6

The rising sun streamed into the Thompson kitchen, bathing a cluttered china cabinet and polished floorboards with light. Ginny had beaten the sun by at least two hours. Once again, she considered which able-bodied men in town might be coerced into a posse. Peter Foote had a decent seat on a horse, but she wasn’t sure how good his target eye was. She’d have to work on that with him after they fell desperately in love and got married and all.

With the tip of a metal spatula, she rolled sausages in frying grease. She shook the cast-iron skillet handle with her other hand, shifting the sautéing onions and peppers. The grease sizzled, sending up hunger-inspiring odors. Would cream cheese coffee cake go with sausage omelet? Likely not, but she still wanted some.

Noise from upstairs and the creaking of wood overhead signaled that Uncle Zak had risen. She crossed the kitchen and rummaged through the ice box. Halfway under a slab of fish, but not all the way down to the custards that sat on top of the coffee cake, she heard a noise.

She looked up to the scuff of Cal’s boots. Clamping down the icebox’s heavy lid, she rose. But he, to her annoyance, just stood there.

The onions began a sizzling show of sparks and fireworks on the heavy iron range, and as loathe as she was to turn her back on him, she crossed to tend them.

No reason for concern. He didn’t stay out of eyeshot long. Leaning upon the faded wallpaper of the corner wall, he placed himself a little too close for comfort. “Why?”

She splashed the bowl of beaten eggs on top of the sausage. “Why what?”

“Why did you poison me?”

A peek under the lid of a burner and she gave the fire inside one extra log. “I scarcely think I owe you an explanation.” She tried to forget how close she’d stood to him in this very kitchen last night.

“Unless you make a habit of intoxicating all and sundry, you ought to have quite the explanation for that stunt.”

He leaned back, remarkably at ease considering he’d threatened to kiss her last night. He ought to have been frightened by the prospect of Uncle Zak. Charles, the only boy she’d ever kissed, had been. But no, Cal Smug Westwood acted like he was the quickest gun in the West. Maybe he was. Had he caught dozens of wanted men? Been part of gun fights? She examined the lines of his hand, strong fingers ready for action.

This was ridiculous. For all she knew, he might never have fired a shot in his life. “You don’t have to hold such a grudge. It’s not like I robbed you while intoxicated.”

“If that was the case, I’d have you behind bars right now and take immense satisfaction in it, too.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s Uncle Zak’s and my jail. We wouldn’t give you the key.”

“There is such a thing as law and order. Does this town know nothing of that? Pies in the jail, cowhands not afraid of the sheriff.”

“It’s scarcely Uncle Zak’s fault that he’s hard to hate. I’m sure if you ever rose up the ranks to sheriff, a highly unlikely possibility, you wouldn’t have that problem.” She impaled a sizzling sausage on a cooking fork.

“Rose up the ranks?” Outrage widened his eyes

“Yes, you’re just a deputy now.” She still wasn’t entirely sure he was a law-abiding deputy either. He’d lied to her.

His mouth shot open; his tongue started to move. He clamped his jaw shut and stared sullenly at the stove.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He grunted.

“You’re such a…man.”

“Do you hate all men, or am I special?”

“Oh, you’re special all right.” She gave the eggs a vigorous thwack with her spatula. They flipped, rising high in a perfect arc and splattered back down in the pan to the sound of footsteps.

Uncle Zak entered the kitchen, his smiling face, shaved to a shine, blissful. “Of course, our Cal is special, and that breakfast smells delicious.”

Cal hastily stopped leaning on the wallpaper. “I’ll walk over with you to get that list from Mr. Clinton.”

Uncle Zak shook his head. “John’s real tight-lipped. He’ll talk better to an old friend. You walk Ginny over to the sheriff’s office and get started on that posse.”

Shoving away from the stove and nearly upsetting the cast iron pan of eggs in her haste, she propelled herself in front of Uncle Zak. “I’ve drawn up a list of names for the posse.”

Cal dug his hands into his pockets, making a wrinkle in the fabric. “I thought she was off this case.”

Scratching behind one ear, Uncle Zak hemmed a moment. “A list of names isn’t exactly dangerous.”

“Anyone who gets involved in this case could become a target.” Cal’s face had an unyielding set to it.

Stupid man. Did he really think he knew the town well enough to gather up a posse?

“You really think a list of names could make Ginny a gang target?” Uncle Zak tilted his head.

