7

Monday evening found the normal little crowd gathered around the tables and chairs outside the general store. Ginny watched Mr. Clinton reign as checkers king on the far left table while others dug spoons into Peter’s Monday special, iced raspberry cream.

Leaning back against a bench to the right, Ginny gazed at the small black chips jumping small red chips or vice versa. Then the other chips died or were piled on top of each other. A dreadfully simplistic game.

Digging into her satchel, she pulled out her brown notebook. Some old case work and several theories on the plum preserve case filled the first half of the pages. She flipped to the back page.

In block letters, the words eliminate Cal Westwood topped the page with a score board underneath. Point one for her, intoxicating Cal, albeit accidentally. Point two for her, planting Fluffy in his boarding house. Point three for her, convincing Cherry to set her cap at Cal. Point four, getting him involved with Mrs. Clinton and The Temperance League. No, make that point five. Being on the bad side of Mrs. Clinton and The Temperance League definitely counted as two points.

Ginny moved her finger to Cal’s side of the grid. Point one for Cal, convincing Uncle Zak that gang cases were too dangerous for her. Point two for Cal, since he’d wormed his way into their home so he could provoke her in the mornings and evenings as well as all day long. The score sat at five to two. But was Uncle Zak convinced she was the better candidate for sheriff?

The bench shifted as Uncle Zak crashed down next to her. “Got to get off this leg.” Twisting, he hitched his foot up on the edge of an abandoned table.

“Are you all done with work, then?”

“Just waiting on Cal.”

Cal. Now that was a name to make any heart turn red-hot irritated. Only, he had trained in law enforcement, and she hadn’t, and he acted like that was the end-all be-all of sheriff preparedness. Taking one last bite, she offered Uncle Zak the last half of her raspberry ice cream. He smiled and accepted.

“Uncle Zak.”

He glanced at the checkers players on the other side of the general store front. “Yes, honey.”

She dug back into the bench. “Did you go to academy before becoming sheriff?”

“Academy?” He laughed. “I learned to keep people safe without book knowledge. Not that those newfangled academies aren’t excellent. Why, just look at Cal. But you don’t need an academy to pull a trigger or wear a badge.”

Good. She settled back in the bench. Because she wasn’t completely convinced that even she could talk her way into an academy, and she wouldn’t want that fact to jeopardize her spot as next town sheriff. “Where did you learn strategy and law enforcement?”

From the south side of town, Cal strode up the street. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he still wore chaps.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. Just where had he been riding? Also, why didn’t they make chaps for petticoats? It was completely inequitable. He looked stunning in chaps. Rugged, tough, lawman-like. How was she ever to win the sheriff election with him looking the part?

He didn’t swagger as he walked, but that confident Texan stride with two colt revolvers at his hips came pretty close.

No, no, no! Ginny flung herself back against the bench. She only prayed he didn’t know how to shoot those revolvers well. Otherwise she’d have an uphill battle on her hands to win the election.

One of the men at the checkers table called out to Cal. “Come on over. Show us what a Texan can do.”

With a glance at Uncle Zak, Cal slid into the checkers table across from Mr. Clinton.

Shifting his leg again, Uncle Zak took a bite of the iced cream. “Law enforcement training, hmm…I got my first rifle from my pa when I was just six. Learned shooting while freeing the ranch of coons.”

“What about strategy?” She kept one eye peeled in Cal’s direction just in case. His black checkers hopped Mr. Clinton’s red ones at a surprising rate. Cal leaned in over the table.

“There’s strategy all around you in life if you just stop to look.” Uncle Zak raised his spoon.

“Yes?” Twisting on the bench, she adjusted her view so she could see Uncle Zak and Cal without the falling sun assaulting her eyes.

Now Mr. Clinton had lost and one of the men playing checkers slapped Cal on the back. The man’s voice was gravelly. “No one’s beat John since last June. Where’d you learn to play?”

With a smile, Cal leaned back against splintery wood. “Won first in my town’s Law Enforcement Checkers Competition.”

