Boot Points

by Ann Charles

  “All of the corners are getting foggy and the frame is all dented and scratched. What kind of metal is that?” He brushed the pads of his fingers over it, then scraped down it. “Some kind of bronze?”

  I hadn’t really thought much about it before; it just had always been in the workshop. “I guess.”

  “There are some weird symbols on it.”

  “I think they’re Latin symbols.” Checking my watch, I glanced at the door. We really didn’t have time to play Indiana Jones right now.

  “Are you sure?” Doc asked, not picking up on the ants in my pants. “I’ve seen plenty of Latin symbols over the years while researching but not these. Not before now. Not even in that old book you ‘borrowed’ from the Carhart house.”

  “Well, I thought Aunt Zoe told me they were Latin, but I could be wrong.” I walked over to the door and held it wide. “She said they have something to do with protecting those who look into it.”

  “Protecting from what?” He stared at me in the fog-edged mirror.

  I shrugged. “From going out in public with something in your teeth, I guess.” I jutted my chin toward the house. “You ready?”

  “Each side a unique piece,” he said under his breath, then touched the left upper corner. “Did your aunt weld this together?”

  Why on earth was he suddenly so interested in that mirror? “I don’t know. I never asked. It’s pretty old, though.”

  “How old?”

  “Like old-old.” When he looked at me with a wrinkled brow, I added, “I don’t know when it was made, but it’s been in our family for a few generations, I think. I know that Aunt Zoe’s had it for as long as I’ve been around.” A fuzzy memory formed. “Quint once asked her about it when we were kids. She told him that our grandmother had given it to her and made her promise to keep it safe from harm.”

  That wasn’t all she’d said. My thoughts returned to that day a long, long time ago. When Quint had asked if he could have it when he grew up, Aunt Zoe had shaken her head. This is not for you, Quint. Then she’d looked over at me.

  Why can’t I have it? Quint had asked, his eight-year-old voice tinged with a whine.

  Because you’re a boy, Aunt Zoe had explained, patting him on the arm. Only the girls in our family have the strength to use it without letting it change us.

  At the time I’d thought she was picking on Quint, but Aunt Zoe had reinforced that the mirror was mine repeatedly over the years, keeping only my picture on it, as if to tether the mirror to me.

  The neighbor’s dog barked, snapping me back to the present. “You ready to go back inside?” I asked Doc.

  He gave the mirror one last glance before joining me outside, waiting as I locked up the shop. “Where to now, Nancy Drew?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. We’re running out of hiding places.”

  His cellphone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, he said, “It’s your bodyguard,” and took the call without breaking stride. “Harvey.”

  When we reached the back porch, Doc paused with one foot on the bottom step. “Really?” he said into the phone, then looked up at me, his brow creasing. “Yeah, I’m with her right now.” Another pause. “No, at her aunt’s place, looking for boots.”

  I heard Harvey say something and then Doc laughed. “Not knocking boots, looking for them.”

  I shook my head. Knowing Harvey as I did, I highly suspected the dirty old bird had heard Doc just fine.

  “She can’t find her purple pair,” he explained. “Well, one of them, anyway.” There was a flurry of noise from Harvey’s end, then Doc held the phone away from his mouth. “Harvey wants to know if you’ve looked in the laundry room. He saw one of your boots in there on the shelf next to the soap last night.”

  Old man Harvey had been spending a lot of nights on my Aunt Zoe’s couch, so much so that he was starting to bring his laundry with him. He claimed that he was keeping an eye on me after all of the trouble I’d had lately with some of Deadwood’s more frightening citizens, but I wondered if any of it had to do with the body parts his old yellow dog kept digging up on his ranch. I certainly wouldn’t want to be hanging around there after dark, especially with those freaky folks just down the winding dirt road in Slagton, a mining ghost town that went “sour” years ago according to locals. Just last week Harvey had told me he’d found a favorite hat that had been missing for months nailed to a STOP sign three miles back toward the creepy town. It had been filled with bullet holes. Just thinking about that again gave me the chills. Maybe I should be acting as Harvey’s bodyguard instead of the other way around.

