Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Good, because I’m a horrible dancer.” Rolling to his side on the opposite end of the picnic basket, he laid his head back. From the prone position, he could see the shadows the fading sun made on her cheekbones.

  A stomach full of good food, a cool evening breeze, and no unnecessary chatter. This was exactly how he would have wished the picnic to go. So why did Ginny’s glum stare bother him so much? If she’d been eating with Peter, would she have just sat there, unblinking, as she dismally surveyed the food? Would she have wanted to dance with Peter?

  “Not dancing? What are two spring chickens like you thinking?” His eyes popped open to the image of Mrs. Clinton leaning over the patchwork quilt with no regard for privacy.

  A yawn escaped Ginny’s mouth. “No, I mean—” With a malicious glance at him, she sprang to her feet, all sleepiness gone. “Actually, we were just about to. Isn’t that right, Cal?”

  “Um…not really.” He watched her eyes light up, new energy in her step as her lips turned up in a smile. Was tormenting him truly such a pleasant prospect, or did she perhaps enjoy the idea of dancing in his arms?

  Mrs. Clinton slammed her significant hands against her hips. “Stop being a lazy hoodlum, Mr. Westwood, and go dance with the girl.”

  He sized up the plump stiffness of the woman’s jaw and her firmly folded arms. The day he solved the gang case and was rid of Mrs. Clinton would be the happiest day of his life.

  ~*~

  Cal sighed. He hated dancing, but if Ginny’s voice got any shriller, Mrs. Clinton would hear. and then he’d be forced to dance—again.

  Ginny batted her eyelashes at him and, for the eighth time this Fourth of July evening, begged him to dance. Ginny

  All feelings of guilt about stealing Ginny’s basket had long ago disappeared on the cough-inspiring dust of the dance floor. Cal glanced at her again. Tonight, in the dark evening air, her face reflected the moonlight. For a moment, he’d hold her and look at the most enchanting woman he’d ever met. His mind would start to think of him and her together—then she’d open her mouth.

  Apparently to Ginny, tormenting him was a pleasant prospect. If he had to dance with her, there should at least be a rule against her making clever yet annoying quips while he was too busy watching his footwork to craft a suitable reply.

  “It’s not fair to take a girl to a dance and then not let her dance,” she said in a flippantly feminine voice that she must have borrowed from Cherry.

  “You can dance with any man here.” He tugged his Stetson down further.

  “But then my beau for the night would be jealous.” She squirmed her shoulders at him in a flirtatious movement.

  “So jealous.” He rolled his eyes. But Mrs. Clinton looked up, and he had mere seconds until she moved her busybody self over here to try to force him to dance. He ran his gaze over Ginny’s face and a calculating thought came to mind. As the saying went, two could play at this game. “You’re right. I’d be terribly jealous.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her toward the eastern edge of the picnic site.

  She pulled back from him. “Where are we going?”

  “To the bluff. That’s where all the other doting couples are right now.” He pointed up the sloping mountain face shrouded in darkness where several young people had already disappeared and tugged her forward.

  Now at the backside of the stables, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Uncle Zak would never let me go there. It’s entirely inappropriate.”

  He stepped closer.

  She moved back against the dark shadow of the stable. An owl hooted eerily from above, and a cottonwood tree half-blocked the moon’s rays.

  His fingers touched the rough wood of the stable, catching on paint chips as he placed one hand on either side of her.

  She seized a quick intake of breath.

  Suppressing the smirk that threatened to twist up the corners of his mouth, he leaned forward. He had no intention of actually kissing her. Knowing Ginny, she likely smeared arsenic on her lips every morningBut she’d been the one making up reprobate stories about him for weeks, and throwing herself at him all evening.

  Maybe he could scare her into letting him enjoy the rest of his Fourth of July with the solitude of a sausage and a doughnut.

  “What are you doing?” she breathed, a mere palm’s width away now.

  The dusky evening air surrounded them. He raised one eyebrow. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Um.” She gulped. “You can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” He moved one hand in closer to her cheek without actually touching it.

