1

The Rocky Mountains, Gilman, CO 1891

“Next we should make a law mandating that all women wear bloomers to the Fourth of July picnic.” Ginny Thompson stroked her pen with a flourish across the last t of the sheriff memo and plopped the writing utensil on the desk.

List of stolen items in the recent robbery complete, she pushed the paper toward Uncle Zak. The intensity of the Colorado afternoon sun hit the sawn lumber of the pine floor.

Uncle Zak leaned heavily on the desk. His large gray eyes fixed on her as he slowly shook his head left, then right, ruffling his red neckerchief. “It’s just not done.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t start.” She’d seen a lovely bloomers pattern in the Butterick Home Catalog.

Uncle Zak’s shoulders slumped along with his suspenders. “The Temperance League would have convulsions.”

She smiled as she imagined Mrs. Clinton, the Temperance League leader, in bloomers.

“Besides, the laws are to advance the public good, not force agenda.” Uncle Zak stood. He closed his fingers on the robbery report.

“Freeing women from artificial constraints is a public good.”

Uncle Zak’s sigh lasted twice as long. “Some constraints are aimed to serve not restrain. That’s why only men are sheriffs.”

“I’d make an excellent sheriff.” She was perfectly capable of doing the job. Actually, she’d planned on it ever since she started target practice under Uncle Zak’s tutelage at the tender age of six.

Uncle Zak froze, hand suspended in the air.

For the first time since she’d been in pigtails, she had flabbergasted him. Even his eyes popped.

He didn’t need to look so shocked. Sure, there’d never been a female sheriff in Colorado, but there had to be a first. George Washington was the first president. Wyoming had just entered the Union as the first state allowing women’s suffrage.

“You’re not as strong as a man.” Uncle Zak’s voice quavered. His knees did, too. He rested a hand on the pine boards of the wall separating the main room from the office and jail cell within.

True, but she had a Colt .45. What did people say? ‘God created man, but Colt made them equal’ Which meant that even though women were physically weaker, thanks to firearms, they could best a man bellows to mend. “I could do the job. It’s 1890 after all.”

The muffled sound of gulping came from Uncle Zak’s throat.

She did pity him. Out of the kindness of his heart, he, a bachelor, had taken her in when her parents died. She certainly hadn’t been the easiest child. But Uncle Zak bore the blame for her desire to be sheriff. Maybe if she’d been raised by a mother who’d excelled in needlework, musical abilities, and other womanly virtues, then she’d want to be a proper lady.

“When you buy that ranch you’ve been wanting and retire, I could take over.” She glanced at the newspaper on the desk. Town Deputy in Moobeetie, Texas Embezzles Post Office Funds. She always sent away for newspapers so as to stay abreast of the latest law enforcement news.

“You’d never win the Gilman sheriff election.” Uncle Zak rested his desperate gaze on her as if praying such would be the case.

“Because women can’t vote. When even a backwoods territory like Wyoming had the sense twenty years ago to give women the vote, you know there’s a problem.” Ginny righted her chair with a clatter and grabbed her basket from under the desk. Scooping the apple pie out of her basket, she set it on her desk. It emitted a delicious hint of cinnamon. Women might not have the vote, but the Temperance League held quite the sway here in Gilman. She needed to win them over.

“And he’s coming on the noon train,” Uncle Zak finished.

She blinked. “Who’s coming?”

“Cal Westwood. He’s a great shot, an educated lawman.”

“Why?” She reached for the pie spatula.

“My leg’s been troubling me more than ever. Mr. Westwood’s agreed to come on as assistant sheriff.”

Spatula half-immersed in apple pie, she stiffened. “I help you, Uncle Zak!” Her voice went shrill.

Uncle Zak’s chest heaved. “You’re a pretty young thing of nineteen. Don’t you want to get married and have babies instead of sitting at some old man’s jail all day?”

Sit! Sit was scarcely the word! Beyond her official duties as secretary, she solved crimes. The only thing she didn’t have was a gold star, and she intended on getting one of those as soon as possible. “I already explained my ambitions to you, Uncle Zak.”

“Don’t you want to get married?” Uncle Zak barely disguised the eagerness in his voice.