“Take the farmers. They look at the sun and the creeks and the almanac to know when to plant and when to harvest,” Uncle Zak recaptured her attention. “As a lawman, you have to read people like that. Know which ones you can trust, which ones just need some help through a bad time, and which ones are trouble.”

“Oh.” She scrunched her brow together. That sounded doable.

“The Bible’s got a lot of law officer strategy, too. Look at Gideon and his scare strategy with those Midianites. Or what about Jehu and his brilliant ruse to kill that king?” Uncle Zak dropped his leg from the table.

Quite true. She should brush up on her 1 and 2 Kings knowledge, only every time she flipped open a Bible the Psalms and Proverbs looked so much more inviting.

“It’s also got negative examples like in 2 Samuel 10 when David sent those messengers, and the foreign ruler cut their clothes and shaved half their beards. Ended up getting himself killed by King David. Never treat a messenger like that.”

A breeze blew in from the mountains, flapping the pages of her notebook. She stuffed it back into her satchel. “It could be a good idea sometimes.”

The last spoonful of ice cream disappeared from Uncle Zak’s bowl. “Like when?”

“Maybe if you wanted to alienate the criminals? Stir up division between messenger and leader.”

Setting down the bowl, he tilted his head. “Well, the Israelites weren’t exactly going to turn against their king.”

“A gang messenger might turn against the gang leader.” Picking up the satchel, she tucked it on her lap. If Cal was quite done beating people at checkers, it was high time she got home.

“True.”

“What if you were trying to get the messenger so scared that he wouldn’t pay attention when you tracked him back to his criminal lair?” Her gaze shifted to the checkers table again. Cal was prying himself away, but with a slowness painful to watch. That tray of cinnamon rolls she’d been planning on making tonight might have to wait if they didn’t head back soon.

“It’s a possibility.” Uncle Zak drew his brows together.

A black-haired man with scrubby sideburns started down the street. Laying eyes on her and Uncle Zak, he scurried down an alley, or the closest thing to an alley Gilman had: the backyard of Miss Lilac’s house.

“Who was that?” Cal stood next to her. He eyed the scuttling stranger with suspicion.

She eyed Cal suspiciously right back. “That’s just Charles.”

“Where’s he live?” Cal nudged the grip of his beautiful revolver.

“Charles is not a suspect.” Coveting was wrong. Ginny repeated the words under her breath, but oh what a beautiful revolver Cal had.

“Then why does he turn tail at the sight of the law?” The sinking sunlight caught Cal’s star, flashing light.

“Just a personal matter with Uncle Zak, nothing illegal.” Ginny’s stomach twisted up from trying too hard not to covet. Someday that star would be hers.

Scooping up the ice cream bowl, Uncle Zak set it on Peter’s washing tray. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Gaze still on Charles’s disappearing back, Cal nodded.

~*~

Cal stood in Sheriff Thompson’s office.

“How did the posse work out?” Sheriff Thompson’s desk chair creaked as he leaned back.

Posse? As in the one man he found to ride to the hills with him? Now that Peter was in, Robert backed out. Cal pointed to the bars behind the sheriff. “Rather not say in front of him.”

Sheriff Thompson glanced back to the bar-lined wall and Silas behind it. “Oh, yes.” Scooping up a deck of playing cards from the worn wood of his desk, Sheriff Thompson clomped over to the jail door. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to play you that round of rummy. Law enforcement’s busy these days.”

With one grimy hand, Silas rubbed at the moistness in his eye.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The sheriff inserted the key in the lock.

Silas’ face brightened. “Tomorrow’s good. Maybe this time I’ll beat you.”

The door hinges creaked as Sheriff Thompson opened the door wide for Silas. “If you want to win, you’d better do like I’ve been telling you and stay further away from those mind-addling spirits.”

His gaze on the floor, Silas stuck his hands into the holes in his baggy gray pants. “I know, Sheriff, but it’s jist so hard.”

“Get along now. I’ve got business to attend to.” Sheriff Thompson motioned Cal to take the seat across the desk. “So, posse?”