  “Why didn’t he say something about the boot to me then?” I asked, switching back to the present.

  “What’s that, Harvey?” Doc listened to the phone again while watching me. A grin creased his cheeks. “He said there was a pair of pink flowery skivvies—his word, not mine—stuffed in the boot. He would have washed them but was afraid he’d get your cooties if he touched them.”

  Cooties? Harvey had definitely been hanging around my kids too much.

  “So he looked inside of the boot,” I said, “and then just put it back on the shelf with my underwear still crammed in it?”

  Doc repeated my question through the phone. He listened for a moment. “He says it’s not his business where you keep your boots,” he stopped to listen again, adding, “or your skivvies.”

  Holding the phone away from his face, Doc covered the microphone with his thumb. “On a side note, I’m happy to make the location of both your boots and skivvies my personal business.”

  I playfully pinched his forearm. “You tell that ol’ buzzard …” I hesitated, remembering that Harvey currently was taking the Picklemobile in to get it looked at after having taken my kids to school. Not to mention that he’d cooked us all breakfast this morning and grilled hamburgers for dinner last night.

  “Tell him what?” Doc asked.

  “You tell him that I appreciate his help,” I finished, then mentioned for Doc’s benefit, “I’m going to go check the shelf in the laundry room.”

  I’d reached the back door when Doc’s voice stopped me. “Violet, Harvey said if you find the other boot, leave them on the back porch and he’ll stop by and take them to get fixed for you.”

  As sweet as the gesture was, I knew better than to assume he’d do this out of the goodness of his crusty old heart. I pursed my lips. “At what cost?”

  Doc repeated my question and then let out a loud laugh.

  I didn’t wait around to hear Harvey’s answer, tugging open the screen door and slipping inside the kitchen. I made a left turn into the laundry room. I’d already checked in here once, but hadn’t looked higher than eye level. Sure enough, the boot was up on the top shelf. Whichever kid had stashed it here must have stood on the dryer to get it up there. I went up on my tiptoes and grabbed it, pulling the flowered panties out of it.

  “I haven’t seen those before now,” Doc said from the doorway. “Is there a matching bra?”

  I tossed the underwear into the dirty clothes basket. “Not a bra, a camisole.”

  “Love those, too.” He took the boot from me. “Mystery solved, Miss Drew.” He inspected where the gerbil had sharpened its teeth. “The whole heel may need to be replaced.” He looked over the rest of the sole. “It’s pretty worn. I noticed the sole is cracked on the other one.”

  “Sounds like me.” After years of struggling to raise two kids on my own, worn and cracked could describe the face of the monster staring back at me in the mirror each morning.

  Doc lowered the boot. “You think you’re cracked?”

  “Maybe.” Definitely. But that wasn’t something I needed to broadcast to the guy I wanted to see a lot more of in the near future. Crazy-assed women make scary bedfellows—wasn’t that a saying somewhere? Maybe it was a Harvey-ism. Dear God, I’d been hanging around the ornery old coot too much.

  “Why do you think you’re cracked?”

  “I haven’t had two good nights’ sleep i
n a row in weeks. Between all of the nightmares I’ve been having and Detective Cooper breathing down my neck most days, Mr. Sandman has started avoiding my bedroom like I’ve been quarantined.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “He’s probably afraid Cooper’s going to arrest him, too,” I added with a grimace.

  “Detective Cooper is just trying to protect you.”

  “He sure has a funny way of showing it, barking at me through the fence every other day.”

  “He’s a cop. He’s wired to sniff out danger and bark at it, and ‘Trouble’ is your middle name.”

  I wrinkled my nose at Doc. “Well, Cooper should try walking a mile in my boots and see if he doesn’t step in some shit along the way.”

  “They’d cramp his toes.” Doc grabbed me by the elbow and led me back into the kitchen. “And his style.”

  “What style?” I scoffed and took the boot from Doc. “You mean his bullet-hole T-shirts and neckties with little handcuffs covering them?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of him only seeing things in black and white, while you are looking through purple-tinted lenses.”

  “Are those like rose-colored glasses?”