Gang! Ginny’s spatula clattered to the floor. “There’s a—”

Cal glared at Uncle Zak. “Sir, I told you not to—”

“Gang! There’s a gang, and you didn’t even tell me?” Ginny’s voice rose in a shriek.

“Tell anyone. And she is most definitely an anyone.” Cal’s voice clipped the air.

Uncle Zak turned his gray eyes apologetically toward Cal. “I’m sorry. She won’t repeat it.”

“How could you not tell me?” Ginny swept up the frying pan and dumped the whole contents onto one plate.

“You see. She’s out of control now.” Cal raised both hands.

Her voice rose, shaking the pots that hung from the ceiling. “I am not out of control!”

Uncle Zak sighed. “The two of you just go over to the sheriff’s office after breakfast, all right? I’ll meet you there, and if we need to talk more, we can.”

How easily Uncle Zak capitulated to Cal’s nefarious plot. She scooted a bit of omelet onto her plate and swallowed twice. She had things to accomplish this morning. If they thought they could solve a gang case without her, they were dead wrong. “I’m done. See you at the office—”

A horrendous scream cut off the rest of that sentence. Cal sprang to his feet.

Sighing, she extricated a sausage link with her thumb and forefinger. “Fluffy. Come here, Fluffy.”

The furry troublemaker stuck her white nose out from the formal dining room. Stretching out her front claws to full length, the creature scratched gouges in the hardwood floor.

Ginny flung the sausage toward the dining room. Lunging forward, Fluffy grabbed the sausage between two paws. Then the cat threw it into the air and screamed again.

Uncle Zak sighed. “I should have shot that cat years ago.”

Ginny lowered her eyebrows. No one shot her valiant watch-cat. Her faithful friend followed her between home and the sheriff office, always offering protection and devotion.

Another blood-curdling shriek erupted from Fluffy. All right, maybe Uncle Zak had a point.

Only one trick left to try to calm the cat. Inside the dusty dining room, the family piano, which had been passed down from her great-grandmother, to her grandmother, to her mother, and then fell haplessly into her own untalented hands, sat in all its mahogany glory. If she were anything like her mother, she’d serenade the evening hours with minuets and waltzes. She wasn’t, but the piano did serve one useful purpose.

Throwing open the lid, she unceremoniously pounded out the first two bars of “Chopsticks”—or what she remembered of the song. Mrs. Clinton, from some sense of duty to society, had paid a piano teacher to give Ginny two years of piano lessons when Ginny was fifteen, and to this day, Mrs. Clinton thought Ginny had been an excellent pupil. She squirmed on the worn down seat of the piano bench.

Even now, four years later, Ginny had never quite worked up the courage to tell Mrs. Clinton that she’d split her supposed practice times between reading eastern newspaper accounts of remarkable law enforcement captures and target practice. Anyway, the music did its magic. Fluffy stopped screaming and settled down to her sausage link with a soft purr.

Swiveling, Ginny spotted Cal in the doorway. His eyes, opened wide, matched his sagging jaw.

“That’s your cat?” Cal’s mouth hung open.

“Leaving,” she called over to Uncle Zak. She abandoned the piano seat and crossed to place her dirty plate in the sink.

“Right behind you.” Cal’s face had an I-don’t-trust-you-alone-in-that-office-for-one-minute look to it.

Yes, she had gotten keys from the boarding house proprietor and placed her valiant watch-cat in his room. Fluffy had quite enjoyed the little adventure. Cal would get over it or leave. Either way worked for her.

The walk to the office was significantly less than satisfying. The sun made brilliant patterns on the street. A lovely wind played with her dress and hair and some sort of small, unidentified bird made chirping noises. But Cal walked a few feet away and that ruined the morning, especially since he had a self-righteous set to his shoulders. Honestly, she had every right to try to run him out of town. She’d thought he was a criminal. He still might be.

What was this about a gang in Gilman? How could she hope to build her sheriff election platform when Uncle Zak hid such essential facts as the presence of a gang from her?

“You planted the cat.” Cal walked as far away from her as he could while still obeying the dictates of civility.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Does the creature always scream like that?”

She sent a mound of dust sailing up with the toe of her boot. “Fluffy is not a creature and she is quite well-behaved when her sensitive musical tendencies are indulged.”

“Yeah. Your piano song was about as ear-jarring as the cat. Doesn’t the creature respond to the ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ or ‘Suzanna’?”

Her eyebrows tightened and she tucked her shoulders in. “Maybe I don’t exactly play piano.”

“You’re what, nineteen years old, and managed to completely miss the refined art of piano playing? Why am I not surprised?”