She was his only kin, and he’d hinted at grandnieces and nephews ever since she’d turned sixteen. Uncle Zak needn’t worry. She had every intention of marrying. Peter Foote was her man. Peter Foote owned the general store in town, and he was handsome and personable in a quiet sort of way. They’d get married in the schoolhouse. Their children would have Peter’s velvety-brown eyes and would play among the store aisles…all while she kept this town safe.

She inched her fingers up to span her waist. How horrified would the Temperance League be if she took to wearing a gun belt over the calico?

Uncle Zak dug his fork into the apple pie. “You better hurry up, honey. Westwood’s train should arrive in a quarter hour, and I don’t want him having to ask directions to the sheriff’s office like a common stranger.”

A scowl iced over her lips. Cal Westwood was a common stranger. With a distasteful frown on her face, she scooped up the newspaper and her parasol. Just because she ran this town didn’t mean she needed her nose getting burnt.

“Make sure to tell the townsfolk there ain’t no trouble in town. Cal’s just coming for my job.”

Ginny flinched. She’d identified the ringleader in the hooligan uprising last year as well as put a stop to that silver mine strike ten miles north by improving the men’s rations. She should be sheriff. “How old is he, Uncle Zak?”

“Young whipper-snapper. Just twenty-three.”

Twenty-three! He’d never die off. The town would vote for him and then he’d be sheriff for ages and she’d never get her chance. Tears gathered behind her eyelids. This Cal Westwood wouldn’t do half the job she could.

Her fist constricted. This Mr. Westwood had better be a good sheriff. Gilman deserved that. She’d investigate this Mr. City-Educated Westwood and see if he warranted the illustrious title of Gilman sheriff. If he turned out to be fine as cream gravy, then maybe she could accept him. But, for all she knew, he was a criminal. If he was, for the good of the town, she’d ride him out on a rail and become sheriff herself.

A piercing scream that resembled the roar of some sort of ferocious animal split the room.

With a sigh, she turned to give her little white cat a slice of apple pie. Fluffy had screamed like that for the last three years, and it still gave everyone in earshot a headache. No wonder the passing wagon train had abandoned the kitten by the side of the road.

“I don’t see why that cat gets pie and I don’t,” a slurred voice called. Drunkard Silas Jones stuck his nose through a hole in the jail bars, a glass of Uncle Zak’s sweet tea in one hand.

“Because you don’t scream like a wildcat.” She headed for the door.

“I could learn,” Silas called after her.

~*~

The train whistle blared louder than Fluffy’s screams as the fifteen-car train chugged its way into the station. About forty townsfolk stood in the clearing. Hot bursts of wind whipped the scent of pine trees through the air.

Ginny stood a little way back from the narrow gauge rails and eyed the crowd. Somewhere here stood the robber who’d stolen an entire case of plum preserves.

With a large hat topped by a peacock plume mounted on her sturdy gray head, Mrs. Clinton leaned toward another Temperance League lady.

Mrs. Clinton ate five jars of plum jelly at the last Fourth of July picnic. That was motive. Whipping out her notebook, Ginny scratched down the name of suspect number one.

She kept one eye on the woman as she watched the train roll in. Sure Mrs. Clinton might be a pillar of the community, but in the latest New York Detective Library dime novel the mass murderer turned out to be the reverend. She’d read something in the eastern papers once about a seamstress who embezzled thousands of dollars.

“It’s good the sheriff’s finally getting some help,” Mrs. Clinton said in a loud whisper.

Ginny tightened her lips. Maybe Mrs. Clinton wasn’t the culprit. Anyone too ignorant to see that Uncle Zak had her to help probably wasn’t intelligent enough to make a case of preserves disappear.

Cherry, self-designated town flirt, tapped Ginny on the shoulder and giggled. “Do you think the new sheriff will be handsome?”

Ginny groaned. A year ago, when Cherry was sweet on the blacksmith, she’d convinced the entire town that he’d proposed to her at the Fourth of July picnic. When the stubborn coot denied it, he had to go into hiding for a month to avoid the Temperance League’s dirty glares.

Then the villain himself stepped off the train. At least she figured it was Cal Westwood since the only others to disembark were a distinguished-looking woman in her forties wearing a black suit-dress, a gray-haired man with a bag, and an oversized canine.

Right in the middle of fluffing her big, black curls, Cherry clapped her hands over her mouth and proceeded to talk through her fingers. “Look at his sun-darkened skin. And see that Texan swagger. I bet he can make a criminal turn himself in just by looking at the fellow.”

