19

The gang taken safely to the Denver marshal, paperwork signed to get the Gilman posse equal shares of the reward money, and all the paperwork on Cal’s desk filed. Yes, life was in pretty good order these days.

“Ginny.” Cal swung open his office door, but her desk was already empty for the day, her pen and ruler neatly tucked into a brown notebook. A frown crossed his face.

He moved to her desk and laid one hand on the notebook. Did the notebook hold only public case matters, or when she grew bored at this desk did she ever record private feelings? Did any of her private feelings ever involve him? He moved one finger to nudge open a page.

“Cal, is that you?” The sheriff’s voice came from the back office next to the jail cell. Turning, Cal walked through the back office door.

Inside, Sheriff Thompson sat at his desk, flipping through multiple sheets of paper. When he entered, the man pushed them aside against the empty pie plate that a few flaky crumbs of pastry dough still clung to, another reminder of Ginny. “Just looking at some notices of application.” He patted his hand on the stack.

“You’re really retiring?” Cal’s gaze traveled the office that had become familiar in the few short weeks since he’d come. The gang assignment over, he’d be leaving soon. It seemed unreal.

Sheriff Thompson nodded. “I’ve got the letters right here. The election is in two days.”

Cal nodded and picked up a dead moth that had perished between the cracks of the floorboards.

“I didn’t see a letter from you.”

The moth found its final resting place just outside the open office window, beneath a lilac bush. All in all, not a shabby funeral site for an insect. Then Cal turned to the sheriff and agreed with a silent nod. He’d be back in Houston by the end of this month at the latest. Far, far away from Gilman. The thought made him irrationally unsettled.

The smell of lilacs brushed through the office, carried in on the breeze, as Sheriff Thompson leaned over his desk. “I don’t need a notice of application to know you’re the best we could get for this job.”

Cal met the man’s gaze. “I’m a Texas Ranger. That’s not a post many leave.”

“Will you think about it?”

Such a simple question; such a hard answer. Cal roved his gaze around the room again, taking in the nicks on the pine floor, the bit of rust just under the jail cell lock, the walls, bare except for one daguerreotype of a small girl, maybe Ginny, by the sheriff’s desk. On one hand, he was moving forward in Houston, just got a promotion three months ago. Mrs. Clinton, inane Temperance League fights, and a town drunk who expected pillows in his jai, that wasn’t moving forward.

On the other hand, he’d never seen a town rally together as when Sheriff Thompson was kidnapped and, for a few brief hours, Gilman had felt more like home than anything he’d experienced in ten years.

Could he handle being stuck in a tiny town like Gilman? Then again, if Mr. Clinton’s mine had as much silver as Bloody Joe predicted, the threat of gang violence hadn’t ended. Gilman needed a decent lawman to keep it safe, and he highly doubted if any of those Gilman applicants in the stack were up to the job. Then there was Ginny.

Was she spending as much time thinking about him as he was about her?

“Think about it?” Sheriff Thompson repeated. A curious expression on his face, his gaze followed Cal’s wandering one.

“All right, I’ll think about it.”

Shoving the other notices of application away, the sheriff smiled.

“If there isn’t anything else, I’m heading back for the day.”

“See you at home, Westwood,” the sheriff’s voice trailed him as he hurried out the door. He only had a limited number of minutes before the work day ended to catch Ginny alone, and he intended to use them.

~*~

The Thompson front door swung open at Cal’s hand. He only had to follow the aroma to find Ginny.

Heat rose from the kitchen stove, sending up puffs of smoke and a delicious browning-pastry-crusts smell. In the doorway, he paused, one hand on the doorframe. “So.”

An apple peel slithered through Ginny’s fingers as she slid her knife around an apple. “So?” She looked up with a smile.

“This is it, I guess. Gang captured, peace restored, I’ll be heading back to Houston.” He leaned more heavily on his raised hand.

“Oh.” The peeled apple landed with a plop in a bowl of other naked fruit and she grabbed a second one.

Was it his imagination or had her smile faded somewhat? Was she maybe thinking of missing him?

More calmly than he felt, he stepped into the aroma-laden kitchen. He picked off a bit of perfectly brown crust that had half fallen off and made the casual remark, “It’s been good working with you.”