She held her head high, even if it meant the morning sunbeams burnt her eyes. “Maybe in your big Texas cities, the women don’t have anything more significant to employ their time than musical exhibition, but I spent my childhood doing important things.”

He looked unimpressed. “Give me a list sometime of all the criminals you’ve caught.”

By employing extreme mental fortitude, she managed to avoid sticking her tongue out at him. “You’re supposed to be an officer of the law and you don’t even know how to swim. What if a criminal jumped into a lake?”

“Who cares?” Cal forged ahead toward the sheriff’s office.

“You know the name Calvin means bald one,” she called after him.

He turned back. “Do you make it your mission in life to turn every male in this town stark raving mad from aggravation?”

Unblinking, she stared at him. “I have a good working relationship with almost every male in this town.” Charles being an exception. “I was invited by two different men to spend an evening of conversation with them at the Fourth of July picnic.” She’d said no to both because it didn’t seem worthwhile to waste time on them when she was marrying Peter Foote.

Cal grunted. “They were probably only willing to put up with you because you’re the prettiest woman in Gilman.”

What? How could he say that? Hadn’t he met Cherry? Ginny blinked. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I’m not blind.”

She squirmed underneath her corset.

Silence reigned as he stared back at her. He looked like a Texas Ranger standing there, a pair of Colts at his hips.

If, after all, he wasn’t a lawbreaker, perhaps she had been a bit harsh with him. Mrs. Clinton’s concoction had been foul, and he’d drained the entire glass for her. More importantly, she needed to find out about this gang.

“Interested in calling a truce?” Temporarily, of course. She’d have to run him out of town if she discovered any criminal activity. Maybe with her back on the case, she’d so impress Uncle Zak with her skill that he’d forget all about Cal Westwood as a successor. If Cal remained law abiding, she’d allow him to be her deputy.

“A truce means both sides have been the aggressor. I never poisoned you.” Blue eyes lofty, he glared at her

“You took me off the case.” That was a thousand times worse than vomiting a few times.

“That was mere business.”

“Yes, if you’re in the business of ruining my career.” She glared at him.

HStony-eyed, he stared back.

She glared harder.

He closed his eyes for a long second and then opened them. A sigh escaped his chest. “You want a truce?”

“Yes.” She rested her hands where a gun belt would have hung if she’d worn one. Temperance League prejudices aside, she really should start wearing one.

“How about you stop acting like a deranged person, and I’ll treat you with civility?”

She pursed her lips. “As in civilly let me back on the case?”

“No. As in I’ll say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and let you go first through doorways.”

“You already do that.”

“My point exactly.” He tilted his Stetson lower.

Now the sun had risen higher in the sky, painting the mountain greenery yellow as valuable time slipped away. “Just tell me about the gang.”

“Not a chance.”

Infuriating man. “You are the most wretched man I have ever met.” She didn’t stop for breath. “By refusing my help with the gang situation you are aiding and abetting criminals. I am a native Gilman citizen and I—”

“Just find a new victim to inflict yourself on please.” He clenched his teeth on the last word. “I have work to do.”

She let him go. She had important research to do in town. Catching the Silverman gang would look good on her list of achievements when Uncle Zak retired and she ran for sheriff.

~*~

First stop, the general store. She needed to check the populace for guilty faces and suspicious limps. Whoever set off that dynamite in the mine yesterday could have been hurt, too.

Using a bright bolt of red fabric as cover, she hung back in the dry goods section of the store and watched the register. Peering over the top of the bolt, she watched Peter add up an order for an elderly lady. The woman walked with a cane and, judging by her heavy limp, she definitely had a damaged right leg. But that probably had more to do with age than dynamite. Still, one should be cautious. She strained to hear their conversation while Peter folded three yards of eyelet lace for Limping Lady.

He held out the wrapped package. “Should I get someone to carry this home for you?”

Limping Lady patted Peter’s hand with her own gnarled one. “Thank you. You’re a good boy. Not like that lawman who just came to town.”

“Oh?” Peter said in a familiar monotone.

“Yes.” Limping Lady’s face lit up. “Did you hear that Mr. Westwood arrived to his mother’s funeral drunk? His own mother.”

“Now, you can’t believe everything you hear in a small town.” Peter’s drawl elongated the words as he flashed a friendly smile at the woman. How he managed to be polite to every character that walked into his store, let alone actually care about them, Ginny never would know.