After Silas’ back had safely disappeared through the front door, Cal leaned forward. “We didn’t find much in the foothills, but just north of the mine we happened upon an abandoned camp site, embers still dry. It was probably deserted the day after last week’s rain at the latest.”

A calculating expression on his face, the sheriff tapped the wood of his desk. “Could have been anybody. Ranchers. Loafers.”

Cal nodded. “I also found this.” He held up a canteen with an etched longhorn on it. “This is a gang symbol.”

“A gang symbol of what? It looks like a tic-tac-toe board.”

“Granted this gang member was not the artist of the group. But it’s a longhorn, and that’s the Silverman gang’s symbol.”

The sheriff raised one hand, palm up. “The man could have just ranched long horns.”

“Do you etch sheriff’s offices on your canteen?”

Sheriff Thompson put his hands behind his head and settled into his seat. “True. So if that was a gang campsite, what do you suggest we do about it?”

“Wait. We don’t have the location of their new site, and going in half-cocked is a good way to get your townsfolk killed.”

“Not to mention yourself.” A little crease of a smile crinkled around Sheriff Thompson’s lips.

Cal shrugged. “I’m a lawman.”
“We like to keep our lawmen alive around here.”

Mrs. Clinton sure didn’t. She’d kill a lawman just by talking to him, which reminded him, Temperance League tonight. He stifled a groan.

“Speaking of which, I appreciate how you’ve taken the time to connect with the town. Everyone here’s taken a liking to you.”

They liked him? What did they do to people they disliked? Cal turned his face away to hide his open-mouthed stare.

“How about you? What do you think of the town?”

Hands on his knees, Cal weighed his words one sand grain at a time. “It’s…very…”

“Why, what am I saying? You’ve been working so hard I bet you’ve scarcely had a chance to see the town.” The sheriff shifted forward in his seat. “Our Fourth of July picnic is coming up in two weeks. That will be the perfect time to get the local flavor. Who are you taking to the picnic?”

Taking? Preferably nobody. But that didn’t seem to be an option in the town of Gilman.

“You should ask Ginny. She’d love to show you around the picnic grounds, introduce you to folks.”

Yeah. She’d love to lace his lemonade with strychnine. “I don’t know, Sheriff.” Cal stood.

“Don’t know what? Have you already asked someone else?”

Cherry’s bouncing black curls and eerie giggle came to mind. Had he asked her? He didn’t think he had, even on that one night when he’d been intoxicated by Ginny’s poison. The events of that night were a bit fuzzy in his brain, but he had some faith in his own common sense. Even in the midst of a coma he doubted he’d be stupid enough to ask Cherry to anything. But somehow, she’d gotten the impression he had. More to the point, so had Mrs. Clinton.

“Um, possibly, sir.” Cal coughed.

“If it doesn’t work out, you go right along and ask Ginny. You both need the time off work to think of social activities, all right?”

Cal tried to think of a tactful way to express his distaste for the sheriff’s nearest female relative. The sheriff waited expectantly.

Cal looked to the floor. On the right corner wall, a spider kidnapped a fly.

“What do you say?”

One glance to the window revealed a scrawny cactus that had crept into the grass surrounding the office.

“Uh, sure.” As much as he loathed Ginny, he didn’t care to explain that to her uncle.

Now he really had to go with Cherry, if only to live past the Fourth of July.

~*~

Leaning over his desk, Cal peered at the telegram from Houston. Found Bloody Joe’s counterfeiting operation stop. Site abandoned stop. Intercepted map of silver mine in your area stop. Also found your name listed stop. Your identity may be compromised stop.

The early evening sun streamed in from the window behind, baking his desk. He fingered the edge of the telegram. Nothing he hadn’t guessed at already in this telegram except for the possible identity leak. Ever since the Silverman gang had sworn revenge on the Houston gang division, the force had taken care to keep their identities a secret. If Bloody Joe knew who he was, he would send men to kill him. Cal gripped his pistol.