Uncovering a floury pan, she whipped out a folded pie crust, pressed it into a pie plate, and then turned to him. “The same to you. The way you led the posse and overpowered the sentries was truly impressive. I’m sorry I was so awful to you at first. You acted like a true gentleman the entire time.”

The pie crust almost choked him as he swallowed the piping hot pastry in one gulp. “You ever think of coming out Houston’s way?”

“What for?” Grabbing a spice jar, she sent its contents sprinkling over the apples with a shake of her lovely wrist.

Not the best question to ask. Unless he wanted to drop on one knee and propose on the spot. A ludicrous idea. Or was it? “To see the town.”

A puff of wind flapped through the curtains above the sink and blew her hair out of place. She reached one floury hand up to smooth it and smudged a dab across her right temple. “What’s to see in Texas? Isn’t it all cacti and flat plains of dust?”

Jerking opened the oven door, she sniffed, and then removed the top pie tin. With her elbow, she pushed the plate of pastry snails toward him. “You can have these instead of my pies.”

She clearly wasn’t getting the hint. Taking a snail between two fingers, he took a bite of the delicious cinnamon, sugar, and butter flavor. “There’s the Texas Ranger training grounds for one.”

One hand on the counter behind, a position that highlighted her figure more than she was likely aware, she leaned back and tilted her head up to him. “You’ve been to their training grounds? I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Yeah, it’s where I trained.”

She dropped the pie plate. The tin clanged against the floorboards, pastry bouncing, as her floury hands came up. “You’re not—you couldn’t be!”

The corners of his mouth twisted up. “Don’t think I shoot straight enough for a Ranger?”

She stared at him, pink lips spreading apart as her chin dropped.

“I can show you the badge if it’d help.”

“Did you put an application in for town sheriff here?” Strangely, her voice held a tinge of desperation.

Why that question now? Was she asking because she wanted him to apply or because she still hated the idea?

“I thought about it.” There. That was a perfect, open-ended statement just begging for a revealing response from her.

“Really?” She froze, tea towel in her hands.

The stove burst into smoke. The oven door jiggled as the sound of popping, burning, and blasting filled the air.

“No!” Ginny rushed to the oven door. Flames leaped up at the sudden burst of oxygen. A spark hit a wisp of her hair and she smacked wildly at it with her tea towel.

He stepped forward.

“Need help cleaning up, honey?” Sheriff Thompson stood in the kitchen doorway, a bundle of papers in hand.

And that was the end of that conversation. With a scowl, Cal knelt by the oven door and turned to the task of fire extinguishing.

~*~

Pressing her elbows down on the scratched finish of the dining room table, Ginny chewed the tip of her pen.

“What are you doing?” From across the table, Cherry lined up more quilting pieces that should have been Ginny’s responsibility. The fabric polygons spread around her like water ripples, engulfing the table, and spilling out onto the floor beyond. After Cherry finished this quilt, they’d only have thirty-four more to piece.

Flicking away a sage-green rectangle that had invaded her writing space, Ginny looked up from her stack of papers. “Do you think ‘key facilitator in Silverman gang round up’ sounds better or ‘influential leader contributing to the capture of Silverman gang.’”

Cherry gasped through the indigos, blues, and cattle-sized carpet bag from Mrs. Clinton that sat in front of her. “You’re not applying to enter the sheriff election, are you?”

“Polishing my notice of application as we speak.” Ginny dug the pen back into the ink. Should she include that time she found the Smith’s cow when she was ten, or was that going back too far? Cal had mentioned applying. If there was even a small chance she was competing against a Texas Ranger, she needed to list every accomplishment she had.

A Texas Ranger…She twirled the pen between her thumb and ring finger. How long had he been one? Just to achieve that post took incredible determination and natural ability. He must have done it all. Halted stage coach robberies, tracked down wanted men, been in gunfights.

When she’d almost died up there at the hands of the Silverman gang, she’d realized how truly awful she’d acted toward him. Though she’d compared herself to Rahab bravely lying to the King of Jericho, Cal was a hero, not a villain. She never should have lied to him, or manipulated matters to get him in trouble with Mrs. Clinton, or attempted to run him out of town.