Limping Lady shook her head firmly. “I got this information from the best source—Mrs. Clinton. Why that lawman even arrived to her house drunk, broke all the dishes in her china cabinet, and then followed up by giving Mr. Clinton a black eye. I saw Mr. Clinton in town just today. The right side of his face all swollen up.”

Mr. Clinton had a black eye? Ginny strained forward. Now where exactly would he have gotten that? The Cal story, while gratifying, was obviously false. Sad, because she’d sincerely love to throw him in jail for assault. Once there, she wouldn’t have let Cal have any of Silas’s pie or sweet tea either. Anyway, she’d definitely stop at the Clinton’s house next.

Pushing the red bolt of fabric back into place, she slipped toward the front door but not before becoming privy to more of Limping Lady’s saga. “Did you hear that after both his parents died, instead of taking care of his twin brothers, who were just ten at the time, he sent them to the circus to earn their living on the trapeze bar? The circus! Can you imagine?”

Limping Lady’s chattering voice died out behind Ginny as she passed through the shop door.

“Have a good day, Ginny,” Peter called after her.

Stuffing her fidgeting hands into her pockets, Ginny nodded. “Same to you.”

~*~

Cal tugged on his boots as the morning sun streamed in through the overly large windows of the Thompson’s backroom. The Lord’s Day came next in the week. This fact spoiled the posse expedition, but after scouting around all Saturday, he’d only found one volunteer anyway.

A town clerk—Robert something—had offered, but he wasn’t even convinced the man knew how to hold a gun. Silas also volunteered and was quite offended to have been turned down. The drunkard also refused to accept the logical explanation that a man should spend at least a month out of jail before taking part in law enforcement work.

“But I know lawmen work best of anyone in town, seeing as I spend so much time with the sheriff and all,” Silas had said.

Not happening. Cal tugged on a not-quite-ironed shirt. Maybe tomorrow he’d ride around the mountains himself, see what he could find.

The walk to church stretched interminably. The Thompson house stood way to the west of town, and Ginny had an ‘I-will-tolerate-you-because-it’s-Sunday attitude’ that proved incredibly wearing. Eventually, however, the square frame of the schoolhouse, which doubled as the Temperance League meeting place and church as well, loomed ahead.

Sheriff Thompson motioned him first. “Come on in. Sit in our pew.”

Squinting his eyes for a moment, Cal took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that church would be much different than the Temperance League.

Then, he shook his head. If he wanted the slightest hope of garnering anything but ire from this sermon, he couldn’t sit next to Ginny.

Making heroic efforts to banish all thoughts of these windows covered with gauze and Mrs. Clinton’s booming voice filling the room, he stepped inside. Within, the school desks had been shoved aside and replaced by pews. While not all abacuses had disappeared, red cloth covered the world geography maps, and a skillfully wrought cross made of barbed wire hung up front.

The preacher, or at least Cal assumed the man was the preacher, walked up to the crate-shaped pulpit and announced a hymn. Miss Lilac, clad in gray rather than her usual black, made her way up to the piano.

A grimace stretched Cal’s face. He tried to sing. Really he did, but every time Miss Lilac missed that signature C note, the Temperance League music reverberated through his head.

Three songs later, the chords ended and the preacher stood. “Today our message will be about law and sin.”

Magnificent, another Temperance League-themed message against the evils of drink, gambling, and smoking.

The preacher laid out his Bible and a pile of notes on the pulpit. “The law is something we are prone to look at as merely external, a list of dos and do nots to guide us through life. We respect those in positions of authority since they follow the list.”

Feet rustled in pews as the congregation settled in.

“Those with more obvious flaws, the outcasts, the fallen, the neighbor no one likes, these we judge. But there is a law higher than mere outward appearances. A law by which we will all be judged whether pillars of our communities or outcasts.”

Feet rustled again as every head craned.

Why did everyone look out the window? Cal spared one glance to the glass. The most interesting part of the view was a cottonwood tree. This was actually a first-rate sermon, something he hadn’t expected from the town of Gilman, yet the whole congregation wasted it staring out the window at a cottonwood tree. Hands resting on the pew Bible he’d pulled out, Cal leaned forward.

The preacher leafed through a few pages of notes. “The Holy Scriptures say in Hebrews 7:19 ‘For the law made nothing perfect, but the bringing in of a better hope did; by the which we draw nigh unto God.’”

Every eye in the congregation glued on that window just behind Cal. Refusing to let them distract him, he focused his attention more studiously on the preacher.

“No one stands above this better hope, even those in the most respected positions—reverends, teachers, lawmen.”

