved her hand to rest on his chest. It felt…well, harder and more muscular than she’d imagined. Did Peter feel like that underneath his butcher’s apron?
Cal’s blue-eyed gaze focused on her, and she could feel his breath on her face. Yesterday’s stubble roughened his cheeks. She’d read in the page of a dime novel once that stubble left a tingling sensation when a woman kissed a man…
Ridiculous. Ginny straightened to her full height, shifting her corset up. “One would almost think you were sweet on me.” She knew Miss Lilac, with her bad hearing, couldn’t make out the words from across the street, and even Mrs. Clinton was likely straining. But they were seeing each move he made, and it would be all over town long before sundown.
“Absolutely not.” He raised his hands. “You think I willingly consort with criminals?” A gust of dank wind emphasized his words.
Instead of combating the criminal charge, which was ludicrous—a drop, all right a whole bottle, of headache medicine in someone’s dinner did not exactly qualify as a hanging offense—she ran with it. Sliding her high-heeled boot forward, she moved an inch closer to him and hoped Miss Lilac’s eyesight was still good enough to catch that carefully planned gesture.
“Mrs. Clinton thinks you do. If you aren’t careful, they’re going to think you’re abusing my love, just like you beat that poor horse in Houston to death simply because he didn’t win the race for you.” The horse story was likely a fabrication, but it had been circulating all about town ever since a week ago.
His voice went hot and angry and his face matched. “I did not, ever, beat a horse to death.”
She straightened up with her best version of an angelic smile. “You see, they’re looking askance at you already.”
A groan escaped him, and he stepped back.
She reached out and caught his hand. “Don’t go!” She used the pining female voice she’d spent two hours practicing this morning. “I just can’t bear to be parted from you for a second.”
He tried to recapture his hand without using abusive force or anything that would resemble such to Mrs. Clinton.
Ginny dug her fingernails into his shirtsleeve.
“I’m going to be so glad to get back to Houston once this gang is caught,” he muttered.
Her hand went limp. She lost hold of his sleeve “You’re not going to stay? You don’t want the sheriff position?”
Pausing from brushing off his shirtsleeve with meticulous vigor, he brought his eyebrows together. “Your uncle is sheriff, and why would I want to work in this possessed town?”
“But he’s thinking of retiring soon.” She tried to keep beams of joy from radiating from her face. He intended to leave, not lobby for her sheriff position. Could she believe such wondrous news?
He shrugged. “I’ve got a lot bigger ambitions than would fit the town of Gilman.” Whipping around, he ploughed back toward the sheriff’s office.
“Uncle Zak’s at the school teaching a history of law enforcement lesson,” she called after him.
~*~
The lead turned into a dead end. Some cowhand with aspirations of greatness had seen a wanted ad and confused an eccentric mountain man with the dread Silverman gang leader, Bloody Joe.
Elbows on his desk, Cal surveyed the small pile of case evidence. His gaze moved to the edge of the desk and the empty pie plate Ginny had inadvertently left at some point.
She honestly had thought he wanted her uncle’s job? Why exactly had that bothered her so much? Did she think he’d do bad work? He could run this town with half a brain. Run it a lot better than it was being run now, too. Nothing against Sheriff Thompson—he was a good man. But honestly, baked goods and down quilts in the town jail? How did one inspire fear of the law if one’s jailhouse looked more like the Ladies Home Journal front cover than a jail?
He glanced out the office door to where Ginny sat at her desk. She beamed from ear-to-ear as she scribbled in the brown notebook at her desk. After yesterday morning’s talk, she’d been downright polite and even offered him the last cherry tart for breakfast.
Why did it mean so much to her that he didn’t take this job? Did she have someone else lined up for next sheriff of Gilman? He had yet to see anyone in this town who came close to looking like new sheriff material.
This Ginny-not-yelling-at-him business was disconcerting. For instance, it made him notice that one tendril of her hair liked to curl down around her left ear, and that her green eyes possessed a haunting quality that made him want to keep looking into them. Maybe he should have told her staying was a possibility. She certainly deserved to squirm in dread a little after all she’d put him through.
11
The morning of July the Fourth dawned bright and hot. A scorching breeze drove even the horseflies to take cover, and in the mountains the last patches of snow disappeared, leaving bare, ugly brown. By two thirty, Cal ventured out into the Thompson backyard to hitch up the wagon for the ride to the southern picnic grounds. Sweat dripped down his shirt. Reaching back to flap air into his already soaked collar, he surveyed the brown shade of his shirt with satisfaction.
No matter what torture Ginny had planned for this picnic, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he could die in brown instead of lavender.
“Ready yet?” Ginny breezed out the back door with a massive wicker basket under her arm.
Sheriff Thompson came after her, carrying a stack of pie tins. So that was what had smelled so good last night. Plopping the pies into the wagon back, the sheriff heaved a breath. “More pies inside, Cal, if you have a minute.”
