12

Ginny looked down at her icing-stained dress. She really shouldn’t have thrown that first blueberry pie at Cal. Beyond wasting perfectly-edible pie, it was cruel.

“Where’s the sheriff when you need him?” Mrs. Clinton wrung her hands, making the four-inch ruffles on her cuffs flap piteously. “Upstanding citizens turning into hoodlums, and here I’m left to deal with it myself.” Tugging her sleeves down with a firm motion, she raised her voice again. “Sheriff Thompson!”

Peter Foote moved away from the dance floor and upturned dessert tables toward Mrs. Clinton. “Have you tried out by the wagons where the men are smoking?”

Something almost resembling tears formed in Mrs. Clinton’s eyes as she viewed the wreckage of desserts and shook her head hopelessly. “Yes, I’ve tried everywhere, even in that filthy cigar smoke.”

“I haven’t seen him since we cut the pig.” An older man leaned on a tent pole.

Mrs. Clinton dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and then threw the lacy thing to the dirt floor like a knight’s gauntlet. “Is somebody going to help me look for him? Or do I have to do everything myself?”

Townspeople glanced at each other. After a few muffled whispers and surreptitious looks, even the fiddler put aside his instrument to jump into the search. Ginny thought of helping, but she didn’t really want Uncle Zak to see her in this state. Swiping the six-layer cake’s doily, she started wiping at her dress.

The majority of the crowd, under Mrs. Clinton’s strict generalship, swiftly dispersed on the manhunt and, then Ginny spotted Cherry.

“Here.” Cherry handed her a tumbler of water.

“Thank you.” Dipping the doily in the water, Ginny began work on her bodice. By the time the crowd began drifting back in, the icing was mostly gone, but she’d just about given up on the grease streaks. And this dress had been almost new just this morning. Another reason she shouldn’t have thrown that blueberry pie.

Elbowing a young woman carrying a baby and an elderly man with a cane aside, Mrs. Clinton shoved her way up front. “I searched the whole fairgrounds and can’t find him!”

“He’s not at home either,” a small boy wheezed. “I ran all the way to check.”

Peter Foote directed Mrs. Clinton to a seat and handed the puffing woman a glass of water. “What about the sheriff’s office?”

“I checked there.” Silas was almost crying. “All locked up, even my cell.”

“He’s nowhere on the premises.” A dust-covered Miss Lilac took off her spectacles and set down a small oil lamp. “I checked everywhere, even under the wagons.”

The largest cowhand held up a revolver and gun belt with one hand and stuffed tobacco into his mouth with the other. “I found this to the north.”

Ginny moved her gaze from the cowhand, who lounged back against an awning pole, to the holster and gun. Even by the flickering light of lanterns, she recognized the curve of the handle. “That’s Uncle Zak’s! He never would have left it!” The panic in her voice spread through the crowd faster than the sound of her words.

“Kidnapped,” Mrs. Clinton said above the hubbub. “Our sheriff was kidnapped!”

Cherry began wringing her hands, and Miss Lilac promptly fainted back into the smaller cowhand’s arms. Stammering, the small cowhand shifted her limp body between his hands and ultimately shoved the dead weight into Mr. Clinton.

Ignoring his comrade’s plight, the bigger cowhand dropped the holster and fingered his bandanna. Turning his head, he opened up for one enormous spit. “I didn’t do it. I swear. I just found the gun.” With a nervous glance to the right and left, he stuffed more tobacco into his mouth.

Heart pounding like a steam engine, Ginny twisted around—right into Peter Foote. She grabbed onto his jacket lapel. “Where is he? What are we going to do?”

Peter’s skin was ashen and even his velvety-brown eyes looked paler. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” His breath came in shallow pants.

Her hands trembled, and she struggled not to gasp for breath. Uncle Zak, dear old Uncle Zak, who had raised her ever since she could remember…What was the gang doing to him now? Torturing him? Cutting off fingers? Scalping? Or was he already dead? No! Uncle Zak couldn’t be dead.

Something warm touched her shoulder.

“It’s going to be all right.” Peter’s voice lacked conviction. He tried to embrace her.

She tore away, her already sticky hair falling disheveled around her face. “No, it’s not! We have to find Uncle Zak! We have to…”

Her desperate words were drowned out by the pandemonium. Most of the ladies had devolved into hysterics, and the menfolk weren’t much better.