Cherry slid her hand down from mouth to chin. “Do you suppose he’s staying long?”

Not if Ginny Thompson found aught disreputable in his past. Lifting her boots high, she mounted the platform. “Mr. Westwood?” Her voice curt, she inclined her head underneath the parasol.

“Miss Thompson?” He touched his hat.

“The same.” She stared right into his face. Cal Westwood had respectable boots and a Stetson, but in between, he wore a city-dweller suit. No self-respecting male would let one of those pin-stripes touch his body, let alone a hundred of them.

His chin had a square set to it—the kind of square that overly-confident men with an unmalleable temperament boasted.

A rustle of silk and Mrs. Clinton swooped forward. The bustle of her dress swayed behind. She rested one hand on her skirt. “You’re here to work with our sheriff?”

Cal Westwood nodded. “That about sums it up.”

“We need to have a little tête-à-tête, then.” Mrs. Clinton whipped out a handkerchief and blew loudly. “I am well acquainted with all the undesirable elements in town and will give you sound advice on how to discourage Gilman’s propensity towards vice.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Clinton dug her fingers into his arm. “First off, you must be wary of drunkards. Silas is—”

“While I appreciate your time, the sheriff’s waiting for me.” Cal extricated himself.

Mrs. Clinton coughed loudly and then wiped a new handkerchief across her moist forehead. “I will meet with you later.”

After waiting to ensure she had Cal’s attention, Ginny moved down the street. The crowd of townsfolk seemed content to merely gaze at the newcomer. Perhaps the dark metal of Colt peacemakers on his gun belt stifled friendly urges. Clenching her newspaper between her fingers, she looked full into his face. “Where are you from in Texas, Mr. Westwood?” She’d also need a detailed list of his previous law enforcement experience. She planned to conduct extensive research into his past.

“Um,” Cal swallowed. His gaze rested on her newspaper. “Moobeetie.”

Moobeetie. A lawman from Moobeetie? Ginny slammed to a halt, fingers numbing in the brisk breeze. What if this man was the embezzler?

In a stride, Cal caught up. “Sheriff Thompson’s told me a lot about you,” the man said with a disarming smile.

Disarming, that is, to anyone not used to the ways of criminals and hooligans. “I will take you back to the sheriff’s office.” Her voice possessed the level tone of a frozen-over lake.

“Good.” He cast a glance back at Mrs. Clinton. “Was that your aunt?”

“My aunt?” Ginny raised her eyebrows. Uncle Zak would be dead.

“It was the most logical explanation I could think of for her fancying herself an expert at the law. Just a busybody, then?”

If she’d had hair on the back of her neck, it would have bristled. “Around here, we don’t take kindly to outsiders name-calling.”

“Around here? How long has this town even existed? Five years?”

Ginny brought her hands to her hips, stretching the navy blue of her skirt. “The town of Gilman was founded in 1886 by Mr. Clinton, the husband of the woman you just condemned as a busybody.”

Cal seemed to completely miss the hostility in her tone. How would she quell criminals with a word if she couldn’t even make an infuriating, possible embezzler squirm?

“So less than five years. Amazing how silver has opened up whole towns overnight in Colorado, but I wouldn’t have figured a prospector to have a wife like that.”

She raised her chin. “And what kind of wife should a prospector have?”

“I don’t know. Probably the same as any man wants.”

Any man! As if all women should be subservient and docile to please men. “What kind of woman do all men wish to marry?”

The corners of his mouth twisted up. “Why so eager to know? Have a beau?”

“As if it’s any of your business.”

“Which means you don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You deduce this, how?”

“Women only get so riled up over the question when they don’t.” He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his suit.

“Maybe I have a violent beau who brings up angry thoughts.”

“Your uncle’s a lawman. I sincerely hope he’d put a bullet through such a man.” Shifting his bag to his other hand, Cal offered her his arm.

As if she’d even consider touching the venomous likely embezzler. She stomped past him.

“And they told me Coloradan girls had manners.” He fell into a Texan accent.

Her cotton petticoats flipped up dust as she whipped back. He was laughing at her! Crinkle lines surrounded his blue eyes.

She lowered her eyebrows. All right, so maybe she would touch the venomous snake. “My apologies, sir. I thought you disliked the women of Gilman.”

