Hot Lead and Cold Apple Pie Read online

  She glanced away to the back corner. There stood a polished Winchester. He had everything. “You shoot much?” She managed to choke the words out through the jealousy squishing her windpipe.

  One side of his mouth crinkled upward. “You need someone shot?”

  “If I did, what makes you think I’d ask you?” She slapped arm-over-arm across the calico print of her dress.

  His blue eyes laughed at her. “Your uncle take care of that for you?”

  “No, I take care of it myself.” She met his unsettling gaze.

  “I don’t see you lugging a pair of these.” His hand rested on the Colts, his mouth just parted.

  Yes, because one wasn’t supposed to wear a holster with a dress. If only she dared to wear trousers. But she’d show Cal Westwood that she was a force to be reckoned with and he better not try embezzling from her town.

  Skirt sweeping through the narrow space between his desk and the wall, she marched to the window behind him.

  “See there.” She pointed far below to the gulch where Eagle River ran. “Next day you have free, meet me there for target practice.”

  “Deal.” He extended his hand.

  Slowly, she reached forward.

  His fingers closed on hers. A tingly feeling rose up her arm as the roughness of his skin pressed against her.

  She jerked her hand away. “See you tonight.”

  ~*~

  At dinner-time, Ginny smoothed down her best pink gingham and claimed the basket holding a perfect apple pie with a pastry topping cut in the shape of maple leaves. Tucked underneath the napkin lining of the basket was the whiskey.

  “Where’s Mr. Westwood?” she asked.

  Uncle Zak exited his room in a worn gray suit. He looked uncomfortable, but one had to dress up for Mrs. Clinton’s dinners.

  “Cal said to meet him by the saloon. He was talking to a man in there who said he had case evidence.”

  Ginny smiled. She couldn’t have asked Silas for better timing.

  The Colorado wind kicked up dust as she walked with Uncle Zak to the center of town. Cal stood outside the swinging saloon doors, an unpleasant expression on his face.

  He acknowledged her and Uncle Zak with an abrupt nod. “I have to talk to you.” He stepped closer to Uncle Zak, his voice a grim whisper.

  Uncle Zak nodded.

  Why didn’t they tell her? Two blocks later, the carved gargoyles guarding the Clintons’ front stoop came into view.

  Purple trim oozed off the windows, matching the three-foot-tall goldenrod plants. How Mrs. Clinton got them to grow that tall was a mystery.

  Mr. Clinton met them at the door. He was a scrawny man with ears almost as big as a rabbit’s. Before he got the door more than half open, Mrs. Clinton burst out, an enormous pink apron tied around her waist. Six-inch-high starched frills stood out from her shoulders. “Come in. Come in. May I take your coat, Sheriff Thompson? There’s a dear.” Mrs. Clinton ripped the wool from Uncle Zak’s back.

  Cal slipped out of his jacket before Mrs. Clinton could get her hands on him. He touched his forehead and let out a groan.

  “Headache?” Ginny asked, moving closer. Here, let me take your coat.

  Cal seemed to hesitate, but then he nodded and gave her the coat. “Yes. I’m not sure what brought it on.”

  Ginny sniffed. His breath didn’t smell like alcohol, but his coat certainly did. What had happened at that saloon? What had Silas done? She patted Cal’s shoulder, a scheme hatching in her mind. “You should take some tonic. Mrs. Clinton’s cupboards are full of them.” The woman was always ordering a new patent medicine from doctors’ catalogs. Most tasted and smelled horrible, and contrary to what Mrs. Clinton believed, a few even contained traces of alcohol. If Ginny could convince Cal to take a dose, then his breath would match the stench of the coat he obviously didn’t want Mrs. Clinton to touch. Then, Mrs. Clinton would surely pounce.

  “Quack doctors’ brews?” Cal wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think so.”

  Ginny stiffened. “Just because we live in a small town does not mean our doctors are quacks.”

  “I beg to differ.” Cal clutched his head. “And can you talk quieter?”

  Throwing the coats on a mahogany rack, Mrs. Clinton gestured them all into a lavishly set dining room. The orange padded chairs looked inviting. “Have a seat.” Mrs. Clinton made a magnificent gesture over the top-heavy bronze candlesticks and silver utensils. Obeying her own order, Mrs. Clinton moved past voluminous, red velvet curtains.