Her behavior had been ill-befitting to any good Christian, let alone a woman intent upon pursuing a career in law enforcement. She should have been upholding the law, not subverting it. Never again would she let her actions sink so low. No, after she became sheriff of Gilman, she’d hold herself to a much higher standard.

“Ginny! You can’t run in the sheriff election.” Cherry shook her shoulder, waking Ginny from her reverie.

“Why not?” Had Cal ever raced a train? Jumped his horse down from a canyon onto a rail car like in the dime novels?

“If you get that position, then Cal won’t, and he’ll leave for Texas, and you’ll be miserable.” Face stretched with the direness of her prediction, Cherry swept one hand down across the table as if revealing a path of bleak destruction.

Ginny twisted in her seat. It would be rather strange to never see Cal again. Maybe. But he hadn’t been around Gilman for years before this summer, and she’d been just fine.

Plopping back in Uncle Zak’s chair, Cherry tucked her feet underneath her and pushed a red square toward a yellow octagon. “Even if he stayed, I doubt he’d want a lawman, well, law-woman, for a wife. By the way, where am I supposed to put these squares when I’m done piecing them?”

Ginny dropped her pen. It splattered on the floor and Fluffy crawled nearer, tongue extended toward the ink. “You’re saying he’s prejudiced? And who said anything about marriage?”

With one perfectly shaped nail, Cherry tucked a wisp of her hair back. “You.”

Ginny’s eyes grew big. “Me?” She’d never thought of marrying Cal. Never. Even when Peter’s lips swelled purple on the mountain and he’d shaken from fear, her affections had remained true. She’d certainly not thought any such thing when Cal touched his lips to hers on the mountain. It had been an evasion tactic aimed to confuse the gang. The reason her heart wouldn’t stop pounding after was because their lives were in danger.

“That time you swooned in his arms.” Cherry’s voice stirred the air.

Papers and quilting squares flying upward, Ginny’s chair crashed back as she leapt from the table. “I never swooned in his arms!” The posse hadn’t repeated anything about that kiss, had they? Law enforcement had to do that kind of thing all the time to distract criminals. It wasn’t anything special.

Cherry covered a smirk with the back of her hand. “I just made that part up to see you jump. But it’s true that you can’t stop talking about him.”

More quilting pieces wafted off the table as Ginny collapsed into her chair. “He’s interesting. Isn’t it normal to find people interesting?” And he was a Texas Ranger. If one was going to swoon for a man, which of course she wasn’t, a Texas Ranger would be the man to swoon for.

Cherry smiled—knowingly!

Ginny pressed her fingers against her lips. Did it show after one had been kissed? She certainly hoped not. Uncle Zak would have Cal’s hide, and Cherry would have a heyday with romantic predictions. Which was ludicrous. Cal had been deceiving Bloody Joe so that she and he could rescue all of Gilman together. That was all.

“You couldn’t take your eyes off him at dinner the other night.”

Hands on the table, Ginny scooted her application papers around in an uneasy motion. Had she been looking at him? He did look like a Texas Ranger. “He’s not hard on the eyes. But if you married everything that wasn’t hard on the eyes, you’d probably end up wedded to a mountain or a sunset.”

“You wanted his opinion about capturing the gang. That was apparent every time you told me the story.” Cherry tried a truly atrocious purple paisley square with a cream triangle and then with a sage block. “Could Mrs. Clinton be color blind? I think that’s the most charitable excuse for some of these fabrics.”

Leaning over the table, Ginny slapped both hands down and covered the pieces distracting Cherry’s attention. “That’s a ridiculous reason to think I’m in love. Normal people ask for other people’s opinions. There’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary there.” Absolutely nothing. If she’d been acting charitably, she would have asked for his opinion right from the start rather than attempting to discredit him.

Cherry flicked Ginny’s hand away with two fingers and tugged the quilting pieces back into perspective. “Yeah, normal people, not you. And especially not you with Cal, someone who is vying for the same position as you.” She shifted another piece toward the purple one and then craned her neck to peer at it.

Scrunching back into her chair, Ginny crossed her arms. “Well, he has good opinions.”

Cherry clicked her tongue in a knowing sound as she leaned over the quilting pieces. “See what I mean. You admire him.”

Arms still crossed, Ginny let her gaze stray across the room. Out the back entrance, she saw the backroom where Cal stayed.