  “No.” He pulled me into his arms and I went without a fight. “Your vision is definitely purple.” He tipped my chin up and brushed his lips across my forehead. “Ultra-Violet, even,” he added with a small smile before kissing me more thoroughly.

  I let the boots dangle and then slip from my grip, wrapping my arms around his neck, plastering myself against the front of him like a windbreaker in a stiff breeze.

  He pulled back.

  “What was that?” I asked, still breathing heavily.

  “That was a proper hello kiss, Boots.” His eyes had that twinkle again. “You sure you can’t spare ten minutes before we have to head out the door?” His lips trailed along my jawline, his hands exploring my contours through my shirt.

  “Ten minutes isn’t enough.”

  “Is that a challenge?” His hands pulled my hips tight against him as he backed me up against the counter.

  “No, not a challenge. I just want longer than ten minutes with you.”

  “But then you’ll be late,” he said.

  “I’ll tell them I had pickup trouble.” I tugged him into the dining room.

  “Your hair will be messed up.”

  “From being so frustrated with that damned pickup.”

  “Your lips will be swollen.”

  “I’ll hide behind my coffee cup.” I started up the stairs. “Wait! My boots.”

  He came up behind me. “Don’t worry about your boots. I’ll take them in to get fixed today after I drop you off.”

  I smiled down at him. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course. Just tell me exactly what you want done with them so I can explain to the folks at the boot place.” He stood eye level with me, his hands framing my waist. “I have big plans for you and your boots, you know.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant and at the moment didn’t feel like thinking too much about it. I slid my arms around his neck. “What about right now?”

  “I have big plans for right now, too, but we’re short on time, so we’d better get moving.” He nudged his chin toward the top of the stairs.

  “I mean don’t you want me to wear the boots right now?”

  “There’s no time for that. Besides, I don’t know if you realize it,” he said softly, his eyes darkening as he stared at my mouth. “But it’s not really about the boots, Violet.”

  The End … for now

  Thanks to the Jeopardy crew for including my Deadwood Series in 2012.

  Deleted Scene from Nearly Departed in Deadwood

  Following is a scene that was in the original version of Nearly Departed in Deadwood. In this original version of the story, in addition to Violet having a secret admirer, she also had a stalker. This stalker was the result of one of Addy’s attempts to find a husband for Violet. The stalker kept calling, leaving threatening-sounding messages on Aunt Zoe’s answering machine. He coerced Violet to meet him for a “blind” date at Hardee’s restaurant in Rapid City by mentioning that he knew where she lived. So, Violet agreed to meet him for a meal, and old man Harvey went along as backup, with the promise that he’d wait in the Bronco for Violet and “watch her back.”

  Without further ado, here is the deleted scene.

  “This place is dead,” Harvey said as I swung my rig into the Hardee’s parking lot.

  “Good.” It would be easier for him to play Peeping Tom.

  “Why are you parking here, girl?” he asked as I pulled up next to the only other vehicle in the lot—a rusted Ford van, windowless in the back. “I’m gonna need some space to get off a clear shot.”

  “Harvey, I told you, there will be no shooting tonight.” I shut off the engine and nailed him with a glare.

  Halfway down to Rapid City, Harvey mentioned that he’d forgotten to pack the slugs. Having lead pellets dug out of my skin was not how I wanted to end my night.

  Harvey crossed his arms over his chest with a hrumpf! His lower lip jutted. “Then how do you expect me to save your ass? Hit him with a round of harsh words?”

  I tossed him my cell phone. “Three numbers: nine, one, one.” Before he could argue with me anymore, I shoved open my door and hopped to the ground.

  My tennis shoes felt springy on the asphalt after clomping around in mule-heels all day. The pavement still oozed heat. On the western horizon, the early evening sunshine held steady above the Black Hills, shrouding their eastern-facing slopes with dark shadows. Down here on the prairie, it was easy to see how the hills had earned their name.

  Like any fast-food joint worth its salt, Hardee’s smelled of French fries and greasy burgers. I’d have been drooling if I wasn’t about to meet the man who’d spent the last two weeks harassing Aunt Zoe’s answering machine. As it was, the aroma of sizzling fat had me gulping back the nausea bullying its way up my esophagus.