Would Houston send out reinforcements if needed? With the luck he’d been having forming a posse, reinforcements would certainly be welcome. But no, this wasn’t Texan jurisdiction.

He scowled. Everywhere should be Texan jurisdiction; it would make America a better place.

“You’re late.”

Cal’s gaze shot up from the desk. In the doorway stood Ginny Thompson. The sun shined on her straw bonnet as she tapped the floor with her boot.

“Late for what?”

Her brown eyelashes swept up from her eyes. Her lashes fell on the shorter side, more determined than dreamy. “The Temperance League.”

Right. He slammed back in his chair and surveyed the faint pink that colored Ginny’s cheeks. For a few sweet hours, he’d actually managed to forget.

“You have to come. Uncle Zak said so, and he’s your professional superior.”

Yes, because Mr. Clinton was crucial to the case and thus Mrs. Clinton was, too. As for superior, Texas Rangers outranked sheriffs of Podunk towns hands down.

If he told her that he was a member of the most prestigious law enforcement agency in the nation, would that make those scornful green eyes find a shade of respect? Perhaps make those taut red lips loosen into a smile as the news had done to many other young women whenever a Texas Ranger passed through a town. He clamped his jaw shut. Ginny Thompson’s admiration was not something he needed.

She strode forward, high-heeled boots making clickety-clack sounds on the hardwood. Placing both hands firmly on the back of his chair, she tugged it. “Now.”

If Ginny Thompson had this much time to plague his world, she clearly did not have enough to do. Would that she’d get a hobby or…perhaps he could make the Temperance League just as unpleasant for her as it was for him.

~*~

Cal walked under the pine doorframe of the schoolhouse. Inside, a considerably less Arabian-night aura reigned.

“You came!” Squirming through a score of elderly ladies, Cherry bobbed up beside him, black hair bouncing.

“Now, Cherry, give the man some breathing room,” Miss Lilac said from her seat in the corner. A black veil hung askew from her hat, and the fabric along with her crocheted gloves gave a Dickens novel appearance to the outfit.

“Order in the meeting. Order I say!” Mrs. Clinton hit the Temperance League gong, which had reappeared since Sunday service along with a gavel that seemed even larger and more ostentatious than last meeting.

He slipped into one of the double desks in the back. His knees scrunched against the back of a bustle protruding from the desk in front of him. Women packed the room, which was full enough to make even the evening breeze stuffy. His gaze moved over in time to see Cherry settling on the middle of the bench. If she had stuck to her side, he would have had at least two inches of personal space. Hereafter, when he attended Gilman gatherings, he would choose a single seat.

“Mr. Westwood!” Mrs. Clinton’s voice rose to a range suited to cattle herding. “I have now called your name three times. I shall not say it again.”

If only he believed that…

His gaze rose to the stage. “Here, ma’am.”

“Obviously. I might point out that punctuality is a virtue. Not that you have any to spare.”

The pouches around Mrs. Clinton’s neck tightened with severity, but if he grimaced every time Mrs. Clinton said something absurd, his face would be permanently frozen that way by the time he got out of Gilman.

Folding her hands on the podium, Mrs. Clinton looked down at him. “Tell us about your progress this week.”

“Um…” He searched the recesses of his brain. “Twenty-four hours after I drank your tonic, I was able to hold down food again.”

Mrs. Clinton wrinkled her face. “I guess I didn’t make it strong enough.” She turned to Miss Lilac. “Record in the Temperance League minutes that we need to create a stronger formula.” Then she moved her disapproving gaze back to him. “What else?”

Cal inched half off his side of the bench so he could at least breathe without accidentally jabbing an elbow into Cherry’s bosom. “Nothing.”

“Just as I expected. You obviously need someone to hold you accountable.” She scanned the audience. “Yes, Ginny?”

Swiveling in his seat, he narrowly avoided Cherry’s flounced skirt, only to be bombarded by the sight of Ginny’s tanned hand raised high above the group of eager faces.

“I would like to volunteer to hold Mr. Westwood accountable, Mrs. Clinton.”