“If these people can take our sheriff, they could take each one of us. No one is safe.” An older man, who had donated the roast pig to the festival, flailed his arms and looked ready to follow Miss Lilac’s example and expire on the spot.

Mr. Clinton’s ears wiggled and the red-haired boy who had checked Uncle Zak’s home ran to hide under an upturned table. With high-pitched squeals, other children ran after him.

A voice rose above the screaming, shouting, and hysterics. Cal threw two sawhorses and a board to the upright position and jumped on top of the table. “Quiet. We need quiet here.” His voice reverberated with the sound of authority.

It took a minute, but the hysterics subsided.

“Sheriff Thompson is missing, but this panic won’t help us defend ourselves.” Cal’s voice was steady.

“He was killed. Killed I say!” Mrs. Clinton wailed.

“There’s no evidence of that Mrs. Clinton.” Cal’s demeanor was grave. “And until there is, you need to keep your speculations to yourself.” From his loft, he surveyed the crowd. “Tonight, each house will set up a watch.”

Drawing in a hysterical breath, Miss Lilac began ringing her hands. “But I can’t shoot a gun, Mr. Sheriff Person. I can’t, I tell you, I just can’t.”

He turned a severe gaze on Mrs. Clinton until the woman set down her water glass and went over to comfort her friend. “Those households without an able-bodied gunman will spend the night with a household that does. Tomorrow morning, when we have the advantage of daylight, I’ll lead a posse to find Sheriff Thompson. All volunteers should give me their names tonight.”

The townsfolk cast nervous glances at each other and wary looks at him.

“What about the picnic?” Mr. Clinton gestured across the rows of upturned tables.

“I don’t suggest making targets of ourselves by cleaning this up tonight. I want an account of each household here and the name of the family representative who will stay up for the watch. Then we head for town en masse.”

“I’m getting out of town as soon as possible,” the big cowhand said to his comrade. “What about you, Pokey?”

Pokey nodded vigorously.

Jumping down from the table, Cal crossed the distance and cinched the cowhand’s shoulder. “You’ll be there tomorrow for the posse, and you’ll bring your friends too.”

“Um, sure partner, if you put it like that.” The big cowhand’s drawl became more pronounced.

Small groups came up to Cal, and he interrogated them on guns and manpower. Then he scratched down names on a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a torn piece of a tablecloth.

He looked so in control, like everything would be all right. Her breathing calmed just watching him take action. But would everything be all right?

Plopping herself down on the edge of an upturned table, she squeezed the rough edge with her hands and prayed Uncle Zak was safe. She scanned the darkness past the light of Fourth of July lanterns. Where was Uncle Zak in that wilderness? Was he still alive? She shivered.

An hour later, Cal finished his work and the group rose for the journey back to town. Blindly, Ginny followed.

~*~

One by one, keys grated in locks and another group of townsfolk disappeared into their house to spend what hours they could in sleep with revolvers, shotguns, and carbines clutched in restless hands. The ominous stillness that accompanied each movement made Ginny shiver.

Pistol in hand, Cal escorted each family to the relative safety of home. Then, finally, each door had locked away the outside world, leaving only Cal and her.

The moon made patches on the empty streets, creating the illusion of water even where there was none. He turned his gaze to her. “Do you want to stay in town tonight?”

Numbly, she shook her head. She needed to raid Uncle Zak’s closet for pistols and ammunition. And somehow, she had to make her frozen-over brain start working again. A plan—she needed a plan for finding Uncle Zak.

Cal shoved his pistols back into their holsters. “Let’s go, then.”

He’d been polite all night since Uncle Zak disappeared, but she still didn’t want him in her house. Besides, Mrs. Clinton would be scandalized, and the last thing she needed to deal with tomorrow morning was Mrs. Clinton. “No.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m coming with you.” Black curls, almost invisible in the darkness, bobbed up from around the corner and Cherry appeared. “Propriety and all that. Besides, I don’t own a gun.”

Ginny stared at Cherry as the girl’s overly boisterous voice cut through the mood of the night. “I scarcely think Cherry counts as a chaperone.”

Cherry hopped forward. “Oh, Auntie’s coming too. She was scared to death in our creaky house without a gun.”

Swinging her overnight bag by its long strings, Cherry came up to Ginny’s side. “I do hope you have extra towels. Cal told Auntie and me we only had a quarter hour to pack, and I completely forgot them in the haste. Have you ever tried to pick out matching socks by moonlight?”

