No Buttons Or Beaux

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “I need to get home, Peter.”

  “Horsefeathers.”

  “Truly, I do need to get home. I shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

  “You cain tell a feller you ought to be home—that lets him know yore mindful of your obligations. But when you insist and he knows ’tisn’t absolutely essential, he’s gonna be insulted. Hit’s like tellin’ him you’d rather be scrapin’ yore knuckles on a washboard ’stead of spendin’ time with him.”

  “But we’re just pretending.”

  “Cain’t pretend when you don’t do it.” Peter grinned at her. “Now don’t you be challenging what I jist said. You ken full well I meant iff’n you don’t practice like yore out courtin’ with some fine buck, then you’ll like as not miss out on learning sommat important.”

  To his delight, she stood. Closing his hands around her waist, he ordered, “Now lay your hands atop my shoulders.” She complied. He lifted a little, then drew her down. Instead of letting go, he rumbled, “Now don’t turn loose of me quick. Wait a bit afore you draw back yore hands.”

  “How long?”

  Forever. “Long ’nuff to look me in the eyes and whisper a sweet little thankee.”

  “Thank you.” She broke contact, then gave him a funny look. “When do you let go?”

  Never. “A man is a bit slow to turn loose ’cuz he’s taken a shine to a gal. Iff’n a man keeps holt of you too long, you cain twist free or tromp on his toe to make him mind his manners.”

  “You still haven’t let go.”

  He grinned. When April tried to twist, he held tight. Her eyes widened, then she chewed on her bottom lip. A second later, he chuckled. “Was that a mouse skitterin’ ’cross my boot?”

  She stepped a little harder, and he let go.

  “There. I pretended.”

  “And you learnt sommat.” He pivoted and pulled a blanket from the back of the buckboard.

  “Peter!” She looked just as shocked as she sounded. Staring at the blanket, April stammered, “You said we were just pretending. We’re not really going to plop down out here in the middle of nowhere and waste time!”

  “Lookie how beautiful ’tis here. A field full of posies, a gentle breeze, and ’nuff shade to let you keep your ladylike complexion. A place like this ain’t nowhere. ’Tis God’s spread. Takin’ the opportunity to ’preciate it—that ain’t wastin’ time.” He grabbed the lunch Ma had packed for them and said, “Now you slide yore hand in the crook of my arm.”

  April balked. “That seems awfully. . .forward.”

  “Nah. What with women’s shoes having them silly heels, and us bein’ at a spot where the ground’s uneven, hit’s common sense for a woman to seek a steadying arm. Now iff’n you grabbed for my hand, that would be forward.”

  When he winged his elbow toward her, she slid her hand into the crook and sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever remember all of this.”

  “Don’t expect you to, all at once. Practice makes perfect. We’ll make shore we get together a bunch.”

  They spread out the blanket, then sat side by side. Curling his hand around hers, Peter said, “I’m tryin’ to be mindful of yore fingers. When first you have picnics with other bucks, don’t go lettin’ ’em hold yore hand. Me? Well, both of our families practice linkin’ hands for grace. Wouldn’t seem right, us prayin’ without doin’ this.”

  “Even when there are just two of us?”

  “Bible says where two or three are gathered, God’s in the midst. Two’s plenty.” He bowed his head. “Dear lovin’ Lord, thankee for April and givin’ us time together. I ask Yore blessin’ on our endeavors and on the food we eat. Be with our kin, where’er they be, amen.”

  “Amen.” After emptying the buckets, April took one of the cloths and spread it across her lap.

  “All you Chances—you got elegant table manners. What say you holp me learn some of ’em?”

  “I’d be happy to. The first thing you do after prayer is spread a napkin across your lap.”

  “Why? Food ain’t gonna drop ’til after you served up everything.”

  “It keeps everyone from grabbing.”

  “Seems easy ’nuff for a woman. Men don’t ’zactly have a lap.” He chose one thigh and draped the cloth over it. “And I’d thank a woman’d be gratified to see folks pouncin’ on her food. Shows they like her cookin’.”