  “I’ll just hang Mr. Westwood’s coat and then help bring in the dinner plates.” Ginny discarded the coat and disappeared through the double dining room doors before Mrs. Clinton could stop her.

  Once in the kitchen, Ginny threw open Mrs. Clinton’s cupboard. She rummaged through tin jars finally coming across one that read: Russell’s Tonic. Ginny squinted at the label. Good for headaches.

  She twisted open the lid, sniffed. The tonic smelled like licorice mixed with alcohol. A tablespoon or two of this would definitely taint Cal’s breath. While without her uncle’s aid she couldn’t hope to convince Mrs. Clinton that Cal was an embezzler, once Mrs. Clinton labeled him a drunk, she’d run him out of town just the same and Gilman would be safe from his schemes. Now all she had to do was convince him to swallow the tonic.

  Doubt pierced Ginny’s chest fast as any bullet, but she had to discredit Cal before he destroyed the town. It was her duty as Gilman’s future sheriff. She rubbed her fingers along the lace edging of her sleeve.

  Besides, Cal did have an actual headache, and this tonic was good for headaches, so what she was doing wasn’t all bad. She’d help Cal with his headache. If the result of that aid helped her protect her town, then so be it. He probably deserved it anyway. After all, he’d stolen money from innocent people.

  “Can I help you?” A masculine voice asked.

  She whipped around. “I—“

  “I was thinking I’d take you up on your offer of a headache remedy.” He gestured towards the door. “There’s a lot of chatter going on out there. My head is pounding. I’m willing to try anything at this juncture.”

  Thank you, Lord! She wouldn’t have to convince Cal to take the tonic. God was on her side. Cal must be the embezzler. “I’ve just the thing.” she said. She procured a spoon and poured a dose of the liquid. “Here.” She lifted the spoon to his lips, and he took it.

  His face contorted, and he shivered. “Blech! That’s awful!”

  She’d already poured a second spoonful. The label said one teaspoon, but Cal was rather large and to keep her conscience in check, she did need to cure his headache. A second dose would be good measure. “Sorry. One more.”

  He looked at her, horrified, but then complied.

  Her work was complete.

  She reached for one of the plates the housekeeper had already prepared, but he stopped her. “I’ll get it.” Taking another one of the plates in his hands, he balanced a third on his elbow.

  “You’ll drop them!” She rushed forward. The plates didn’t even wobble.

  “Worked at my ma’s diner growing up.” He smiled and slipped his hand between her and the counter for the gravy.

  The top two buttons of his shirt hung undone. He had a sturdy chest, bronzed except for the edge of the last button where brown faded into sun-scorched red. She jerked her gaze to his face.

  He looked at her.

  Bustling up the remaining plates, she headed for the dining room.

  A step behind her, Cal laid a plate in front of Mrs. Clinton then Mr. Clinton. The one he balanced on his right elbow went down at his own seat.

  As Ginny took her place at the table—next to Cal—a gleam came to Mrs. Clinton’s eye. “I’m sure the two of you have so much to talk about what with you doing paperwork at the sheriff’s office and Cal being a real lawman,” she said.

  Ginny constricted her hand over the table lip. Real lawman? No one in the county knew the law better than she and she didn’t break the la
w.

  “Thank you.” Cal took the plate from her. His eyes smiled.

  She lost a moment in those blue eyes. He had an interesting face, one that seemed to have a lot to tell.

  Probably about larceny! She plopped into the chair next to him. The never-ending fluffiness welled up around her.

  Mr. Clinton said grace in a mousy voice. The only words Ginny caught were “thankful” and “blessed,” though she might have said “blistered”—Ginny couldn’t quite hear. Then they all dug in.

  The overwhelming flavor of garlic, mint, and some kind of unidentified herb assaulted her palate. Ginny smiled. Mrs. Clinton’s overgenerous hand on the spices would cover the taste of Russell’s Tonic quite nicely.

  “How’s the silver business?” Uncle Zak asked Mr. Clinton.

  Mr. Clinton swallowed the one pea he had placed on his fork. “Some scoundrel’s been bothering the foreman, but otherwise good.”

  “Scoundrel?” Uncle Zak’s eyebrows moved up.