  She fixed her eyes on him. Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip as her gaze darted over him.

  In the moonlight, her lips looked even more kissable. Would she strike his cheek if he took advantage of this moment?

  “Haven’t you ever met Charles?”

  “Charles?” Cal crinkled his brow. “You mean the one who crosses the street fifty feet away from you? I thought it was Peter you were sweet on.”

  If Ginny’s cheeks flamed red, the moonlight obscured the fact, but her voice was far from calm. “You don’t know that.”

  “It’s not hard to guess.”

  A look of wide-eyed horror spread across her face. She squirmed out from under his arms. “The reason Charles does that is because in third grade he kissed me—well, actually I kissed him…during recess. After Uncle Zak visited his house with a posse, no boy’s ever kissed me again. So you better not even think about it.” Her voice sounded rather out of breath, and she spoke insanely fast.

  She looked real cute, wisps of hair flying in her face in the evening wind as she eyed him warily. Shame she didn’t have a personality to match. “I’m the law in this town. I think I’ll make the rules.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re only an assistant and you said you didn’t even want the sheriff position.” Her eyes widened as her voice went shrill.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take that, too.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, though his ears burned to say it. Maybe, if all of Texas blew up in a volcano, and he couldn’t even get a job digging ditches, and he was starving to the point his ribs showed through a leather vest. Yes, maybe then he’d take the sheriff job in Gilman.

  “You said you wouldn’t. You lied to me. I hate you, hate you.” She flew right into his arms, way too close for comfort, and slapped him across the face. Her fingernails dug into his skin. and she raised her hand for another slap.

  “Now hold it there just a second.” He grabbed her wrists and held her hands away from his body. “Assaulting a law man is illegal.”

  “Let go of me, you brute.” Anger turning to frenzy, she kneed and kicked at him. She landed one—and it hurt.

  He twisted her around, her back to his front, and pinned her arms down with both hands. “Let’s just talk about this rationally, Ginny, and—”

  Rationality was apparently the furthest thing from her mind just then. The kicking and squirming and fighting continued. Ripping her hand free, she lunged for one of his revolvers.

  That was not good. He pushed her up against the barn, face on the wood, and leaned up on her.

  Much as he tried, he couldn’t stifle a sigh of frustration. Last time he’d used this technique, it had been with a member of the Silverman gang who had been trying to stab a knife through his chest.

  “Now, now, I scarcely think that is appropriate for two unmarried folks, sweethearts or not.” Mrs. Clinton’s animated voice broke the stillness.

  He fell back from the barn. Ginny whirled around, fists clenched. His hands jumped to shield his revolvers.

  At the corner of the barn, Mrs. Clinton stood, her gray hair reflecting moonlight, a placid smile on her lips.

  Ginny threw her hands up, making the cottonwood leaves above her head tremble. “It wasn’t me. He lied to me and—”

  Smoothing down her dress, Mrs. Clinton beckoned Ginny to do likewise. “Tsk, tsk, young lady. The gentler sex must take their fair share of responsibility i
n these matters.”

  He had no idea how Mrs. Clinton could be so wildly wrong in her assumptions and still smile cheerfully.

  “What about a nice dance on the public dance floor. Lots of chaperones there.” A strangely maternal smile spread across Mrs. Clinton’s lips.

  “No,” came out of Cal and Ginny’s mouth at the same time.

  “Come on children. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  He groaned. Mrs. Clinton never took no for an answer.

  ~*~

  A canvas awning stretched across the packed dirt of the makeshift dance floor. Set off to the side of the awning, table after table laden with desserts of all varieties lined the dance area.

  The fiddler adjusted his bow strings and started an energetic waltz. Cal braced his shoulders. He’d hoped at least for a contra dance where he could get as far away from Ginny as possible. A lightning strike on the tent would also have been positive, and quite deserved on her end.

  “Go on you two.” Mrs. Clinton patted Ginny’s cheek.

  Jerking away, Ginny turned furious eyes to him.

  “Don’t look at me. She’s your friend,” he hissed back.