Cherry moved another piece against the purple one. She fell back with a sigh. “What I would give to do important work like you do.”

“You know you could do great detective work, Cherry. I mean with proper oversight and training, of course. Why you cracked the plum preserves case wide open.”

“You connected it to the gang after I told you Widow Sullivan was gone.”

“And the sheriff’s office didn’t do anything to figure out either scheme.” A frown crossed Ginny’s lips. “I think this town needs a detective agency.”

“We have a sheriff…well, kind of in transition right now but we will have a sheriff.” Picking up the purple piece between two fingers, Cherry dropped it on Fluffy’s head.

“Yes, but all the trained lawmen were so focused on the mine, they couldn’t see what was under their very noses.”

“Men have a way of doing that. It’s why so many male-cooked dinners are charred.”

Ginny nodded in silent agreement. She tapped her fingers against the table as she started to devise a plan.

“Wait, you’re not thinking—”

“Of course I am. We can start a detective agency. Use some Temperance League ladies as our eyes and ears when necessary, take on cases that the sheriff’s office has neglected.”

Something like a smile crept to Cherry’s red lips even as she shifted a mite uncomfortably on her chair. “If we do, then will you not apply for the sheriff election?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can do both.”

“Really?” Cherry’s tone was strangely doubtful.

“First thing we need is an office. I want somewhere with privacy, but a central location so clients can be easily reached.”

Cherry nodded along for all of five minutes before turning back to the quilting pieces, a sign of true interest. “Have you ever dreamt about a handsome stranger coming into town, sweeping you off your feet, proposing to you the same day, and then riding off with you into the sunset?”

“Not really. Now the detective agency—”

“Not Cal, you know. He’d hardly qualify as a stranger now. Though, after he’s been gone a couple years, I guess he’ll be like a stranger again.” Cherry piled some white muslin squares next to lemon rectangles.

Ginny blinked. That’s right, Cal was leaving. He wouldn’t be here every morning and evening like before. Wouldn’t sit in this dining room at every breakfast and supper. Over there by the book cabinet, she and Cal had discussed the strategy that had led to Uncle Zak’s rescue. Here at this table, Cal and she—

“It would be terribly romantic, don’t you think?”

Ginny brought her head up. “What would?”

“The handsome stranger, immediate proposal.”

“Oh.” Ginny looked back through the open kitchen door to where Cal and she had spent so many arguments. “Maybe, but the stranger could be a gang member for all you know.”

“I know. I know. Marry in haste, repent at leisure, they say. Only my philosophy is, if you wait forever to get married, then you’ll have to repent really, really quickly because you’ll be almost dead.”

Just behind Ginny stood the piano where Cal had—no, if she got that Irish ballad running through her head, she’d cry. It was bad enough he was leaving without having all of the Irish’s misery poured out on top of it. Her gaze drifted to Cherry. “You really think I’m in love?”

White teeth pressed against her lip in concentration, Cherry shoved two triangles together. “Definitely.”

Love? She’d never quite reached that stage with Peter Foote, but she assumed she would know what it felt like when she did. Ginny ran her tongue over her lips. “How does one know when one’s in love?”

Flinging the pieces away from her, Cherry settled into her chair. “I wouldn’t exactly call myself an expert. After you’ve had the experience ten or fifteen times, it starts getting all muddled together and you can’t pick it out quite as well. But you’ve got the classic signs.”

“Classic signs?”

Cherry held up the fingers of one hand. “Admiration, pleasure in the man’s company, and distraction when his name is mentioned.”

Those were the classic signs? For one moment, Ginny’s eyes grew big as she tried to sort out the tangled business of love. Then she dropped her elbows onto the table and slid her notice of application back into position. “Anyway, it likely doesn’t matter. He’s probably leaving for Houston. He hates this town.”

“Have you tried to convince him to stay?”

Ginny moved her hand to the hooligan uprising section of her list of achievements before she realized her pen was gone. Underneath her, Fluffy licked black lips and took another chew of the pen. Ginny sighed and looked back at Cherry. “How, in your opinion, does one convince a man to stay?”

“Oh, the usual.”

“The usual?”

“Subtle hints, flurries of tears, expressions of undying devotion, whatever usually works for you.”

Ginny coughed. “I don’t have a usual.”