  April unwrapped a pair of sandwiches and served him one. “Oh, it’s your mama’s chicken salad! I don’t know what she adds to it, but her chicken salad’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Says hit’s a secret. Johnna had to vow she’d not tell a soul other than her own daughter someday. I ’spect Ma’ll share the ingredients with my bride.” He waggled his brows. “How bad d’you wanna have that recipe?”

  April laughed.

  Honey pie, you don’t know how serious I am.

  Her laughter suddenly died out. “Peter! What did you tell your mother? She has to know something’s up, or she wouldn’t have made this lunch!”

  “I tole her the truth—that yore a special gal and I wouldn’t mind passin’ more time with you.”

  “Peter! They’re going to think—”

  “I don’t live my life frettin’ o’er what other folks thank. Neither should you. Iff’n yore shore what you do is pleasin’ to the Almighty, that’s the only measure what counts.”

  “Yes, but—”

  His heart twisted. “April, are you ashamed to have folks believe I’ve taken a shine to you?”

  Five

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” The immediacy of April’s response made it clear that embarrassment wasn’t the issue. “Peter, if folks think you’re courting me, then you can’t be free to follow your heart when the right girl comes along.”

  “You oughtta be more worried ’bout fellers who won’t come callin’ on you ’cuz I am.”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses? I’ve never caught the attention of anyone.”

  Peter snorted. “So you say. You hang onto yore hat, April Chance. Men always want what they cain’t get. Soon as fellers see me ’round you, they’ll be kickin’ theirselves for not seeing you in a true light. I’m gonna make ’em jealous. Won’t be long afore they beat a path to yore door.”

  “You’re not making sense. In one breath, you tell me men won’t come calling because we’re seen together. In the next breath, you tell me they’ll be beating a path out to the ranch.”

  “That’s ’cuz you don’t understand the plan yet.” He took a big bite of his sandwich.

  Looking completely disgruntled, April took a bite of hers.

  “Here’s how it works. Folks is gonna link yore name and mine. Soon ’nuff, the fellers’ll take notice. You’ll be yore friendly self to them, but I’ll still have you on my arm. With me squirin’ you about, they’re gonna have to contend with me. Me? I’m gonna gloat aloud ’bout how wonderful them sticky buns are that you make.” He lifted his sandwich, and just before taking a good-sized chomp out of it, he tacked on, “Yore gonna make me them sticky buns so I’m not bein’ a liar, right?”

  “I make them every Wednesday.”

  “But when you up and bake ’em any other day, yore kin are gonna take notice. Smack their hands away and tell ’em that whole batch is for me. Things like that make an impression. Won’t be long afore someone on Chance Ranch goes to town and grumbles.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if all of this is a ploy to get me to bake you a batch.”

  Peter set down his sandwich and looked at her. “Woman, I’m fixin’ to give you a lecture, so pay me heed.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “First off, I’m a straightforward kinda man. If all I wanted was yore sticky buns, I’d tromp up and tell you so. Second, I have no patience with a man who stoops to dally with a gal’s heart. Most of all, yore worthy of love and respect jist for bein’ you. ’Tis the truth. God gave you a special gift.”

  “Gift?”

  “Gal, thank on this: Ever’bod
y cain sing, but some got a special voice. Same is true ’bout cookin’. Most every woman—’cept for Polly—cain cook. But when you step into a kitchen, what comes out is a masterpiece. I’ll be shore to praise yore talent, but don’t you e’er make the mistake of thankin’ yore only worth is a batch of sommat you pull outta the oven. Someday, like the Bible says, yore young’uns are gonna rise up and call you blessed, and a lucky man will value you far above rubies.”

  If he hadn’t been sitting next to her, the longing in April’s eyes would have knocked him to his knees. Peter said softly, “I believe it. Deep in my heart, I do.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re an extraordinary man. Truly, you are. Why haven’t you gone courting? Plenty of girls would be flattered to receive your attention.”

  He shook his head. “Not the right time yet. God’s got someone special for me, and I’m fine with waitin’ ’til He brings her along.”