Before Ginny had time to reply, Miss Lilac rounded the dark corner with a substantial carpet bag taking up both arms.

Cal offered her assistance.

Ginny glared at him and then followed the other three through the darkness to the western edge of town and to her house.

~*~

Six o’clock and the sun was up. Ginny abandoned the pretense of lying quietly beneath her lacy white quilt. Once again, she went through every possible sequence of events that could have made Uncle Zak disappear. Criminal activity topped the list. But how did one get a hostage back from a gang when one didn’t know where the gang was? Sitting up, legs gathered underneath her, she tucked her quilt up to her chin and scrunched her face in thought.

Cal had done a good job getting the crowd to calm down, taking down information, and he’d gotten the citizens home and safely locked in last night. She’d swallow some portion of her pride and ask him for strategy suggestions.

Someone knocked at her door. “I’m leaving to head up the posse in town in ten minutes.” Cal’s voice penetrated the white paneled door.

Did he think this was his operation? No matter. She needed to find Uncle Zak regardless of how unpleasant the process. She grabbed for her clothing.

~*~

This morning, the pounded-down dirt in front of the schoolhouse served as a kind of town square. Every inhabitant of Gilman stood in that wide street, some still in night caps and slippers. Even babies enshrouded in blankets made their own show of slobbery force.

Cal pushed himself to a central spot. “I said only posse members and those volunteering for town watch need show up. Why are you all here?”

“To support our sheriff.” A scrawny-faced woman squeezed her baby tighter.

“We all love Sheriff Thompson,” called out an older, balding man with mismatched socks under his flannel robe.

“I almost stole a chicken once, and he helped me put it back and got me a real job down at a cattle ranch,” said a freckle-faced kid with an upturned nose.

Across the street, Silas dug an old flintlock gun through a length of rope knotted around his waist. “The sheriff’s been keeping me out of trouble for years. Ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do for our sheriff.”

Cal’s eyes widened. Though he needed to remove that rifle from Silas before he exploded the gun, still it was a noble sentiment. Somewhere between apple pies and unlocked jails, the sheriff had captured the heart of the populace. An excellent strategy for any leader, all his law books had said that.

Jumping up on the schoolhouse stairs, Cal raised one hand. “For the posse, we will begin by scouting—”

Mrs. Clinton elbowed her way through the crowd. A cape covered her ample form, protecting her against the unseasonable chill. “Now I’m telling you what. The way to do this is to get ten large horns. The mountains are huge, so the only way our sheriff will even know you’re in the vicinity is with such a horn. I have several at home that I can loan you.”

Cal was grateful he hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning. If he had, he might have lost it. “If there are criminal elements in the hills, they will hear it too and be alerted to our presence.”

Mrs. Clinton hmphed. “If not a horn, then what about a large banner? We have red, white, and blue bunting left over from the Fourth of July and—”

He brought his hand thundering down on the schoolhouse rail. “I’ll take the floor now, Mrs. Clinton.”

Mrs. Clinton stepped back into Mr. Clinton.

Sparing only one glance to the rather large splinter he’d acquired from the rail, Cal moved on to business. “Posse members on the right. Town watch on the left.”

Mr. Clinton raised one spindly hand. “I’ll head up the town watch.”

Dirt fell off Cal’s boots as he tapped the schoolhouse stairs with them and eyed Mr. Clinton. The sheriff had said he could trust the man, but Mr. Clinton was caught up in the thick of silver mine business. “No, if you can sit a horse, I’d prefer you in the posse.”

Mr. Clinton shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Mrs. Clinton began to bawl. “Stay safe, John. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Babies squalled while Silas fiddled with the unstable looking flintlock, making it an excellent time to leave for the rescue expedition.

~*~

Clambering onto a nondescript mare that looked less liable to throw her than the black one she’d ridden up the mountains last time, Ginny shoved two pistols into her saddle bags. What she really needed was a gun belt, but she hadn’t been able to locate Uncle Zak’s spare holsters in the ten minutes Cal had given her.

“Psst…Ginny.”

She looked down. Cherry stood next to the horse, her chin uplifted as she leaned forward confidentially. “Did you notice Widow Sullivan wasn’t here?”

“She overslept rather than coming to find Uncle Zak?” Of course, Widow Sullivan was a stranger. Still, the town had been kind to her. Attending would have been polite.

“No.” Pulling her purple shawl closer around her, Cherry shook her head. “She wasn’t here last night either when Cal counted heads at the Fourth of July picnic.”