“Then invent one. You’re plenty smart enough. I mean just look at you. Last week you rescued your uncle and captured the Silverman gang. You have enough intelligence to get a man.”

Ginny puckered her brow. Flirting took intelligence? Actually, some of the most famous female criminals built their reputation off their manipulative abilities, so perhaps Cherry had a point. “It’s inconsequential. I already have a plan.”

“A plan that involves Cal Westwood?”

“No.”

Neglecting the quilting pieces again, Cherry dug further into Uncle Zak’s chair. “Go on. Tell all.”

Heat rose across Ginny’s cheeks. “It’s kind of personal.”

“Of course it’s personal. If it was public information, it wouldn’t be enjoyable to listen to, like trigonometry or the history of chemical compounds.”

“All right.” Ginny dropped her voice several levels below hushed. “For several years now, I’ve planned to marry…”

Cherry leaned in closer, pink ears stretched forward.

“Peter Foote. After I become sheriff. It would be a very compatible relationship. All those grandnieces and nephews Uncle Zak wants could play in the general store aisles while I keep the town safe.”

“Virginia Lane Thompson!” Cherry bounded out of her seat. “I’m going to put an end to this just to keep the public peace.”

“Hush.” Heat spread across Ginny’s face down to her neck.

“You would drive Peter Foote crazy. The general store is a hub of town activity, and the staple of life in Gilman. You can’t destroy that for the entire population of our town.” The girl motioned dramatically in gestures that would have made a pulpit-pounding reverend proud.

“I wouldn’t drive anyone crazy.” Ginny crossed her arms

“Can you say that again?”

“I would not drive anyone crazy.” Ginny jutted her chin up too, matching the crossed arms.

“Now with conviction.”

Sitting was obviously not getting her point across. Hands on the table, Ginny rose to her feet. “I am absolutely positive—”

“All right, now with an ounce of truth in the statement. Ginny, you’d be an absolutely horrible general store manager’s wife, and expecting Peter Foote to be a sheriff’s husband is completely unfair.”

With a shrug, Ginny plopped back into her seat, pried her pen from Fluffy’s mouth, and, ignoring the two teeth holes, started back on the application.

“Ginny, listen to me.”

Instead, Ginny leaned over the application paper and pressed her pen down to outline solving the preserve case. “What do you want me to do? Run over to the reverend and vow to marry Cal Westwood on the spot?”

“Technically, a justice of the peace like your uncle could also perform the ceremony.”

“I don’t care. I’m not marrying Cal Westwood!” As the words left her mouth, she frowned. She tried to picture what it would be like married to Cal, a little house, Fluffy purring in the corner, Mother’s piano in the spot of honor across from the fireplace.

“Even if he begs you on bended knee?”

“I can’t imagine Cal begging for anything on bended knee.” Now Ginny tried putting Cal in the house, imagined talking to him on the front porch on a summer evening. It was a rather beautiful image.

“But if he did?”

“All right. If Cal Westwood begs me on bended knee, I will marry him. Satisfied?” Plopping both hands on the papers, she gave Cherry a lofty, conversation-ending glance.

“Oh, perfectly.” Cherry swept the quilting pieces off the table into her apron and stood.

“Wait! You can’t tell him that.”

“Ugh.” Cherry sank back into her seat.

“If anything from this conversation takes a single step out of this room, you’ll be the first in my jail. Get it?” If Ginny had possessed a pistol at that moment, she would have emphasized her words with it.

“Fine, I’ll keep mum. Though it might be worth a day behind bars to see you walk down the aisle.”

“A day? You’d be in jail as long as I was married.”

Cherry sighed. “Calm yourself. I already said I’d keep the conversation private.”

~*~

After walking back and forth between the preserves and the hardware section of the general store nine times, Cal finally stood in front of the leather case that stored valuables.

A diamond ring sat next to a ruby necklace with a pair of pearl earrings bringing up the flank. On the higher ground, in the back of the case, a silver chain twisted under gold bands. Cal swallowed hard. Did he or did he not want to do this thing?

“Can I help you find something? A piece of jewelry, perhaps?” Someone touched the shelf behind, and Peter stood beside Cal, the key to the case in his hand.