His head fell into his hands, elbows striking the desk with the force of the movement. No, this couldn’t be happening. If only the gang had come to the Utah territory instead of Colorado, he would have had multiple shots at winning over the silver mine proprietor’s wife.

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Ginny. You shall bring bi-weekly reports to the league and be prepared to share a five-to-ten-minute summarization of Mr. Westwood’s progress, or lack thereof, next meeting.”

Something soft and slippery pressed against Cal’s ear. He jumped three inches off the bench.

Cherry leaned forward to press her lips to his ear. “I would have volunteered, you know,” she whispered. “But I didn’t want to ruin you being sweet on me and all with accountability.”

Pulling up the collar of his shirt to wipe off saliva, he stood. “Why do you think I’m interested in you?” He tried to control his voice as he waited for his inner ear to dry out.

“Because Ginny told me, of course.” Cherry fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You can’t keep a secret in this town.”

Ginny! He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Enough was enough. No, the limits of enough had been crossed about three weeks ago. This now breached even the Constitution. Cruel and unusual punishment, anyone?

High time he took control of the situation. If Ginny intended on using her free time to beleaguer him, then he’d just make sure she didn’t have any.

“Cal Westwood,” Mrs. Clinton said in a voice that sounded as if she’d already tried his name a couple times.

He lifted his gaze.

“You have completed your homework, we hope.”

A frown crossed his face. Homework? “You didn’t give me homework.” Not that he remembered anyway. Surely any kind of homework Mrs. Clinton had invented would be scarring enough to remain seared in his memory.

“I sent it home with Sheriff Thompson after church on Sunday. I cannot believe he forgot to give it to you.”

Inwardly, Cal blessed the sheriff.

“You shall get it from Sheriff Thompson immediately after the close of our meeting tonight and have the packet complete and ready to be presented by next week’s meeting.”

Not happening. Sitting down, hands spread flat on the desk, he took a moment to suppress his self-respect. Then, he raised his hand.

After staring suspiciously for a full minute, Mrs. Clinton clanged her gavel against the gong. “The chair will now recognize, Calvin Westwood. You may take the floor, Mr. Westwood.”

“Why chair? You’re not even sitting on a chair. You’re at the podium.” Miss Lilac tittered above the crowd in a throaty voice.

Ignoring her, Cal moved to the center aisle. “I have a suggestion for the Temperance League that will aid their noble work in this town.”

A frown pressed Mrs. Clinton’s large lips together. “Yes?”

“I’ve noticed that Gilman does not have an Orphan Aid Society. In all of the townsin Texas, where I am from, the upstanding women of the town give considerable effort to—”

“Texas.” Mrs. Clinton snorted. “Texas is a debauched state. Why just last year my cousin—”

He didn’t wait for the rest of the story, and though it tasted worse than Temperance League drink going down, he swallowed his pride in his home state. The only way to fight fire was with fire and to defeat someone as deranged as Ginny Thompson mandated a scorched earth policy. “You make an excellent point about Texas, Mrs. Clinton. Such a large state with its violence, scandal, and reprobates cannot live up to the stellar reputation you ladies have worked so hard to build in the town of Gilman.”

Various gray heads, including Mrs. Clinton’s, nodded approvingly.

“Yet, even Texas supports its orphans. Indeed, the church ladies there spend considerable time equipping their Orphan Aid Society.”

“Oh.” A look of importance spread over Mrs. Clinton’s face. Even now, he could see her crafting her first speech for a Gilman’s Orphan Aid Society.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he continued. “They knit blankets, sew quilts, can food, craft children’s toys—”

Miss Lilac coughed into a bit of lace. “But Mr. Westwood, we don’t have any orphans in Gilman.” Her voice quavered and her blue eyes widened with the solemnity of her statement.

His eyes rolled halfway up before he exercised the self-control to stop them. Gilman also didn’t have more than one drunk worth speaking of, but that didn’t stop them from having a Temperance League.