The cold breeze coming down from the mountains accented Cherry’s words with chilling vigor. Ginny touched her pistols. “Why didn’t the Clintons say anything? She was staying at their house after all.”

Cherry brought her shoulders up, fluffing the rose fabric of her dress. “You probably know this, but Sheriff Thompson’s gone walking with her dozens of times just this month.” Cherry dropped her voice. “And Peter told me your uncle asked to look at engagement rings in his store catalog.”

Uncle Zak had courted Widow Sullivan and not even told her? An uncomfortable feeling jostled in Ginny’s stomach. Ridiculous. Uncle Zak had probably just been asking Widow Sullivan about the case and wanted to look at the rings as research for fine jewelry robberies. Tugging at her leather gloves, Ginny scooted tighter into her saddle. “Thank you for the information. I’ll look into it.”

“Be careful.” One side of the shawl blew away from Cherry, whipping out in the cold wind as she lifted her hand in farewell.

With a kick to her mare, Ginny sent it pounding forward into the great beyond. Unfortunately, the great beyond ended rather abruptly when she had to wait for the dozen or so posse members Cal had gathered. What could he be doing with them that was taking forever? They had a sheriff to rescue.

~*~

Ginny urged her mount closer to the western edge of town.

Cal had the entire posse dismounted.

As if that accomplished anything?

One by one, he went through the men. “You know how to shoot this?” Cal took an older man’s gun, turned the pistol in his hand, and handed it back.

The older man, who looked like Mr. Jones, though she couldn’t quite tell from the back of his head, nodded.

“Show me.” For the next few minutes, Cal made Mr. Jones load, unload, and aim the gun. Mr. Jones’s hand wobbled a bit when he pulled the trigger and his three practice rounds hit the edge of a pine tree, clipped the tail of a squirrel, and bounced into a puddle respectively, rather than reaching the boulder Cal had pointed out. But Cal moved on to the next posse member.

Snuggling further into her coat, she rested her chin on the warm mane of her mare and watched. It wasn’t a bad idea actually, testing the posse. She knew for a fact that some of the guns owned in this town were Civil War pieces.

“Me next. Me next, Mr. Sheriff Person.” Silas, the last man remaining, hopped wildly on one foot, flailing both arms.

Even from across the space, Ginny could hear Cal’s groan. “All right, Silas. Show me what you can do with this thing.” Cal stood by the man.

“Uh, sure.” Silas jerked at the musket’s butt, trying to get the thing out of his rope belt. No luck. Grasping the muzzle end, he attempted to jiggle it down. The trigger snagged on the rope around his waist and a gigantic puff of smoke exploded downward. With a yell, Silas hopped wildly on his now soot-blackened boot.

Cal coughed. “Let me take that.” With his knife, he slit Silas’s makeshift belt and confiscated the flintlock.

Silas’s eyes resembled an overgrown puppy dog’s. “But what will I use to shoot the crooks that took the sheriff?”

Showing an uncharacteristic amount of patience, Cal patted the man on his ragged coat shoulders. “We’ll worry about finding you a gun when we get there.”

“Sounds good to me, Mr. Westwood.” A smile broke across the stubble on Silas’s cheeks. Then he hobbled over to his horse. The mangy animal looked just as skeptical of Silas as Silas did of the horse.

“You next.”

The curt voice coming from a foot away made her jump. Cal stood on the ground at her left side.

She looked down from the horse. His hand was on her stirrup. One had to admire, however grudgingly, how he’d taken charge. “You know I can shoot, and I can ensure you that my pistols are in excellent shooting condition.”

“Show me.” He extended his hand palm up for her pistols.

She drew her eyebrows into a hard line. “I don’t—”

“I shouldn’t be letting you in my posse in the first place. Your uncle would certainly not thank me.”

“Then, why are you?” she said, handing him the pistols instead of retorting. This was not his posse, but Uncle Zak needed to be saved.

He turned the guns in his hands examining barrel, trigger, hammer. Finally, he looked up at her. “You’re a good shot. Unfortunately, probably the best we have in this posse after me.”

Sitting a little straighter in her saddle, she thought about bestowing a smile on the man. He had a good head on his shoulders. And quite a handsome one at that, mounted on rugged shoulders. Maybe she’d suggest he try out for the Texas Rangers when he returned to his state. With a lot of practice and a decent bit of luck, he just might make it into that famed force.