  “You’re not impatient?”

  “At times, but most often not.” He picked up what was left of his sandwich. “Shore was nice of you to speak well of me. I’m a simple farm boy, and I’m oddly spoken. My kin—we have all we need, but others prob’ly thank the MacPhersons are dirt poor.”

  “You’re a hard-working man. Strong and handsome. As for your dialect—I find it charmingly expressive. In many ways, it resembles the phrasing of the King James language in our Bible.”

  “Niver thought of it thataway.”

  “Well, I have. When it comes to the MacPherson clan—you’re all content with what God’s given you. You’re rich in the things that matter most: love, family, friends, and health. Any woman who can’t appreciate that doesn’t deserve you.”

  Peter stared at her. For so long, he’d wondered what she thought about those issues. She didn’t have to search at all to come up with any of those fine words. The praise just flowed out of her, and he knew the sentiments were heartfelt. If only she’d come to feel all of those things specially for me.

  He cleared his throat. “You shore said a mouthful.”

  “I meant every bit of it.”

  “Even though I don’t tuck my napkin in my lap, first off?”

  April laughed and yanked his hand from his mouth just before he licked his fingers. “Don’t lick, Peter. Use the napkin! As for table manners—those can be learned in a trice. Character is developed over a lifetime. A woman would be a fool to choose a so-called gentleman with poor moral fiber over a rough man with integrity who’s proven his devotion to God and family.”

  “Yore sweet words are better than dessert.”

  “I don’t know. . . . We have grapes and Aunt Tempy’s delicious cheese.”

  He looked into her lovely blue eyes. “The day couldn’t get more perfect.”

  ❧

  “The day couldn’t get any worse.” Matt Salter stared at the back of the buggy that carried away a weeping woman. “Her whole world has been destroyed.”

  “Bootleg moonshine.” The San Francisco sheriff shook his head. “Killed her son and blinded her husband.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  Sheriff Charles S. Laumeister turned to go back inside the building. “Not sure.”

  “Anybody check orders for copper piping or large orders of sugar?”

  Laumeister shot him a grin. “You’ll be doing that. I’m putting two of you on special detail. Miller is canvassing south of here. You’ll go east.”

  “Lot of land out there. Bootleggers could have multiple stills in operation.”

  “I expect they do.” The sheriff sat behind his desk and shrugged. “I don’t want you nabbing someone who’s distilling a jug or two a week.”

  Matt didn’t respond. It would be a waste of breath. Plenty of farmers and ranchers distilled small amounts of spirits for themselves. Rounding them up would be ludicrous.

  “I want to put down the major source. There’s a big operation out there somewhere. Pose as a man in need of work. You can drift from one area to the next. No one’ll suspect a saddle tramp of being a lawman.”

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of Matt’s mouth. “I was a saddle tramp before I became a deputy.”

  “Precisely why this case is suited to you.”

  “Folks are closed-mouthed. Finagling the necessary information means I’ll have to earn their trust. That takes time.”

  Laumeister nodded. “I want a thorough job. Get to the heart of the operation. Keep in contact—once a week’s fine.”

  “That’s the fastest way to blow my cover. Places where there’s a still, most of the locals know about it. Too risky for me to check in regularly.”

  “Do your best.”

  “That goes without saying. I’ll have to give up my room at the boardinghouse.”

  “No loss. I’ve tasted Jenny’s cooking. Burned baked beans’ll be a treat by comparison. You can stow a trunk in the storage room here. Get going.”

  Matt strode out of the office, down the street, and into the boarding house. A wool blanket, one Sunday-go-to-meeting white shirt and string tie, a passably good pair of britches the color of charcoal, a pair of just-this-side-of-disreputable work shirts, and his Levis. . .that’s about all a rover would have aside from his hat and saddle.

  Matt changed into the red shirt and denims. A rodeo buckle he’d won a few years back gave the finishing touch. Rolling up the remainder, he realized he’d need a bandana. Good. It gives me an excuse to mosey into a mercantile and pick up on gossip. He picked up the roll and opened his door.