Ten trips later, the back of the wagon was covered in a two-pie-high layer of blueberry pastries. Holding her straw hat down around her ears, Ginny scrambled up to the front buckboard, which only seated two and seemed a tight fit at that.
“Here.” Cal extended the reins to Sheriff Thompson.
Grinning a little too happily, Sheriff Thompson shook his head. “I’ll just squeeze in the back, elevate my leg, you know. You two can drive.”
So the date began. Cal tucked his shirt a little tighter into his belt and took a deep breath. A man could endure anything for one evening, right? Across the buckboard seat, Ginny settled her skirts.
He’d half-expected the monstrous hat or green slippers to have made an appearance. Instead, a breathtaking picture caught his eye. A red-checked dress gathered up around Ginny’s legs as she shifted in the seat, revealing tall, laced boots more appropriate for dancing a waltz than mucking a horse stall. The short sleeves of her dress barely existed and she had one dimple in her right elbow at the center of an otherwise work-ton
ed arm.
Swinging up into the seat beside her, he cracked the whip and the horses began to move. Wagon wheels creaked along the dusty road into a deserted town. The sun beat down as they rumbled past abandoned shops and locked up houses toward the southern clearing where the fairgrounds lay.
“What’s in the basket this year?” Sheriff Thompson asked from behind.
Ginny twisted around in the buckboard, her knees hitting Cal. He kept his eyes on the road.
“Fried chicken, sausage and cheese logs, cornbread, a new chocolate fudge recipe I just got from Miss Lilac, whole pickles, wheat rolls with fresh butter—” she paused and tapped the buckboard, which happened to be inches from his leg.
Cal shifted away. Last thing he planned to do was enjoy this date.
She shrugged. “A couple other things too, but I don’t remember right now.”
The sheriff coughed loudly. “I thought the baskets were to feed two. You’ve got an army-sized portion in there. What are you trying to do, explode a young man?”
She dismissed his comment with an upward look at the sizzling sky. “Mrs. Clinton is using all the proceeds for the Orphan Aid Society, so I promised her I’d make up a basket that would bring a good profit.”
With a quick glance at the road in front to ensure the wagon didn’t crash into any fences or pedestrians, Cal sneaked a peek back at the massive wicker basket, a newfound respect in his gaze. “Profit? There’s a charge to eat at the picnic?”
Tossing her chin in a motion that bounced her hair, she gave him a contemptuous look. “What kind of hicks populate Houston? Every Fourth of July each woman makes a basket to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to a charitable organization.”
“Who buys the baskets?” He had to steady the reins as they rolled off the road onto the picnic grounds where tall tents and fairground stables rose up above the dry landscape.
The wagon hit a rut, sending pie tins rattling and making Sheriff Thompson shift position behind. Pies resituated, the sheriff spoke up. “The menfolk. You eat with the woman whose basket you buy. Be careful of Lorna Smith’s basket. Her cheese smells like dead coons.”
Then they rattled into a field already lined by dozens of other wagons. Ginny hopped down, checkered dress flaring in the wind, and grabbed for the pies.
Jumping down, Cal stepped in front of her. “I’ll take them. Where do they go?” Not only did any woman who baked that many pies deserve to have someone else carry them, this way he got to avoid social obligations for a few precious moments longer.
She pointed her dainty finger up the hill to a covered tent. That very same finger could pull a trigger well enough to hit a bull’s eye at thirty yards. “There should be tables for desserts there and another one for the baskets,” Ginny said.
“Need help?” Sheriff Thompson asked, limping as he scrambled out of the wagon.
Cal shook his head.
Linking her arm with her uncle’s, Ginny started up the hill toward the tent with two pies in her hands. “You’re going to investigate her for the preserves like you promised, right?” As the two of them faded into the heat haze beyond, the sheriff nodded.
On Cal’s twelfth pie-carrying trip, with his shirt permanently plastered to his back, he wondered if anyone else in the town of Gilman was bringing desserts, or if Ginny planned on feeding the entire assembly. He had to scramble into the wagon and reach under the buckboard to grab the last pie and Ginny’s wicker basket. He swung it up into his arms and then stopped.
The basket was full of fried chicken, sausage and cheese logs, cornbread, chocolate fudge and many other things. He wanted to eat the contents of that basket. But what if someone else bid more, and he got stuck with the stench of Lorna Smith’s cheese? He dug into his pockets. Not knowing the circumstances of today’s picnic, he’d only brought thirty-five cents. Besides, why would he want to donate money to the Orphan Aid Society for a bunch of orphans that didn’t exist?
Ginny’s smile lit her face. Her red-checked dress curved in around her waist, the color accentuating the red of her lips and the color in her cheeks. He remembered a time her cheeks had blushed even redder, right in front of Peter at the general store.
Would Peter buy Ginny’s basket? He probably had pockets full of cash from running the general store. Cal scowled as he pictured the two of them sharing a blanket. Not that he wanted to eat with Ginny. Far from it.
But she had accompanied him to this picnic, so it was his duty to eat with her.