“But more importantly, you would have tagged along behind anyway, and then I’d be responsible when the gang picked off the stragglers.” Cal turned his mouth up on one side.

If his face hadn’t been at knee height, she would have slapped him. She felt like kicking him, but she had manifested quite enough unladylike behavior last night to last her for the year. “Ready to stop wasting time and get this posse moving?”

He nodded.

Men mounted their horses and formed a straggling line as the posse rode up and ever up. The cold morning sun changed to something more intense, but the chill wind from the mountains also increased. Uncle Zak’s slicker flapped about her waist. She tightened the belt and scooted further into the leathery folds. A dampness crawled in with the breeze. Even the sun’s rays were muted as a thin fog crept down the mountains.

Peter Foote spurred his horse up to Cal, who rode several yards to the front, gaze scanning the land above. “What are we looking for exactly, Cal?”

She inched her mount in from the left side to hear what Cal had to say.

It took a moment for him to stop scanning the trees in front and answer. “Signs of unusual activity. Ideally, a gang hideout. Though I doubt we have a strong enough force to take on the Silverman gang unless we take them by complete surprise.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “There’s a gang here in Gilman? How many men do they have?”

“A dozen or two at least at this location, I’d imagine. More in Houston.”

And that easily, Cal told a civilian general store owner the secret that he’d been trying to hide from her for months. Ginny pressed her lips together.

Peter tightened the reins on his horse. “We have almost two dozen, counting the cowhands.”

“The larger issue is that these men are trained gunmen.” Cal’s face stiffened, his eyes narrow. “I’m not convinced half of this posse could hit a human-sized target, even if they’re not on horseback.”

“What’s the trick for shooting from horseback?” Peter asked.

“The first thing is to get your seat steady. Try this.” Cal did something she couldn’t see and motioned Peter to do the same. Peter shot and landed one bullet quite respectably in a fir branch.

That technique of Cal’s must be good, because she’d never see Peter shoot from horseback before. Mounted marksmanship had always been her weakness.

Spurring her horse, she came even with Cal’s horse. “What did you just show him?”

Cal turned to her. “Like this. Steady your arm so.” Closing his sorrel in to match her mare’s pace, he touched her arm and maneuvered it into position. “Then post while—”

She tilted her head as she studied how he did it. Impressive. And if her hand sweated a little at his touch, that was only because she worried what Peter would think. “Where did you learn that?”

“Training.”

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Peter smiled at her.

Even Peter was on Cal’s side now? She focused on the pine she’d selected as a target as she held her pistol out steady. “Yeah, sure.”

Cal turned his blue-eyed gaze to her, a hint of amusement flickering in them. “What did you just say?”

Lowering her pistol, she straightened up very tall in her saddle, which would have worked better if her mare was a couple hands taller than Cal’s sorrel. It wasn’t. “You’re good. See? I said it.”

Half a smile jerked up the corners of his mouth, but then he shifted his gaze back to scanning the area. “What’s the name of the man over there?” He pointed to a young man with black sideburns who wandered far to the right of the posse. “I’ve been telling him all morning to stay close, and he keeps doing that.”

She glanced in the direction Cal pointed. “Oh, that’s Charles.”

“Can you go persuade him to stay safely with the others, because every time I talk to him he nods and then mutters something about ‘Miss Thompson’ and shifts further right.”

As if her talking to him would work? “It’s Charles,” she said, using the finality that statement deserved.

“Yeah, you know him. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“The incident, remember?” Ginny shook her head at Cal’s obvious amnesia. “I can’t ride over there. He’ll just move further away.”

Cal swung up his hands from the saddle horn. “It was third grade.”

She adjusted her seat in the saddle and tried that mounted shooting trick Cal had shown her one more time before taking the necessary action. “I’ll ride back to the left. That should make him come in further.”

Cal sighed. “All right.”

~*~

Nothing, nothing, and again nothing. What was visible of the sun, which wasn’t much, had started the downward arc of the afternoon and yet the same peaks, valleys, and evergreen trees spread out before them without a hint of murderous gangs or kidnapped prisoners. A few boulders made menacing shadows on a cliff face above, but there wasn’t even a hint of campfire smoke.

Kicking her horse, Ginny strayed a little further left of the posse. Uncle Zak had to be here somewhere. But where? She looked up, but the vastness of ever-rising mountains defied her ability to even see, let alone traverse, them all.