With the appearance of a deflated balloon, Mrs. Clinton sank back. “Miss Lilac is correct, Mr. Westwood.”

He could almost hear her tacking on an “unfortunately.” He wasn’t about to give up yet. “But what is the town of Gilman if not prepared to help in any circumstance? What would you do if an orphan arrived? Just imagine the feelings of that bedraggled child as he plods into the town of Gilman, torn rags dripping sewage water, his stomach shriveled, hungry eyes.”

Every head in the place turned to Cal. He let his voice sink and rise, projecting up to the rafters as he played the emotional atmosphere of the room.

“The child knocks on the schoolhouse door, hoping against hope for some ray of light to strike his withered life.” He paused. Dramatic silence hung over the room like the gray gauze the Temperance League had strung for the last meeting. “Instead of hope, the child is greeted with cold reality. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t help orphans in this town,’ the schoolmarm says and the child plods away into the wilderness of the mountains…to die.”

Miss Lilac bawled fountains into her lace handkerchief. “That’s such…a sad story!”

Beside him, sobbing hiccups wracked Cherry’s slender rib cage. “Can I b-borrow your handkerchief, Mr. Westwood?”

Still standing, he produced faded yellow cotton out of his pocket as he watched the range of emotions moving across Mrs. Clinton’s face.

She hit her gavel against the gong. “I think we can all agree that Mr. Westwood has made a heartfelt point and saved many innocent children from horrible deaths. Ladies, we will begin work on an Orphan Aid Society tomorrow morning at sunrise in this building.” Mrs. Clinton’s voice held the gravity of a tomb digger as she emphasized each word with chief-magistrate style greatness. “I believe we shall start with a quilt.”

But Cal didn’t sit down; he wasn’t done yet. “As I am sure you are aware, every great project needs a leader capable of channeling that greatness.”

Mrs. Clinton smiled and nodded. “I know.”

“And delegate leaders to form the foundations of each facet of the project.”

Mrs. Clinton’s smile faded a bit, but she still nodded.

“I would like to nominate Miss Virginia Thompson to lead the quilting endeavor. Her fame with a needle has surely reached beyond the walls of the Thompson home. Additionally, her care and compassion for strangers,” he stared right at Ginny for this part, “is known to be unparalleled.”

If you were comparing her care and compassion with that found in jails. Actually, he took that back. Even in federal penitentiaries, inmates didn’t usually poison each other. They preferred a clean skull-bashing.

“What about the school children?” Miss Lilac squeaked. “Don’t they need to learn things tomorrow?”

Mrs. Clinton dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “Saving children’s lives is more important than educating children.”

A woman in the back bounced out of her seat. “My daughter works her fingers to the bones to teach the children of this town! If you knew half the ignorance, discipline problems, and prejudice she tolerates to teach the spoiled children of this ungrateful town.”

Mrs. Clinton straightened her back. “Your daughter gets paid handsomely for her efforts. If it wasn’t for my husband’s generous donations, this town wouldn’t have a schoolhouse. So I scarcely think it a crime if for one morning we use the building to help orphans.”

“The reverend’s coming to teach Greek tomorrow morning,” Miss Lilac said. “It wouldn’t do to upset him.”

A frown emerged on Mrs. Clinton’s lips. She exhaled a much-put-upon sigh. “All right. We will meet at my house. But it’s still at sunrise and only because of the reverend.” She gave the schoolmarm’s mother an accusing stare.

The woman sniffed. “If you really wanted to help the reverend, you’d find someone to play piano for church.”

Miss Lilac turned a defensive shade of red. “I play piano.”

“Yes, but you know how your hay fever worsens in the summer months. The reverend said after church last Sunday that we’ll all be singing a cappella by the end of the month if he doesn’t get a volunteer soon.”

Miss Lilac twisted around in her seat, scrunching the black silk of her dress. “That’s right. I forgot. I swear, I don’t know what’s going on with my memory these days. Maybe my hay fever won’t be so bad this year. I do so hate to let the reverend down.”