Stuffing the basket back under the buckboard, Cal tugged a dusty blanket over it.
Then, like that famous light brigade, he plunged once more into the scorching air and ploughed up the heat-reflecting hill with the last pie. Ginny and the sheriff stood to the right.
As soon as he stepped under the tent, firm fingers grabbed his arm.
“The bidding for baskets is starting now.” Mrs. Clinton’s voice jarred him. “I’ll be expecting you to buy Ginny’s basket. It’s only polite, no matter what the cost.”
Not with a smile, but with something less than a frown, he settled back comfortably against an empty table. Mrs. Clinton could rest peacefully. He had that angle covered.
Peter Foote stood up front, leading the auction. The table beside him held not one basket, not ten baskets, but a heaping mound of baskets that suggested every female in Gilman from the age of two to eighty-two had contributed at least once.
“Ten cents. Who will give me ten cents for this lovely little basket?” Peter held up a pink one decorated with striped ribbon.
“It’s kind of small,” a cowhand called from the back row. Every Temperance League lady in the tent turned to glare at him and the cowhand slunk down to hide his face in his bandanna.
When the mounded table of baskets had reached the half-empty stage where avalanches and landslides of baskets no longer threatened imminent destruction, Peter held up a black receptacle.
“That’s Widow Sullivan’s basket.” Mrs. Clinton’s voice blasted into Cal’s ear.
With a scowl, he moved ten feet further down the tent.
Mrs. Clinton just raised her voice. “I hope someone buys it. Wouldn’t want her to feel like a stranger. Though in confidence, you should know, she can’t cook that well.”
“Fifty cents,” came from the other side. Cal recognized the voice and spied Sheriff Thompson and Ginny across the tent. Why was Sheriff Thompson bidding on Widow Sullivan’s basket?
“Anyone for sixty cents?” Peter cast a doubtful look at the black wicker in his hands.
“Maybe if I got a peek inside,” a different cowhand shouted out as he scratched underneath the sweatband on his Stetson.
“No!” Mrs. Clinton and all the other Temperance League ladies said, almost in unison. They directed glares, which grew more intense with practice, at the man.
Cal almost felt sorry for the cowhand. It was a sad state of affairs, indeed. Peter started the bidding again, his voice droning on in the sing-song characteristic of auctioneers. The glaring sun proved less intense under the tent.
Sinking down on the bench behind him and leaning his elbows back on the adjoining table, Cal let his hat slip down over his forehead as he waited for this picnic to commence.
The noise of bidding, Mrs. Clinton’s booming voice, and bustling people faded in and out as he reviewed all the gang information he’d acquired. The gang must have a spy somewhere in the town or mine. That was the only explanation for the telegram.
“Cal Westwood!” The shriek of Ginny’s voice, along with a vigorous shoulder shaking, jolted him out of thought. “Did you lose my basket?”
“Your what?” Straightening up, he turned to her.
“My basket! The bidding’s over and, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of it.” Her bare arms were tan, but the lip of her tiny sleeve exposed white skin.
“Oh no, your basket’s fine.” He settled his hat more firmly on his head and got to his feet. “I just left it out in the wagon. Figured we needn’t support some non-exi
stent orphans. Do you want to eat?”
“Cal Westwood! The auction is the most important part of every Fourth of July picnic! You just ruined my part in the event, not to mention denying me the chance of eating with someone less repulsive than you, and entirely disregarding town spirit, and the pride of town collectiveness, and…” Tears gushed out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks to the scalloped neckline of her dress.
He shifted to his other foot. “I wasn’t really trying to—I mean, I just thought the food sounded good and…”
No use. Her tears continued to stream out. He reached out and patted the sobbing maiden on the shoulder. When Ginny Thompson had turned into a sobbing maiden, he wasn’t quite sure. But he had the vague notion that he might be somewhat indirectly responsible. “Don’t cry, Gina.”
“I will cry.” She buried her tear-streaked face into a handkerchief. “Now I have to wait another whole year to eat with him.”
“Him?” Was that a Peter Foote him?
She snorted at Cal. “Nothing.”
“How about some food?” he suggested.
Her withering gaze killed any hopefulness. “Fine. Bring it here.”
The sun sank in mopey silence as she sat beside him on a faded quilt, wolfing down a wheat roll with very little enjoyment. Knees crossed under her, she stared at the blanket. She looked so forlorn, her red-checkered dress spread out about her as she huddled forward.
Guilt tinged the delicious sausage, and the cheese roll-ups almost tasted dry going down. Ditto with the chocolate fudge. Around them, couples chatted gaily over open picnic baskets, and elderly men leaned up against the fairground stables behind while puffing on pipes. Surprising that Mrs. Clinton hadn’t found a way to put a stop to that.
Then the fiddle music began. Men cleared tables from the food tent and couples lined the packed dirt. Ginny leaned back on her elbows, denting the patchwork quilt into two small valleys. “I’m not dancing with you, so don’t bother asking.”
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