To the left, the evergreen fence broke for a few feet. Her mare whinnied and started trotting that way.

“No! Bad horse. No!” She tugged at the reins, but the mare was dead set on entering the ring of trees. It could be interesting to see what lay beyond…

The mare pushed through a narrow opening and Ginny ducked to avoid a tree branch. Then, as she lifted her head, she gasped.

A mountain lake spread out before her. Cold water lapped the rock-bound edges of this forest mystery. Tall pines encased it, closing out the rest of the world. One lone bird flapped its wings over the icy stillness. A breath of wind skimmed over the water and blew up to brush her face like the cold hands of a mermaid.

The mare pushed forward to the water’s edge and dunked her broad muzzle in the water. Sliding off the horse, Ginny knelt by the water. The moss on the rocky edge of the lake felt cold even through her dress. She huddled in Uncle Zak’s slicker and watched the wind ripple the cold water.

Tears welled up behind her eyelids. Where was Uncle Zak now? They’d need a thousand men and just as many days to cover all this distance. What if he died first? What would she do without Uncle Zak?

Fallen leaves crunched behind her, and she jumped for her pistols. But she’d left them in her saddle bags.

“People who wander off get lost. I can’t afford to be hunting two missing persons.” A dismounted Cal pushed his way through the brush and his horse followed behind. Dropping the sorrel’s reins, he strode up next to her, a little too close for comfort. His tan duster hung down from broad shoulders, as his hands parted the coat to rest on his gun belt.

She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeves. He was the last person she needed seeing her cry. “I guess not, seeing as you can’t even find one missing person.”

He stepped back, boot digging a valley through a quite beautiful piece of moss. “You’re blaming your uncle’s absence on me?”

“If you hadn’t been so busy pestering me at the picnic, maybe you would have noticed when the gang arrived and kidnapped him.” Still bent over, she splashed icy lake water on her face and hoped it hid the red in her eyes and washed away the tears.

“That’s ridiculous.” He plucked up a stone and hurled it out across the water. It skimmed across the surface, breaking the placid ripples. “And I never said anything about kidnappers.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Cal Westwood.” She turned stony eyes to him. “I know you’ve wanted me out of this gang business from the start. But it’s here now. It’s part of my life. My Uncle Zak’s gone and—” She choked on a sob and quickly turned toward the water to hide the tears that followed.

Hand already half-extended in a throw, Cal dropped the second rock. It hit the moss with a thud. “Are you crying?”

“No! But you need to start sharing information with me. I know this town. I know my uncle. And I know law enforcement.” Standing up, she stuck her hands into the massive pockets of the slicker and planted her feet further apart. Most of the stance was obscured by leather and petticoats, and perhaps that was why Cal didn’t react, but it still felt defiant.

His face softened as he stepped closer. “We’ll find him. I promise.”

She stiffened. “There is absolutely no way you can know that.”

“True, no man knows the future, but Texas trains their lawmen to come right close.” He smiled at her. “Trust me, Gina. I’m going to try everything.”

A small frog, who had somehow managed to survive mountain temperatures, gurgled from behind a bit of lake greenery. Cal seemed so strong, so confident. Her lower lip trembled as she wiped away more unwanted tears and bit back a sob. Part of her wanted to rush forward and cling to him, let the fear and worry fall away for a few moments by drawing from his strength.

Reaching forward, he took her hand that was as white as she imagined her face was. His fingers squeezed hers.

The heat of his hand warmed hers. For the first time since that ill-fated day he arrived on the train, she was glad she wasn’t the only one working in the Gilman sheriff’s office. But this was not a time for idle sentiment. With a shake of her head, she recaptured her hand and turned her mind to the problem. “Are you going to share case information with me?”

Another rock, which had somehow made it into Cal’s grasp, bounced back and forth as he tossed the stone from hand to hand. “You really think it could make a difference in finding your uncle?”

“Of course. I’m brilliant.” Her voice contained a distinct sniffle from the tears, but she tried to hide it.

“All right, but when I say share that means you share with me, too. Got it?”

A fair exchange but not necessarily the one she would have outlined. She sighed. “All right.”

Turning away from him, she picked her way over clumps of moss to her mare, who was still greedily sucking in water. She patted the poor beast’s swollen stomach and then swung up. “We better get the posse back before dark.”

As she pulled the mare around to the clearing in the trees, she looked back at him. “And thank you.”

His blue eyes matched the mountain lake as he nodded back.