Cal Westwood’s arm felt surprisingly hard. She wouldn’t have expected muscle under pinstripe.

“I just said Mrs. Clinton was a busybody. Am I wrong?”

No, he was bull’s-eye correct. “You shouldn’t judge people without knowing them.”

One side of his mouth twisted up. “Tell me about yourself then, so I won’t have to leap to conclusions. I know you’re the sheriff’s niece, what else?”

He made ‘sheriff’s niece’ sound utterly condescending. “I work at the sheriff’s office.”

“I certainly wouldn’t have taken you for being behind jail bars.”

The impudence. “I find you overly familiar, sir.” She held her arm so stiff her bare forearm glided above Cal’s sleeve and made no contact with his robust flesh.

“Sorry.” He looked like he meant it. “Just spent the last two months on the trail chasing wanted criminals with all menfolk. Does tend to make one lose some polish.”

“Wanted criminals? Did you catch any?” She turned and found herself a few awkward inches from his chest, head tilted up. His chest moved out as he exhaled and the smell of a hardy soap clung to his suit. The sight of a missed bristle under his left ear proved all too clearly that she was much too close for comfort.

“Caught up in the allure of the criminal like the rest of the West? There’s not near as much romance in weeks of dirty clothing and hard rides as people think.”

Allure? She squinted her eyes. “I have a professional interest in the subject. I work in a sheriff’s office.”

“Oh, yes.” He didn’t seem properly impressed. Then, shifting her hand on his arm to a more comfortable distance, he started to walk again. “So, what do I need to know about Colorado?” He smiled.

That’s when the idea hit her. Fluffy, the best watch-cat a woman could have. If this man did turn out to be a violent criminal, Fluffy’s services would become even more invaluable. She looked up. “Just be careful, Mr. Westwood. We have rabid mountain cats out here. You’ll know them by their scream.”

“Point noted.”

Soon they reached the sheriff’s office.

The moment they passed through the door, she dropped his arm like hot coals. But not before Uncle Zak spotted her.

He rose from his chair with unusual vigor. His leg didn’t seem to bother him at all today. Why hadn’t Uncle Zak escorted Cal?

“I see you’ve already gotten acquainted with my niece. I’m Sheriff Thompson.” Uncle Zak held his hand out to Cal.

Cal shook it.

“She’s been secretary here for nearly four years now. Does great work.” Uncle Zak smiled at her.

Secretary! She pressed her lips together. She did a lot more than secretarial work. But might as well not show Cal all her cards before she determined if he was a desperate fugitive trying to hide out in her town.

“Come this way.” Uncle Zak motioned Cal toward the jail. Silas no longer sat behind jail bars. Uncle Zak must have released him early today.

Dropping her parasol, she made to follow.

“I’d like to see Mr. Westwood alone, Ginny.”

She scowled and glanced at her newspaper. Deputy embezzled five hundred dollars from town and then fled. Reward of one hundred dollars for information leading to his apprehension. Walter Hobbard is six feet tall, has brown hair, and blue eyes. May be using alias. Her jaw slid down. Mouth gaping, she moved her gaze from the newspaper to Cal and back again. He matched the description exactly. This wasn’t just wishful thinking on her part as she strove for her impractical goal of becoming the first woman sheriff in Colorado. The man was a criminal. She had to save Gilman from him!

“Why don’t you take a break? You certainly deserve it.” Uncle Zak smiled at her again.

She spared one look at Cal Westwood that threw down the gauntlet in front of his pin-striped body. She’d be collecting that reward and donating the proceeds to arming Gilman’s volunteer deputy force, thereby keeping the town safe from the likes of this Mr. Westwood.

“Uncle Zak, I have to speak to you!”

“Not now, honey.” He motioned to the door.

“It’s important, Uncle.” She moved between the criminal and her beloved relative, blocking Mr. Westwood’s view of her aging uncle with the mass of her not-very-large body. If only she’d worn a gun belt and brought her revolvers.

“We can discuss whatever it is later.” Uncle Zak pointed to the door. There was no room for argument in his tone.

It wasn’t as if she could just blurt out the fact that Cal was a criminal in front of the man himself. He’d run for sure, and they’d never apprehend Mr. Westwood. She grabbed her apple pie, at least Mr. Westwood wouldn’t have the opportunity to embezzle that, and marched out the door.