  “Speaking of new people,” Mrs. Clinton buried her fork prongs into the steak, “I met the loveliest lady at the train station yesterday. Such a tragic story, waited fifteen years for the man of her dreams to strike gold in California, and then she was widowed after only six months. Have you met Widow Sullivan, Sheriff?”

  “No, ma’am.” Uncle Zak leaned toward Mr. Clinton. “Scoundrel, you say?”

  Mr. Clinton ingested another pea. “Nothing to worry about, Sheriff. Told him yesterday that he wasn’t welcome, and he left.”

  Uncle Zak directed a meaningful glance at Cal, who had lain aside his fork and was massaging his forehead. Had she not given him enough Russell’s Tonic?.

  “Is the food not to your liking?” Mrs. Clinton asked in a pointed tone. “I got the potato recipe from Widow Sullivan.”

  “I’m feeling a mite under the weather, ma’am.” Cal looked pale and his eyes seemed glazed. He leaned toward Ginny. “What was in that tonic? I can hardly see straight.”

  Mrs. Clinton stared at the half-mound of potatoes left on Cal’s plate. “Perhaps you should finish your potatoes, Mr. Westwood. A young man should always eat hearty to stay healthy.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Cal’s hand trembled as he moved the potatoes around his plate.

  “To your liking?” Mrs. Clinton observed him with hawk eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Cal’s speech slurred and his gaze shifted dazedly around the room. He pushed away his plate.

  Mrs. Clinton reached across two bronze candlesticks to propel the plate back in place. “Eat!”

  Cal looked like he might be sick.

  Uncle Zak leaned closer to Mr. Clinton. “Besides this man, has anyone else hung around the silver mine lately, John?”

  Mr. Clinton took a small bite of mashed potatoes and shook his head.

  “Maybe we should ride up there this week, take a look around.” Uncle Zak inclined his head just a fraction toward Cal.

  Ginny jerked straight in her chair. That head inclination was Uncle Zak’s pet signal. She directed a suspicious stare at Cal.

  He nodded groggily and made to stand up. “I need to go, sir. Not feeling so well.” A steadying hand on his chair, he took one wobbly step.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Clinton slapped her bejeweled fingers against the table. “You haven’t even had dessert yet. A piece of Miss Ginny’s pie will fix you right up.”

  “Later.” Cal’s gaze shifted drunkenly.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have doubled the dose of that tonic. She wanted to run the man out of town, not make him ill. Ginny tapped the twelve-inch water goblet. “Please stay. Just for one piece.” If he stayed, perhaps her conscience would be quiet.

  Cal stared vacantly at her.

  “Please.”

  “All right.” He stumbled down and slumped forward.

  “I’ll get that pie.” Ginny scooted toward the kitchen and came back quickly with the pie.

  Halfway through that slice, Cal’s fork crashed to the floor.

  Mrs. Clinton directed an accusing gaze at him.

  “Thank you for dinner, ma’am, I…gotta go.” He reeled forward. He staggered to his feet and headed toward the door.

  His elbow hit the corner of the doorjamb, and one of the blue china plates that littered the Clintons’ wall fell off its peg. China shards bounced across the large rug.

  “Does that man have liquor on his breath?” Sending her seat vaulting back, Mrs. Clinton skimmed across the room. She sniffed loudly.

  Cal stepped back. His head wobbled. Then, gripping his head, he rushed towards the door and grabbed his coat from the rack.

  Mrs. Clinton was quick on his heels, and Ginny followed.

  “Are you intoxicated, Mr. Westwood?” Mrs. Clinton’s look of disgust and pointed accusation was exactly what Ginny had hoped for.

  Cal seemed to sober up as he stared at the woman. “Of course not!” He shrugged one shoulder into his coat, and blanched. “I—I…Silas…” He swayed for a moment and swallowed hard. “At the saloon. I mean…”

  Ginny’s heart soared as Cal stammered for explanation. The Temperance League would run him out of town by tomorrow.

  “Silas tried to get me to drink with him. He spilled whiskey all over me.” He rubbed his head. “I’m simply ill, Mrs. Clinton. I assure you.”

  Understanding settled over Mrs. Clinton’s face, and panic choked Ginny. The woman was buying that story. Ginny had to do something fast. She settled a look of distain on her face and eyed Cal Westwood, squarely. “Did Silas spill it in your mouth, also?”

