No sooner had the ranchers left than Mrs. Dodson stopped by to complain about a neighbor helping himself to her vegetable garden. She was followed by Mr. Hatton, who claimed that Mrs. Berry was chasing her cheating husband down the street with her crutches.
Just as he left, in walked Mrs. Brubaker, an older woman with a perpetual scowl. She plunked a brown glass bottle on Amanda’s desk. The label read Dr. Conkey’s Miracle Cure for Aging.
“He promised me that concoction would take years off my face.” She stabbed her sunken, parched cheeks with the tips of her fingers. “Do I look any younger?”
It wasn’t her face but her dreadful hat that made her look older than her years, but Amanda didn’t want to say as much. Why anyone would wear a hat shaped like a gigantic mushroom was beyond the pale.
“Uh…”
Mrs. Brubaker lifted all three of her chins. “Just as I thought. I want my money back.”
“I believe Dr. Conkey has already left town.” Or would have if he knew what was good for him.
“You’re the sheriff. Find him!” The older woman grabbed her bottle and left.
The parade of citizens continued with no end in sight. Some of the “crimes” were almost laughable, such as the one lodged by the spinster Higgins who complained that Mr. Matthews winked at her. The woman was so unpleasant in nature, it was hard to imagine any man—even one as myopic and deaf as Mr. Matthews—flirting with her.
Miss Higgins left, and Amanda turned to the next person in line just as a loud boom shook the building and rattled the windows. The beads on the lampshade bounced like corn kernels on a hot skillet. Deputy Hobson ran into the office, hat flying off his head.
“Hurry, Sheriff,” he yelled, hand on the pistol by his side. “We’re under siege!”
Seventeen
Grabbing her hat and leaving the still long line of complaining citizens in her office, Amanda shot out the door after Scooter.
“What do you mean under siege?” she called to her deputy. Leaping off the boardwalk, she raced to her (Rennick’s) horse.
For answer, a second boom rent the air, followed by another.
Scooter’s eyes widened. “Sounds like war!”
The booming sounds came from west of town. Grabbing hold of the saddle horn, she jammed her foot into the stirrup, then swung her leg over the leather. The divided skirt sure did make mounting a breeze.
Riding side by side, she and Scooter raced down Main. Thanks to her new mount, she no longer had to struggle to keep up with her deputy’s horse.
The loud booms brought shopkeepers running out of stores, some brandishing shotguns. Dogs barked, horses neighed, and chicken feathers flew about like flurries in a snowstorm. Poor Mrs. Dobbins dropped her basket of groceries as she ran to safety, breaking the six-inch raised hem law.
Outside of town, blue smoke streamed toward a cloudy sky, guiding Amanda and Hobson to an old farm wagon with the words Rain King written on the slatted wood sides. A man wearing a top hat and long purple duster stood in the bed of the wagon next to a dusty black cannon.
“Hello there,” she called, reining in her horse.
The stranger pulled a rammer rod out of the barrel of the cannon and straightened. Dark, wavy hair fell to his shoulders, and his duster reached to the toes of his dusty black boots. The patch on his eye gave him the appearance of a pirate.
“Why, hello there…uh…” Standing the metal rod on end, he stared at her badge and frowned.
She dismounted and walked up to the side of the wagon. “I’m Sheriff Lockwood.”
An incredulous look crossed his face. “Well, if that don’t beat all. A lady sheriff, eh? Never thought I’d see the day.”
She slanted her head toward the cannon. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“The meaning? Oh, you mean ol’ Betsy here.” He ran a hand along the cannon’s black muzzle. “See those clouds up there? I aim to make it rain. That’s why they call me the Rain King. Some folks have paid me good money to end the drought.”
She eyed him warily. The town had no shortage of quacks who promised every cure under the sun from an ingrown toenail to baldness, but this was the first she heard of someone claiming to control the weather.
“And you think shooting off cannons is going to end the drought?”
“No question about it. Why, during the War Between the States, every major battle was followed by downpours caused by heavy artillery fire. In fact, nearly two hundred battles were followed by torrential rains, and that’s no coincidence. All I’m doing is putting that phenomena to good use.”
Standing by her side, Deputy Hobson’s eyes were round as pie tins. “Wow! That’s amazing.”
“If it works,” Amanda said, which she doubted.
“Oh, it works all right,” the Rain King assured her. “Even Napoleon noticed that rain often followed major battles. Those clouds have the water. We just have to shake it loose. Kinda like shaking money from a miser.” He laughed at his own joke and slapped his hand on the cannon. “That’s ol’ Betsy’s job.”
“Well, I’ll be a donkey’s uncle,” Scooter exclaimed, clearly impressed. “Grandpappy was right. He who spits into the sky gets it back in his own face. Yoo-hoo!”
Amanda sighed. As much as she hated the thought of curbing her deputy’s enthusiasm, it would have to be done. That is, if such a thing were possible. So far, talking to him about the problem had not worked.
For now, she concentrated on the latest charlatan to peddle his way through town. “Unfortunately, my job is to keep the peace, and you and your friend here are disturbing it.”