~*~

Cal took the seat across from the sheriff. Sun from the window above warmed his hand, so different from the blistering heat of Texas summers.

“You’re the famous Cal Westwood.” Sheriff Thompson propped one leg on his desk.

With a nod, Cal pulled a telegram from his bag.

“I appreciate you coming all the way from Houston for our gang trouble.”

“I’ve been chasing this gang for three years. I’d go to the East Indies to put them behind bars.”

A smile crossed Sheriff Thompson’s face. “Well then, we’ll just have to see if all that law school education makes you a better lawman than the hundreds of others who’ve tried.”

Cal spread the telegram on the desk. “You’ve followed my directives and not told the town about my mission?”

Sheriff Thompson nodded. “They don’t know about the gang aiming to take over the silver mine either. They’d be mighty alarmed if they did. Apart from the gang activity, you won’t find a quieter town than Gilman.”

Cal gripped the slick wood of the chair’s arm. “I’ve seen a lot of good men die at the hands of this gang. Less your townspeople know, the safer they are.”

He thought of his friend, Isaacs…just last year the blood had seeped from Isaacs’s chest as he called for help. Called for Cal. Cal had arrested five gang members that day, but he hadn’t saved his friend.

Sheriff Thompson jerked up his head. “You think it’s unsafe for the townsfolk?”

“More killings have been attributed to the Silverman gang than any other outlaws in the country.”

“I want them caught and hung.” The sheriff's voice rose.

“So do we all.” Cal pushed the telegram forward. “This is the latest news we’ve intercepted. I was only able to decode the first half.”

“Why isn't it all decoded? Isn’t there a Rangers’ division devoted to outlaws’ codes?”

“Yes. It’s me.” And Sam Angus.

The sheriff narrowed his gaze as he studied Cal.

Let the man measure. He’d been hand selected for the elite Texas Rangers and worked his way up to the hardest division in the organization.

The sheriff slid his boot off the desk. “I should have sent Ginny to Denver the minute I heard tell of the gang.”

“Too late now. With the Silverman gang infesting the region, an unescorted ride to Denver is insanity.”

“I'd guard her myself.” A gust of wind blew the sheriff’s salt and pepper hair but did nothing to soften his brow.

“One man would never prevail against the Silverman gang.” Though his trigger finger still itched to try.

The sheriff leaned forward. “How do I keep her safe, then?”

“Tell her nothing and she won't be a target.” Cal scraped his thumb against the polished metal of his revolver.

“But we normally collaborate. She'll be hurt.”

Discussing sheriff work with a female relative? Unusual. “Better hurt than dead.” He wrapped his fingers around the familiar handle. How many days until the gang situation deteriorated into a lead slinging contest?

For a long moment, the sheriff said nothing. “What should I tell her and the townsfolk about you, then?”

“Tell them I’m a deputy from Moobeetie.” Best stick with the story he’d invented from a glance at a newspaper’s headlines when the sheriff’s niece had asked him. He couldn’t risk the town discovering he was a ranger and then blabbing, when this gang had a price on his head.

“Very well.” Like the strike of a clock moving the hand past the hour, the sheriff’s expression changed. “Before we delve into gloom and killing, how about a piece of pie?”

The sheriff reached in front of Cal and blinked as his fingers closed on air.

“Your niece took it.”

“Oh.” The sheriff’s face fell. Raising his foot back to the desk, he smiled again. “Speaking of Ginny, what did you think of my niece? Smart gal that one. She’s been my right-hand help this last year with my leg beat up.”

“Um.” Cal traced the toe of his boot across a trench between dusty floorboards. Miss Thompson with her chocolate-brown hair, pert nose, and cheeky smile…she looked like one of those golden-cheeked warblers that came to Texas in springtime and regaled ranchers with their songs. And she certainly had spirit.

What did he think of Ginny Thompson? He wasn’t half sorry she had secretarial duties in the office he’d be using all summer.

“Um, what?” There was an eagerness in the way the older man smiled and yet a protectiveness in his gaze.

“She seems vivacious.”

“A lot of folks in Gilman aren’t smart enough to keep up with her. You should spend some time with Ginny while you’re here. Tell her about lawyer things.”

“I just might do that, sir.” Yes, he just might, indeed.