  Mrs. Clinton leaned forward and sniffed Cal’s breath. “Oh, Mr. Westwood! You should be ashamed!”

  “I…toni…“ He turned a weary eye to Ginny as his voice trailed off.

  Remorse hit her for a moment, but again, she chastised her conscience. After embezzling all that money from poor townsfolk, he deserved everything he got, and his seemingly drunken state along with her friendship with the boardinghouse owner would give her just the opportunity she needed to enlist the aid of her valiant watch-cat. Between the feline and Mrs. Clinton, the town would be clear of this criminal without delay.

  Good-bye, Mr. Westwood. There’s a new sheriff in town.

  ~*~

  The yellow goldenrod stems jumped up and down in front of Cal’s eyes. He steadied himself on the Clintons’ picket fence. The wood gave way beneath his hands, he lurched forward, and lost his dinner behind the bush in Mrs. Clinton’s front yard.

  Feeling a bit better, he started down the street. He hadn’t gotten this sick since the influenza epidemic in Houston. Was he coming down with something, or was it Mrs. Clinton’s food? Everything tonight had an odd flavor.

  “Mr. Westwood!” called a shrill voice that made his ears ache.

  Through the dusk, the black-haired girl of yesterday’s nightmare dashed forward.

  “Oh, Mr. Westwood, it’s so good to see you!” Cherry grabbed hold of his arm.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting home? It’s almost dark.” He fought to think straight.

  Cherry batted her eyelashes. “I’ve got a big lawman to protect me.”

  A groan escaped his mouth, and he started for his boarding house. Each step took intentional effort.

  Cherry skipped forward, keeping her hand on his arm. He tried to shake it off, but hers was a death grip and most of his energy went toward not falling over.

  For a few minutes of blessed silence, they moved along the dusk-covered streets past housewives watering porch plants and small children playing.

  “So,” Cherry’s voice chirped like a bird. “You’re taking me to the Fourth of July picnic, aren’t you?”

  “Uh.” He stared at the dirt road wavering in front of him.

  “You really, really have to! I don’t have anyone else—well, besides Matthew, but he’s unfortunate looking—and you wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”

  She clenched his arm tighter, and Cal almost stumbled. His head burned. He struggled to regain his footing.r />
  “Good. It’s settled then.” A broad smile covered Cherry’s face.

  “I never said…” The road swayed up and down. Strange flashes of light sparkled in his peripheral vision. And why were there children sitting on top of the church steeple? That was dangerous. Oh. Now they’d disappeared.

  “You’re not taking your offer back now after you got my hopes up, are you?” The girl began to cry into her sleeve.

  His face contorted as an ache split through his skull. At least she cried into her sleeve, not his. “I can’t.”

  Cherry crossed her arms. “Why?”

  “Um. I—”

  “Do you think I’m ugly?” With the words, she exploded into a torrent of sobs.

  “No.” Through the blinding halos that the neighboring porch lamp made in front of his eyes, he tried to pat her shoulder. He stumbled instead.

  Cherry stopped crying. She tilted her chin up. “Is it that you’re promised to someone else?”

  He nodded hastily. Only one more block until his boarding house.

  “Who?” The landscape shook so much he couldn’t see Cherry’s face. “Is it Ginny?”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  Cherry pouted. “Oh, all right. But if she changes her mind, you’ll ask me. Promise?”

  His boarding house came into view. It stood only ten steps away. “Yes, of course.” He stumbled for the door.

  From the darkness behind him, he heard an eerie giggle.

  ~*~

  Cal stumbled past a group of tobacco-chewing cowhands into the boarding house’s main room. Plodding up the creaky back stairs, he passed a roomful of knitting and chatting women. Then the glorious sight of his own bed appeared. Without removing his boots, he crashed.

  Lovely, magnificent sleep. Drowsiness rolled over him like an ocean wave. Not that the Gulf of Mexico really had waves, more like algae crests.

  A scream erupted. The bed jerked as he bolted upright. That scream again from the darkest corner of the room, a blood-curling noise that conjured images of lions, and tigers, and—wildcats! He jumped and landed face down on the floor. Another scream next to him, a flash of fur, and something dashed past him. The image wobbled from about six inches tall to the size of the room as little lights bobbed around him.