A perfect opportunity. Cal rested his hands on his belt. “I know someone who would love to play in church for you.”

Miss Lilac clacked her dentures together. “Who?”

“Ginny Thompson, trained professionally by Mrs. Clinton herself.”

A blush came to Mrs. Clinton’s powdered cheeks. “I just paid for the lessons, never learned to play myself.” She looked at Ginny with a broad smile. “Sounds wonderful. I will finally hear that melodic harmony I ensured you were taught. We’ll pick hymns tomorrow while you’re organizing the quilting.”

Ginny squirmed in the hardback desk. Choruses of angels or perhaps a bell choir should have accompanied the sight.

Sitting back on the bench, Cal basked in the glow of the glorious vision.

“I never really agreed to quilt or to—” Ginny began, still twisting about on her seat.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Clinton straightened. “You’ll be there at sunrise sharp. Meeting adjourned.” She even forgot to hit her gavel, and she entirely neglected the closing anthem.

A peaceful smile spread across Cal’s face. Every life needed a perfect day.

He made for the door.

The dismayed look in Ginny’s green eyes sent heavenly thrills of joy through his heart. He’d hoped for a glare, but, apparently, she was too soundly defeated.

The schoolhouse door creaked as he exited. Just as his foot landed on patchy Colorado grass, Cherry caught him.

All right. So maybe not a perfect day, but close.

“I was thinking about the Fourth of July picnic.” Her voice had a bubbly quality, like pink lemonade puffed out of a steam engine’s boiler.

He tapped his holster. Twelve seconds without a sound would mean he could politely leave, right?

“I think we should match. What are you wearing?”

He gave her a wary glance. “Um…brown shirt probably. Maybe tan.”

Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “No, I don’t care for brown and tan, completely fades my complexion.” She paused to tap one finger on her ruby lips. “How about lavender? I saw the loveliest piece of lavender fabric at Peter Foote’s store, and two weeks would just give me time to make up the most darling dress.”

He stared at her.

“Why thank you! Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Mind what?” Surely, she couldn’t expect that any many would wear lavender.

“Wearing lavender. I do look beautiful in lavender, and it’s so kind of you to humor me. I just adore you already.” Without warning, she leaned up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’d better get sewing.”

He watched her rapidly disappearing back. Did she think he had just agreed to wear lavender to the Fourth of July? Because he might have to take the crazy girl to the picnic to please Mrs. Clinton’s blasted notions, but there was no way in Texas that he would ever wear lavender.

A bountiful skirt ploughed into him and Mrs. Clinton’s plump face appeared at shoulder height. “You make that girl happy, hear me? If you start breaking hearts in my town, I swear I’ll have my husband run you out of Gilman.” She rolled her r.

As she turned and marched away, Cal swallowed hard. Mrs. Clinton probably could run him out of town, or at least ban him from the mine and make him utterly useless to the gang case.

A Texas Ranger would give his last drop of blood to catch a criminal. Would he wear lavender?

A white hand contrasted by a black cuff plucked his sleeve. “I enjoyed your speech immensely I’ll have you know,” a quiet voice said.

“Why, Widow Sullivan. Didn’t see you there.” His hands instinctively slid closer to his holsters. People shouldn’t sneak up behind lawmen.

“The orphans and the starving children. That was so…shall we say sincere?”

Through the darkness, he tried to make out her face. He couldn’t quite read it.

“Tell me, have you often swindled a crowd before?”

He pulled back a step. “I didn’t swindle The Temperance League.”

The widow parted her lips, revealing pearly teeth. “No use turning red. I read the article in the Moobeetie paper. Don’t worry, your work this night is safe with me.” With that, Widow Sullivan turned on her black heel and disappeared into the darkness.

He shrugged and started down the dusty streets to the boarding house. Just past the sheriff’s office, he halted mid-step. He had promised Sheriff Thompson he’d stay the night again. With a groan, he made an about-face.

Maybe Silas had it right sleeping in the jail. At least in jail there were solid bars to keep out lavender-wearing flirts and their frustratingly essential henchmen.