  “Mr. Salter, whatever are you doing?” Miss Jenny asked from the hallway.

  He turned around and looked at the homely old spinster. Bless her, she worked hard to earn an honest living. She couldn’t cook worth two hoots, yet she tried her best. In the year and a half that he’d lived here, Matt had grown to respect her. He even paid for both room and board though he rarely ate any lunch or supper there. That way, she still had a tiny bit more in her pocket.

  “Miss Jenny, you run a fine place. The bed’s comfortable, and you wash sheets every week. I’m going to miss that, but—”

  “You’re leaving.” Her lower lip trembled. “It’s the cowboy in you, isn’t it? You long to sleep out under the stars.”

  “It’s been a long while since I have.”

  “You’re a fine young man. I’ll be praying for you. Would it be too forward of me to ask you to drop me a note every now and then? Just to make sure you haven’t gotten murdered in your sleep by some nefarious bandit?”

  She’d been reading too many dime novels. Then again, aside from working and studying her Bible, what did Miss Jenny have to fill her hours? Matt nodded. “I’ll be sure to write you a line or two.”

  “I do appreciate that. I’ll bake a going-away cake for you. We’ll have it after supper tonight.”

  “Miss Jenny, that’s as kind as can be, but I’m going to leave right after I pack the rest of my things.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a golden eagle. “This is for you.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t! Mr. Salter, that’s ten dollars!”

  “It might take you awhile to get a new boarder in. Since I didn’t give you notice, it only seems fair.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t take that. You’re already paid clear through the end of next month. Truthfully, I ought to give you a refund.”

  “Let’s not spoil our last few minutes together quibbling.” He pressed the coin into her hand.

  “God bless you, Mr. Salter.”

  “He does. May He bless you as well.”

  A scant hour later, Matt swung up into the saddle and headed east. At sunset, he reached the outskirts of a sleepy little town and spent the night outside. Hot as it was, he didn’t need a fire—but his clothes lacked the smell of wood smoke and needed a touch of authentic ground-in grime. He’d bought a box supper right before leaving San Francisco. After eating the meal, he used the pasteboard box as tinder to start a fire.

  By the time dawn arr
ived, he glanced down at his rumpled shirt and grinned. Roughing it for one night resulted in just the right disguise.

  ❧

  “Mornin’.” He doffed his hat toward the old lady and gent at the counter of the mercantile of the nearby town.

  “Never seen you before,” the old man said.

  “I’m just passing through. Lost my bandana.”

  The woman toddled out and beckoned him. “I have a whole stack of them over here.”

  Matt sauntered over and thumbed through the stack. “Nice ones. Sorta fancy.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Last one I had was part of a sugar sack. Yellow. I was partial to that.”

  The old woman chortled softly. “You’ll not find a yellow sugar sack on any shelf for miles around.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the MacPhersons in Reliable buy all their sugar in yellow sacks.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  The old woman’s head bobbed.

  He pretended to thumb through the rest of the stack and mused in a laconic voice, “Seems like a lot of sugar.”

  “Been like that for years. Those are first-rate bandanas. No skimping on the size. Edges done by machine with small stitches that won’t give out under hard use.”

  “Yup.” After patting the stack, he took the uppermost. “This’ll do.” He headed for the counter. As he was paying, his stomach growled.

  “The diner’s open across the street,” the old man said.

  “Now, Daddy,” the old woman chided, “sending this young man over there’s almost a crime.” She waddled closer and clucked her tongue. “New folks from back East just bought it. Charging half again what the old prices were and serving smaller portions.”

  “Mama, it’s their business. They can set whatever price they want.”

  “They won’t stay in business long that way. When the diner doesn’t draw folks to stop in, we won’t have as many customers, either.”

  “We’ll get more customers. Folks are bound to buy more groceries when they get a gander at the prices over yonder.”

  Matt gave the couple a curt nod, picked up the bandana, and walked out. Bickering irritated him. Instead of going to the diner, he rode toward the next town. Learning that the MacPhersons of Reliable used considerable quantities of sugar on a regular basis led him in that direction.