The Rain King furrowed his brow. “It seems to me the good citizens of Two-Time must make a choice between rain and peace. Can’t have both.”
“As much as I would like to see an end to the drought, right now, we choose peace.”
The Rain King looked insulted. “Suit yourself,” he said peevishly. He climbed out of the wagon bed and, with an indignant shake of the head, heaved himself onto the driver’s seat. Muttering, he shook the reins, and he and his wagon rumbled off.
“Great guns!” Scooter exclaimed. “Never thought anyone could actually make it rain.”
Amanda mounted her horse. “They can’t,” she said. “He’s just another snake oil salesman. He could no sooner make it rain than a cat can knit a sweater.”
Just as she and Hobson reached town, she was forced to eat those words. The wind grew stronger, the day grew dark, and all at once, the skies opened up, releasing a gully-washer that promised to put an end to the two-year drought and then some.
Raising his hat high over his head, Hobson lifted his face to the pounding rain. “Holy mackerel!” he yelled. “The sky is falling!”
* * *
The rain pounded the windows of the sheriff’s office that night as Amanda sat at her desk going through the stack of complaints and requests for help. It seemed like everyone in town had a stranded cat, an intolerable neighbor, or an elderly relative on the loose.
Elbows on the desk, she held up her head with the palms of her hands. The magnitude of the job grew more apparent with each passing hour, and her apprehension knew no end.
Never could she remember feeling so discouraged or overwhelmed. How foolish of her to think she was up to the task.
“I can’t do this!”
“Sure you can.”
Dropping her hands, she spun around in her chair. She hadn’t noticed that the door to the cellblock was open. She certainly didn’t know she’d spoken aloud.
Instead of his usual pacing, Mr. Rennick stood watching her. In the dim lantern light, his dark eyes seemed to beckon.
“How do you know what I can or cannot do?” she snapped.
He rubbed the back of his head. “Seen you in action, that’s how.”
“Yeah, well, my so-called action wasn’t much use
during the Freeman fire when it was most needed.”
“Still blamin’ yourself for that, are you?”
“It’s not just the fire.” Though that was a big part of it. There were still unanswered questions as to how the fire started. If she couldn’t even get to the bottom of a simple fire, how would she ever track down a cattle rustler or horse thief? She brushed the pile of wanted posters off her desk and onto the floor.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Been my experience that riding a new path at full trot means trouble.”
Sighing, she shook her head. She was too tired to figure out riddles. It was enough trying to make sense of Scooter’s peculiar quotes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means start slow. Take your time. Prioritize. Look for Cooper’s killer first, and the rest will fall into place.”
She rolled her eyes. There he went again. Insisting on his innocence. Instead of arguing with him as usual, she left her desk and walked to the open door separating her office from the cell block. Crossing her arms, she leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Nothing’s easy.” His dark eyes reflected glimmers of light as he studied her. “You never did say how you and Kill…uh…my horse got along?”
The question brought an unbidden smile to her face. “Like a bear to a honey tree.”
He grinned. “See? Now that you have a decent mount, half your troubles are over.”
“You mean you still trust me with your horse? After what happened?”
“I’m not worried about him. Like I said, he’ll always find his way back to me.” He tilted his head. “So what’s all this talk about not doin’ your job?”
“I know nothing about tracking down outlaws.” She hated complaining or feeling sorry for herself—to a prisoner no less—but once started, she couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t know how to find a bunch of stolen calves or a quack doctor. I can’t even fire a gun.”
“Sure you can. Your hope-a-thingie will attest to that.” He rubbed the back of his head. “You just have to learn to use the business side as well as the grip. As for trackin’ down stolen cattle, all you need is a good pair of ears.”
“Ears?”
“The problem with rustlin’ longhorns is that a mama and her babe have a way of findin’ their way back to each other. I had occasion to meet one longhorn who’d traveled more than five miles to find her calf.”
“Are you sure Spirit’s not got longhorn blood?”
He laughed. “Could be.” After a moment, he added, “The only way to prevent such reunions is for rustlers to keep calves penned up. Ever hear the sound a calf makes when he’s separated from his mama?”
She shook her head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“They bawl like all get out.” He pointed to the side of his head. “That’s where the ears come in.”
“So you’re saying I just have to ride around listening for bawling calves.” He made it sound like a piece of cake.
“Either that or follow a worried longhorn mom lookin’ for her babe.”
“This is Texas. There’s a lot of land to cover out there.”
He lifted his broad shoulders. “Sometimes, a person gets lucky.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know so much about cattle? Don’t tell me that rustling is among your many talents.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but in my youth, I worked on a cattle ranch.”
“Did you now?” She slanted her head. “Any other advice? On how to be a sheriff, I mean?” Right now, she could use all the advice she could get, even if it came from a dubious source.
“Never trust anything a prisoner says. Been my experience that most of them have no honor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Rennick.”
“Call me Rick.”
“I’d rather not,” she said. “Getting on friendly terms with a soon to be condemned man is like naming an animal you plan on eating.”
A lazy but no less suggestive grin spread across his face. “Do you plan on eatin’ me?”
