Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Thank you

  You Can Help!

  God Can Help!

  Free Book Offer

  Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

  Anne Garboczi Evans

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie

  COPYRIGHT 2018 by Anne Garboczi Evans

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC

  www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410

  White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC

  Publishing History

  First White Rose Edition, 2018

  Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-5223-0135-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my brother, Paul. When I first wrote about lawyer-educated Cal Westwood, I never would have guessed we'd have our own lawyer in the family. Hats off to you.

  1

  The Rocky Mountains, Gilman, CO 1891

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Uncle Zak froze, hand suspended in the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She blinked. “Who’s coming?”

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

  “Why?” She reached for the pie spatula.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I could learn,” Silas called after her.

  ~*~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Miss Thompson?” He touched his hat.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “As if it’s any of your business.”

  “Which means you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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