Whole benches jiggled as the congregation turned not only heads, but their entire bodies toward the cottonwood tree out the window.

What was wrong with the town of Gilman? Did they think themselves above the gospel?

“All need to grasp this incredible gift of salvation.”

That’s when it struck Cal. They weren’t staring at the cottonwood tree. They were staring at him.

He slumped back into the hardwood pew. Not only was he a drunk, he was also a heathen.

Would it help to tell Mrs. Clinton that he’d served as deacon at his church back in Houston? No, of course not.

Flipping the pew Bible open to the book of Judges, he tried to lose himself in conquests and blood and forget that dozens of people stared accusingly at him. When that effort failed, he surveyed the church population to see if any looked remotely posse worthy. None did. Then the sermon ended. Clothing rustled as the buzz of conversation struck up.

“Good morning.” A lady on the older side of young, dressed only in black, smiled at Cal.

He nodded in acknowledgment.

The woman in black moved closer. “I hear you hail from Texas, Mr. Westwood.”

Like a chunky bird of prey, Mrs. Clinton appeared at the woman’s side. “You don’t want to talk about Mr. Westwood’s time in Texas. Not good for your innocent ears.” She turned to him. “This is Widow Sullivan, by the way. Brand new to town, so I expect you to treat her with proper decorum.”

Must please Mrs. Clinton to aid gang information collection. Must please Mrs. Clinton. Must…if only he could shoot something. “A pleasure to meet you, Widow Sullivan.” Cal glumly took her extended hand and kept looking at the crowd.

The widow bobbed a curtsey. “The pleasure is mine. Tell me, were you involved in law work there as well?”

“Oh no.” Mrs. Clinton huffed importantly. “I believe his involvement in Texas was of a much more sordid nature.”

“Is that right, Mr. Westwood?” Widow Sullivan widened her eyes. "I would like to hear more.”

He shrugged. Let Widow Sullivan think what she willed. The rest of the town certainly did.

“Of course I’m right.” Mrs. Clinton shook out her skirts. “Why look, he’s even wearing guns into a house of peace.” She glared at his not-empty holsters and then dragged Widow Sullivan away.

Stealing back the modicum of peace left after Mrs. Clinton had breathed in a room, Cal turned his attention to more important matters. A younger man stood at the back of the schoolhouse chatting with the congregation as they walked out. His voice had a soft-spoken quality, but in a town like this, one could definitely do worse.

Squeezing around a large-sized lady and stepping over two infants of the crawling variety, Cal picked his way back between church aisles.

Once he reached the man, he had to wait for a pre-adolescent girl in a pink-striped dress to stop begging for candy before he could extend his hand. “Cal Westwood, assistant sheriff.”

A slow smile stretched the man’s face. “I’ve heard your name a lot. I’m Peter Foote, owner of the general store here in town.”

Cal nodded. “There have been some disturbances out in the mountains. I’m rounding up a posse to check them out. Will you join?”

The noise of tipping church pews, the swoosh of skirts, and something thin and hard dug into Cal’s forearm.

“I’m so glad I caught you. I was afraid you were leaving.” Cherry’s sounded breathless as she dug her gloved fingers deeper into his skin.

“Good day.” Cal disengaged his arm.

“Did you make up your mind yet? Are you going to the Fourth of July picnic with Ginny?” Behind Cherry, people milled loudly, but her high-pitched voice cut through the sound.

He switched his gaze to Peter, who leaned back against a church pew with a patient smile. Turning back to Cherry, Cal massaged the fingernail marks on his arm.

“Well?” Cherry did a strange little hop back and forth between both feet.

“I’m definitely not going with Ginny.”

An aura of light glowed through Cherry’s entire face as she bloomed into the brightest of smiles. “It’s settled, then. You’re going with me.” She giggled and did a little shoulder roll. “Bye-bye for now.” With a wave of her hand, she floated out the schoolhouse door.

With a sigh, he watched her leave. At least she was decent looking and didn’t boom orders like Mrs. Clinton. Besides, it would be worth any sacrifice to avoid going with Ginny.

“Now don’t you go breaking your word to that girl just because she doesn’t have a father to come after you with a shotgun.” Mrs. Clinton’s voice blasted in his ear.

Cal stepped away.

The woman pressed her lips into a straight line and narrowed her eyes. Then, with a swish of prodigiously full skirts, she marched out the church door.

Cal moved his hand up to cover his ringing ear. If you alienate Mrs. Clinton we lose all chance of gaining gang info from her husband. Sheriff Thompson’s words repeated in his mind. Of all the wretched women to be married to a silver mine owner.