“Certainly not!” Of all the cheeky things to say. Face flaming, she turned to leave. “Good night, Mr. Rennick.”
“G’night, Miss Sheriff.”
* * *
Rick woke to a strange smell, and his mind scrambled to make sense of his surroundings. Nightmares had marked his sleep. In his dreams, he was drowning.
A strange scraping sound sharpened his senses. Cracks in the ceiling gave him something to focus on while the fog cleared in his head.
He sniffed, and a strong tallow smell filled his nostrils.
Wide awake now, he stared at the barred window over his cot. A spider web hung in the corner. The rain was still falling, and the sky was steel gray. He was no longer dreaming, but the effects of the nightmare remained.
Each time he closed his eyes, his mind flew back to the night he was caught. The happy couple in the hall. A man exiting the room and limping down the hall. The body on the floor. A woman’s screams…
A good-time girl had been hired by Cooper. When she entered the room, her screams brought staff and guests running. Confusion reigned, and Rick was dragged bodily from the hotel. Hands tied. Torches. Rope… He was sure his time was up.
None of this explained the odor or strange scraping sound. What little hay remained in the thin mattress rustled as he sat up. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rubbed his face with both hands and then started on his sore back. For all the good the thin mattress did, he might as well sleep on a pile of rocks.
He shifted his gaze to the cell next to his and blinked. Was that really the lady sheriff on hands and knees scrubbing the brick floor? The tallow smell was actually lye soap.
He cleared his throat. The scouring stone stilled in her hand, and she looked up to meet his gaze. Just like that, he found himself drowning yet again, this time in the liquid pools of her turquoise eyes. She looked more like herself this morning than she had the night before.
She was truly a woman of contradictions, one moment all vim and vinegar like she looked today. At other times, usually when she sat at her desk and thought no one was looking, she appeared as soft and vulnerable as a kitten.
“Morning, Mr. Rennick!” she said in a cool, crisp voice.
“Morning,” he muttered, pinching his forehead. How was it possible to have a hangover without touching a drop of alcohol? “Heard you say you planned on cleanin’ up the town. Didn’t know you meant it literally.”
“This jail is in terrible condition.” Her eyes flashed. “It’s not a suitable place for man nor beast.”
He pulled his gaze away from her and glanced around. If she thought this was bad, she should see the cells at Huntsville Penitentiary. “So which am I?”
“What?”
“Man or beast? Which am I?”
She pursed her lips. “That’s to be determined,” she said and went back to scrubbing.
She certainly was a sight for sore eyes, and the emptiness of his life hit him full force as he watched her. She even looked appealing on hands and knees. That crazy outfit of hers couldn’t hide her feminine charms. He’d have to be blind or dead not to notice her slender waist and nicely rounded hips. And she sure did know how to wiggle that caboose of hers.
With a groan, he forced his gaze to the grimy floor beneath his feet. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Hadn’t even thought about it all that much. Been too busy trying to stay alive. Had almost forgotten what it meant to feel attracted to someone. To feel like a man instead of a criminal.
Not that he could ever have feelings for the female sheriff. He knew all too well the pain that came from loving an independent woman like her. Had experienced firsthand the heartbreak that such a woman could bring to those who loved her.
Irritat
ed by the unwelcome memories, he called in a gruff voice, “What’s a body have to do around here to get a cup of coffee?”
She tossed a look over her shoulder. “Your breakfast should be here at any minute.”
Then she stood, picked up her bucket, and left, but only for as long as it took to return with a broom. Flinging it right and left, she swept the cobwebs from the corners of the cell next to his as if fighting off an advancing army.
Never had he seen a more gallant battle raged against dirt and grime. “Don’t you have some outlaws to catch?”
“Yes, and as soon as it stops raining, I intend to do just that.”
He blew out his breath and shook his head. He never did understand the inner workings of a woman’s mind, and that went double for Miss Lockwood. So far, his efforts to earn her trust had gotten him nowhere. He’d tried flattery and appealing to her womanly senses. He even befriended her when her spirits lagged or she questioned her ability, though that part had been genuine.
Still, nothing he said or did persuaded her to change her mind. She was hell-bent on keeping him locked up, and time was running out fast. If he didn’t convince her to set him free before the circuit judge arrived, he was bound for buzzard’s bait sure as night followed day.
Eighteen
It was after ten that morning by the time Mrs. Ackermann finally arrived with Rennick’s breakfast. The woman had no concept of time and often smelled of alcohol.
Today, she stomped inside, dripping rain water all over the floor, and didn’t even bother wiping her muddy feet on the rug Amanda had placed in front of the door.
Owner of a local boardinghouse, she had been hired by the town council to prepare meals for prisoners. She was a large-boned woman with a thick German accent. Beneath a floral bonnet, her unkempt dark hair framed a pudgy red face.
Amanda stood the broom against the wall and greeted her with a frown.
“You’re late again.”
The woman lifted her shoulders beneath her rain-soaked cloak with a careless shrug. “Got here soon as I could.” Offering no apologies, she set the tray on the desk. She hadn’t even thought to cover the plate or coffee cup, and the tray swam in rainwater.
A Match Made in Texas Page 11