  The lanterns hanging from the tent swayed and flickered with a breath of wind. The couples on the dance floor had already begun raising dust and twirling dresses. Mrs. Clinton’s unavoidable stare grew more intense. With the air of a sacrificial lamb, Ginny stretched her hand out into the open air.

  He swept it up and marched out to the dance floor.

  Once there, she touched his shoulder with two fingertips, much like someone immersing her hand in a bog.

  With a roll of his eyes, he moved forward. He was too angry to waste time on vain shows of displeasure. “Let’s get this over with.” Grabbing her around the waist, he plunged into the waltz music, not caring whether he stepped on her feet in the process or not. He was much too busy ensuring her hands stayed safely away from his holsters to care about the way her waist curved perfectly under his arm or the warmth of her body through calico.

  Happy people congested the dance floor and he spun to the right where there were fewer of them. Through the swirl of calico and gingham, Ginny fought left toward the sawhorse tables laden with desserts.

  “You’re holding too tight.” She squirmed and put more distance between them.

  He most certainly did not notice that the action shifted her dress askew, partially revealing the whiteness of a lovely shoulder. Instead, he continued stomping out the rhythm set by the fiddler. “Because you’re fighting my lead. Stop talking and dance.” His gaze flicked to that white shoulder that he was not noticing.

  She jerked her hand off his arm. “I don’t want to dance over in the backwoods edge where you can’t even hear the music.”

  He didn’t let go. “Tough it.” A circling pair lost in each other’s eyes almost crashed into them. He pulled the waltz step back to the left.

  She glared at him, an enticing fire in those green eyes. “This is my town’s Fourth of July dance. Why should you get to decide where we dance?”

  Not an enticing fire in her green eyes, a repugnant fire, that was what he had meant to think. And her cheeks did not glow by lamplight, nor did he have any desire to run his fingers through the burnished brown of her hair that the struggle behind the stable had set partially loose. “Because I’m the man, and I lead the waltz.”

  “That’s a nonsensical, antiquated tradition.”

  “Dancing? I agree. I hope to never do it again after tonight.” He planted his boot on dirt again in the mind-numbing monotony of the three-step. How much longer would this song last? His fingers tingled where they touched Jenny’s back. Her breath blew against him and his gaze fixated on her pink lips. The song couldn’t end soon enough for him since he found holding Miss Ginny Thompson in his arms quite…repugnant.

  Ginny stopped moving and kicked him in the shins.

  Flinging her hands away, he grabbed his leg. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What do you think you’re doing? Bully!”

  Leaving his bruised shin to blacken unattended, he straightened. “You’re the one that started punching me behind the barn.”

  “Because you lied to me.”

  “Lied? I’m allowed to apply for any job I want.” Deranged, that was the only word for her right now. Too bad Gilman didn’t have an insane asylum. Maybe he could build one? Without trying, he could already count five people he’d like to put in it.

  “You said you wouldn’t stay!” Her face was bright red with anger, but that was scarcely unusual for her. The loudness of her voice, however, was something. He could see at least two dozen bobbing heads distracted from the dancing. Fiddle music and three-step waltz notwithstanding, couples turned toward Ginny’s commotion.

  “What makes you think I’d want the sheriff position in this insignificant town? I’d have to deal with you every day.” Now the count of staring people reached four dozen, and half of them had abandoned all pretense of dancing.

  “Probably just to be a corrupt leader, take bribes, and arrest me. Maybe you did embezzle that money.” Her hands went to her hips, flaring out the fabric of her skirt. Though she seemed oblivious to the fact, no one in the tent was even pretending to dance now. Rather, all eyes were glued on him and her. Several people in the crowd stared, mouths open. Oh well, her loss. He’d be shaking the dust of Gilman off his feet soon as he caught the Silverman gang.

  Shifting his stance, he dug his thumbs into his gun belt, hands protecting the butt of the pistols. “You certainly deserve to be arrested after the way you’ve acted toward me.”

  Now even the fiddler gave up vain attempts to keep the music going and joined the rest of the dance floor in staring.