Cal tried to jumped and rattled the whole rack of stud earrings on top of the case. “Um, no, just looking at this.” He grabbed the nearest article to the counter. It felt soft and fluffy.

“A lady’s scarf? That’s an expensive one. Someone special you had in mind?”

This time just Cal’s hand twitched and the stud earrings merely shifted. “No. Not at all.”

“Anything else I can help you find?” Peter swept a cloth across the leather case, wiping off fingerprints.

“Actually, I think I’ll just look at this case of jewelry a moment. Gangs tend to steal fine jewelry, so it’s always good to know what’s on the market.” Cal turned his gaze toward Peter, hoping he’d accept the explanation.

“All right.” Stuffing the dust cloth into the hardware apron around his waist, Peter turned.

Alone again after Peter left for other corners of the store, Cal shifted his gaze warily to the case. So many shapes, sizes, colors—gold, white-gold, silver; some cut flat on the bottom, others pointed—every fraction variant of a carat known to man. One would think a mathematician had been trying to teach a fraction lesson. Did women even care about these things?

More importantly, would it matter? Did Ginny want him? There’d been that night planning gang strategy, but the stress of her uncle’s life hanging in the balance could have clouded her feelings.

Leaning forward, Cal studied a gold ring with a diamond. The glow of the gem reminded him of Ginny.

“Good morning.”

Cal spun around.

And collided with Cherry. Smoothing down her dress, she stepped back primly. “If you’re looking for a ring for Ginny, I know her size.”

“Um…no, of course not. Just doing gang-related research here, preventing fine jewelry robberies and all.”

“Oh, all right.” Giving her parasol a twirl that sent it bobbing around her wrist, Cherry spun away. Then, tilting her white chin back over her shoulders, “She wears a size five, by the way.”

~*~

Why weren’t women allowed to vote? It was downright deplorable. Ginny paced the length of Main Street. A wooden ballot box sat out front of the school. Red and white bunting overhung the schoolhouse’s eaves. Gavel in hand, Mr. Clinton presided as the men of the town straggled in to cast their vote.

She was a citizen of Gilman, and so were Cherry, Miss Lilac, and even Mrs. Clinton. Why couldn’t they march up to that bunting the Temperance League had sewn and cast their vote for whoever they desired to be sheriff ?

She hadn’t even had time for campaigning. Uncle Zak had held the election too fast. She’d meant to go out last night and knock on each Gilman door asking for their vote, but Cherry had convinced her that a last minute effort like that would just make her seem desperate. The townsfolk knew her qualifications, and all had heard about her role in the Silverman gang’s capture.

Now Silas stumbled his way up to the schoolhouse’s steps. Silas could vote and not her?

Her high-heeled boots raised dust as she stomped toward the steps. Circling around the line of a half-dozen men, Ginny marched in front of Mr. Clinton. “I would like to see a ballot.”

Mr. Clinton looked up from the dark wood of the ballot box. “My answer hasn’t changed from last year.” He held his fist up to his mouth and coughed.

“I just want to read the ballot. I’m not asking to vote.”

Tugging the stack of upturned ballots closer, Mr. Clinton clamped a spindly hand over them. “There will be no voter fraud in this election.”

The sun glared off the shiny white of new ballot paper.

“Good morning, Miss Ginny.” Behind her in line, Peter Foote raised his hat. “I know one name on that ballot is Cal Westwood. That’s who I’ll be voting for.”

The man behind Peter, who had sleepily contemplated the dirt, craned his head around. “He is? Well, I know who I’ll be voting for, too.”

And Peter had just taken another vote from her. Ginny narrowed her eyes as she considered glaring at him. Lifting her chin airily underneath her straw hat, she decided he really wasn’t worth the effort of a glare.

“If it’s any consolation, Mr. Clinton won’t let me touch a ballot either. Haven’t been a resident of Gilman for six months.”

Ginny turned. Cal stood behind her, leaning up against the north side of the schoolhouse.

Peter raised his hand in greeting, but Cal looked at her. A star already hung on his leather vest, those coveted revolvers still hanging low on his hips, his skilled trigger finger resting on the gun belt.

Unfortunately, she had to admit Cal would make an excellent sheriff. She extended her hand. “May the best man win.” Or woman.

He looked at her with a puzzled expression. “You mean in the election?”