“You’re going to the Fourth of July picnic with Cherry?” Peter Foote’s voice recaptured Cal’s attention.

Turning, he saw a strangely amused expression on Peter’s face. The man needn’t act so entertained. He’d wager he wasn’t the first male in this town to be ensnared into going to an event with Cherry. “I suppose.”

“Going with Cherry…” Peter nodded and grinned.

More people elbowed their way out of the narrow entrance.

Frowning, Cal moved out of the aisle toward Peter.

“You’re a brave man, you know.”

Cal kept his unimpressed expression. “I think I can handle one outrageous female.” After all, he’d handled fifty-five of them in that temperance meeting. Which reminded him…he’d have to go again one of these days. Must please Mrs. Clinton. A sick sensation settled in the pit of his stomach.

A knowing grin spread across Peter’s face. “You are a lawman so I expect you’ve dealt with difficult situations before. But then, you don’t know our Colorado girls.”

Knowing what? “Sure. About the posse though, are you coming?”

“Colorado girls like to get what they want. And you know what happened on the other Fourth of Julys.” That knowing grin still plastered Peter’s face.

“No, I don’t.” And Cal wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Now the posse—”

Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Ended up engaged to her date each time.”

“That’s nice.” Cal leaned back against the pew. “If they would just hurry up and marry her before this Fourth of July, I’d be saved a lot of inconvenience. On to the posse—”

“Well now, it’s not as simple as all that.” Peter drawled slower than any Texan. “The men, they said they ain’t never proposed to her.”

Cal stared at Peter. “You have to propose to get engaged.”

“Not with Cherry you don’t. Seems she pestered them into an alliance.”

Wind blew in the schoolhouse doors and a little shower of dust fell from the rafters. Cal flicked the stuff off his shirt. “Sounds like some less than intelligent men. Now the posse—”

“Those Julys and Augusts were exciting months for the town of Gilman. She had the whole Temperance League in an uproar, insisting the men be as good as their word and marry her. Only, every time each man said she misconstrued the whole thing.”

Cal blinked. “You mean they never asked her?”

“It all depends on who you believe.”

Cal eyed Peter and his cheerful, but pitying expression. Cal reached down to his pistols. The polished metal of the grip felt vastly reassuring.

“I have to be going. Supper at Mother’s house. But yes, I’ll join your posse. Just let me know when and where, and I’ll close up the store for the day.”

“Good.” Cal moved his hand away from the pistol. “And I appreciate the warning, but I think I can navigate the treacheries of one picnic.” Hopefully. He ran his finger up and down the pistol grip again. There had to be an easier way of pacifying Mrs. Clinton.

“If you say so, lawman. But if you do, you’ll be the first.” With those comforting words, Peter walked out of the mostly empty schoolhouse. His store-bought boots clipped ominously on the wood.

Cal ran his tongue over the front of his teeth. He’d battled the Silverman gang for three years now. Surely, he could avoid one girl’s schemes long enough to solve the gang case.

A burst of red calico shot into the schoolhouse’s doors. “Uncle Zak sent me to tell you, Cal. Oh!” Ginny dropped into a church pew, panting for breath. “I thought Peter was still with you.”

“You just missed him.” He pointed to the door. “If you hurry, you’ll catch him.”

A completely unexpected blush rose in her cheeks. “No, I, well, I won’t, wouldn’t, I, mean, I can’t bother him.”

Was Ginny stuttering? He moved closer to the door. “What does the sheriff want?”

“Oh, nothing.” She quickly turned away.

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said—”

Hand on the door, she twisted back. “Mrs. Clinton did mention the Temperance League, though. Tuesday night, and she insists you attend.”

“Even the Spanish Inquisition realized you can’t expect a man to willingly show up for torture.”

She stuck out her tongue at him. The small, red appendage slipped past white teeth a full finger’s width before she withdrew it. “Don’t throw your absolutely useless university learning at me. Uncle Zak said we have to keep lines of communication open with the Clintons, so you’ll be there.” With that, she flounced out of the room.

Groaning, Cal stooped to place the pew Bible back in the bench. This whole town was possessed. And Ginny obviously needed more to do if she had time to think up so many annoying schemes. He had a posse to gather and a gang to catch, and he was already wasting an evening on a ridiculous Temperance League.

Time to get some work done. The faster he caught the gang, the faster he was out of Gilman and back to Houston where people acted rational once in a blue moon.