  “The way I’ve acted?” She backed up against the refreshment table, gripping the table lip until her knuckles went white. The six-layer cake behind her wobbled precariously.

  “You’re going to topple the table,” he said in a disgusted voice. One hand on her shoulder, he tried to steer her away.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “Stop leaving a path of destruction wherever you go then.”

  “I do not leave a—” She seized a pie tin behind her, “path of destruction!” She hurled it into his face.

  Syrup and blueberry bits dripped off his nose. “You!”

  He peeled pie crust off of his eye. Ginny backed up against the refreshment table, a smug smile on her face. “And you called Houston uncivilized?”

  He stooped to pick up the pie tin that now contained only splattered guts.

  Yipping wildly, a mangy dog ran forward and grabbed the tin between its teeth. Cal yanked the tin upward with a whipping motion. Unfortunately, the dog’s jaw proved stronger and its body flew up and landed squarely against the six-layer cake. The cake plate tilted and fell forward—toward Ginny.

  An avalanche of cake crumb and thick butter icing tumbled down Ginny’s bodice.

  “How dare you!” She seized up a mounded pile of sweet potato fritters and sent them sailing toward him.

  Barking loudly, the mangy dog jumped off the table toward the flying food. Its paws landed on Ginny’s shoulders as it sunk its paws into the icing-covered dress front. With a cry, Ginny stumbled, vainly clutching at the air as the dog’s beating tail obscured her vision.

  Cal lunged for her hand. A plateful of doughnuts upended into his face as he tripped over the tablecloth-enshrouded sawhorse of one dessert table.

  Ginny’s high-heeled boots skidded out from under her on an icing trail right toward the other sawhorse. The table flipped and hit the next table, which hit the next one.

  The dog yelped as Ginny’s body slammed against the earth and then it licked Ginny’s cake-covered bodice, paws scrambling for a foothold on the grease.

  Jumping over a sawhorse, Cal grabbed for the dog’s thrashing body. In the blur of movement, he grabbed her chest instead.

  “Get off me you libertine!” Pushing to a sitting position, Ginny bomb
arded him with ten cupcakes.

  “I was trying to help with the dog.”

  Jumping to her feet, Ginny sidestepped the dog, which went for the cake.

  Cal’s gaze followed the flying creature. It landed paws down, ragged ears flapping.

  With a crack, flying metal hit the back of his skull. Red spurted everywhere. He only hoped it was raspberry pie and not his own blood. Twisting around, he slid on the pie guts that slathered the floor. He grabbed for the last standing sawhorse behind, and it fell under his weight. He hit the ground with a dull thud.

  A whip cream and flapjack pillow surrounded him and he could feel the syrup part oozing through the cloth of his trousers. So it wasn’t like he could lose much more dignity. Seizing up a blueberry tart, he hurled it at her. Perfectly aimed, the tart landed just off her ear and the crust dangled there.

  “Sheriff! Sheriff Thompson!” A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mrs. Clinton’s shouted.

  Cal pulled himself up to his knees to look over the fallen sawhorses and boards.

  Skirts and hands fluttering, Mrs. Clinton started the cry again. “Sheriff Thompson! Your niece and the Texas lawman are behaving in a completely uncivilized fashion, and a mongrel is wrecking the entire tent. Come here now!” She had a decent sprint for a lady of her age.

  Cal flopped back into the flapjacks and other sugary substances that covered the floor. He would probably receive all the blame for this episode. Resting his head in his hands, he let a long sigh flow out of his lungs.

  He was a lawman. He held a doctor of jurisprudence, and he’d graduated first in his class for the Texas Rangers. He could hit a moving target from sixty paces away—every time. How had it come to this? Almost two months he’d spent in Gilman, and still not one gang member sat behind bars, yet here he was caked with sugar, worrying about the opinions of a busybody Temperance League.

  12

  Ginny looked down at her icing-stained dress. She really shouldn’t have thrown that first blueberry pie at Cal. Beyond wasting perfectly-edible pie, it was cruel.