“Of course.” Though he had the advantage of formal training, she knew the town of Gilman better, which should give her the upper hand. Then what would happen to Cal? She chewed the corner of her lip as she eyed him. If he went back to Houston, she’d miss him—a little. Not too much. But who else could she sharpen her marksmen skills against? She needed to learn more about the Texas Rangers. The papers never printed Rangers’ tactics, just their arrest records.

Pushing her straw hat back to dangle by the ribbons around her neck, she looked up at him. His eyes were so blue. She wasn’t looking at his lips. She never thought about how they’d felt against hers. Never. “What will you do if you lose?”

“I’m a Texas Ranger.” He rested his hand on his gun belt, but he looked distracted, not smug, as he said the words.

Still, she straightened to her full height. “And they never lose?”

“Not really.” As if paying no attention to the audacity of his words, he shifted his searching gaze back and forth across her face.

The nerve of the man! “Good day, Mr. Westwood.” She gave her most prim head nod and turned on her heel away from the oppressive ballot box and patriarchal election.

Though inexplicably, instead of acting properly rebuffed, he let his gaze follow her as she walked away.

Not that she sneaked a glance at him over her shoulder; she was just re-positioning her hat.

~*~

At three o’clock in the afternoon Cal walked into the sheriff’s office. One last meeting as gang division member posing as sheriff’s assistant. He would turn in his temporary badge and talk to Sheriff Thompson. He moved into what had been his office for the last weeks. The desk sat starkly bare. No papers, no case progress reports, no telegrams from Houston. According to the desk, his time here had never existed. One train ticket and he could make the town tell the story of the desk.

He picked up the black leather bag in the corner, which had traveled with him ever since he’d gotten his first star, and walked back to Sheriff Thompson’s office. The door creaked at his touch. “Sheriff Thompson?”

Elbows on his desk, the sheriff looked at him for a full minute.

Cal caught himself trying to avoid the man’s stare as he took a seat.

The sheriff took a deep breath and let it out. “I counted up the votes and you carried the election almost unanimously. Will you take the position?”

No words of nicety about their time together, or rather useless departing comments congratulating him on the gang’s capture. He appreciated this fact about his interactions with Sheriff Thompson.

Would he take the position? Cal drummed his fingers against the handle of his bag.

Sheriff Thompson kept his gaze on him. The man had green eyes, the same shade as Ginny’s.

The bag itself, filled with seized gang paperwork and the official record of Bloody Joe’s capture, made the case for Houston. With the Silverman gang’s capture on his record, he would have a promotion in store when he stepped off that southern-bound train.

The slip of paper stuffed into the side pocket of that bag, which read quantity one, sold and had Peter’s General Store printed on the letterhead on top, argued a different side all together. Cal nodded slowly. “All right. But not for forever. Just to keep the town safe for a while.”

Sheriff Thompson shifted in his seat. “You got restless feet?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Cal studied the groove pattern in the floor and wondered what Ginny would say this afternoon. Did she still think about Peter Foote? What had possessed him to buy that ring knowing nothing about her affections? Because he loved Ginny Thompson, that’s why. He slapped his hand on his revolver. And he wasn’t leaving Gilman, blast it, until she felt the same way.

“Does Ginny know that?”

Cal’s gaze shot up and he tried not to let the sheriff know his heart had skipped a beat. “What about Ginny?”

“Does she know you’re restless? Not necessarily the best quality in a husband. Also, are you planning on asking me before you use that ring from the general store? No guarantees she’ll say yes, mind you, no matter what my answer.”

Heat seeped up from Cal’s neck, past his ears, to his hairline. Gilman was much too small of a town. “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean I could if you really wanted me to.”

“It is considered necessary in all of polite society.”

Cal shifted his boots on the floor. “Yeah, but I thought the chances of her saying yes were much slimmer than yours.”

A slow grin rose to Sheriff Thompson’s face. “Well, I guess you have my Ginny figured right.” Shoving his chair back, the sheriff stood. “Tell me what she says.” He went over to the cabinet and began shifting his files out of the office. Strangely enough, those files were no longer his.

Cal squeezed the butt of his revolver. The way he saw it, that was a yes from Sheriff Thompson. Now all he had to do was talk to Ginny.