  Ignoring the imploring stare of the uniformed high school kid standing behind the register, I scanned the dining room. The cheery notes of Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy rang through ceiling speakers. I growled at the irony.

  A pair of well-rounded, middle-aged lovebirds occupied one of the center tables, sharing a heap of fries and a bounty of adoring gazes. Fast food and romance—an odd combination, but who was I to judge? As a single mom who’d had sex just once in over two years—and that was only by accident—I had a lot to learn about affairs of the heart.

  In a booth in the back corner, a rail of a guy sat hunched over a foil-wrapped sandwich. On the table across from him, a large drink, a bag of fries, and an unopened sandwich were laid out picture-perfect on a tray. Martha Stewart would have been proud. As I stared, he looked up at me from behind a pair of owl-eyed glasses and smiled.

  Bachelor number one, at my service.

  My heart bucking like a pissed-off bronco, I crossed the tiled floor. My soles made a ripping sound on the sticky spots.

  “Hi,” my voice trembled. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I’m Violet.”

  His glasses magnified the size of his eyeballs, making his irises extra big and extra hazel. Up close, I noticed the thin, blonde moustache furring his upper lip. As if he’d suddenly remembered his manners, he scrambled to his feet, almost knocking over his drink in the process.

  “I’m Gary.” After stabilizing his cup, he held out his hand. His palm was softer than the skin on my kids’ tummies. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  I dropped into the booth seat across from him, lining up with the place setting he’d laid out for me. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

  He smiled, apparently missing the barb in my words. His teeth were straight, except for one crooked canine. “He was right.”

  “Who was right?”

  “Dr. Schmirnof.”

  “Schmirnoff? As in the vodka?”

  “Yes, but that has two F’s. Dr. Schmirnof was my cellmate
.”

  Cellmate? Oh, crap. “You were in prison?”

  “Of course. You knew that. Or didn’t you read my comments on your profile page?”

  “Profile page?” I was playing parrot again, but I couldn’t help it. Crazy shit was flying at me way too fast.

  “On FeloniousLove.com.”

  Jeez! I was going to lock Addy in Aunt Zoe’s basement when I got home and not let her out until she was eighteen. That damned ‘ex-cons seeking true love’ website she’d placed me on weeks ago was coming back to bite me in the ass. “So, you didn’t read my singles ad in the paper?”

  “I can’t afford the newspaper yet.” Gary reached across the table, placed his hand over mine, and squeezed, comforting. “It sounds like you’re a very lonely woman, Violet. I hope I can help you.”

  I doubted it—unless he had a house to sell. I pulled my hand free, hiding it under the table. “Your cellmate—”

  “Dr. Schmirnof.”

  “You mentioned that he was right. About what?”

  Gary reached into a black backpack on the seat next to him. I would have bolted if my feet hadn’t turned to stone. Expecting a knife or gun or rocket launcher, I did a double take when he pulled out a book and laid it on the table between us. I stared down at a man who looked like a twin of Jerry Garcia, tie-dyed shirt and all. Printed across his forehead were the words, Don’t Take No for an Answer!

  “What’s this?” I asked, leaning over it.

  “It’s a dating guide for shy people—like me.”

  “A dating guide?”

  “Yes.” Gary flipped open the book to a dog-eared page. “See. Right here in Chapter Six, it says you should be aggressive, call several times a day to show how much you really want to see the person, and find out where they live so you can have flowers delivered.”

  My chin hit the table. “You mean to tell me that all of this stalking business has been something a dating guide told you to do?”

  “Stalking?” His big eyes grew even larger, filling his face. “I haven’t been stalking. Just showing I’m interested.”

  Now was not the time to argue semantics. Our food was getting cold, and now that it looked like I wasn’t going to be hauled away, tied to a chair, gagged, videotaped, and tortured, my stomach was trying to chew its way to the surface. I plucked a soggy French fry from the bag on my serving tray. “What were you in prison for, Gary?”