The Cactus Creek Challenge (18 page)

Ben rapped on the countertop. “Guess we’ll have to see how things shake out. Good to see you, Ralph.”

He headed back out into the sunshine. He’d caught a glimpse of the boys hiding in one of the baggage carts near the end of the platform. Not a bad place, as long as nobody wanted any bags moved.

The twins had drawn the livery stable. He’d best go check on them. No telling what trouble they might be up to.

Mrs. Hart met him in the doorway to the stable, pushing a wheelbarrow of dirty straw toward the muck heap. He hurried to her side.

“Here, let me help you.”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” She trundled by him and upended the contents, brushing her forehead with her wrist. “I’ve learned to make more trips with smaller loads. What can I do for you, Sheriff? Do you need your horse?”

“Thought I’d just check on him. I haven’t ridden him in a week, what with the Challenge and all. He must be getting pretty fresh.”

She leaned in to whisper, “If you’re looking for a couple of truant students, I spied the Harrison twins climbing into the loft about twenty minutes ago.”

“It’s all right. They’re doing a little school project. Just ignore them unless they decide to see if the muck heap will burn.” Ben winked, and she smiled.

He tipped his hat, strolling down the aisle to where his horse, Ranger, was stabled. The buckskin whickered, and he petted the soft black nose. “Hey there, big fella. You look good.”

“I turned him out in the corral for most of yesterday. He was kicking up his heels pretty good.”

“I’ll try to get over here after school tonight and take him for a run. Don’t want him going soft on me. I never know when I’ll need to chase a bad guy.” Ben stifled the frustration that rose in his chest. “Not that much of that stuff happens around here.”

“We feel better knowing someone like you is around, because trouble has a way of popping up where you least expect it. Perhaps things are so calm in Cactus Creek because the bad guys know we have a capable sheriff who looks out for his town.” Jenny tugged off her gloves and tucked them into her apron pocket.

Ben shrugged, feeling better in spite of himself at her praise. “I guess I’ll go up yonder and check in on the boys, make sure they’re not getting into trouble.” He mounted the ladder and swung himself into the hayloft.

The twins were crouched in the open doorway of the loft where Carl loaded in the hay each summer. One scribbled in a tablet, and the other pointed down the street and whispered something. Ben smiled. Those two were already so observant, it was scary. Properly trained, they’d either be the greatest crime-fighting pair in history or the wiliest desperados Texas had ever seen.

A commotion downstairs drew their attention. Hooves on the hard-packed dirt first, then raised voices.

“Piece of trash horse you lent me. I could’ve gotten there faster if I’d have been the one carrying him.”

“How dare you return an animal in this condition? You should be horsewhipped yourself. Look at these welts, and all this sweat.” Mrs. Hart’s voice pierced the late morning sunshine.

“I paid in advance, so you’re not getting another dime out of me. This is the laziest pile of bones I’ve ever seen. I want my money back. How dare you rent me a stubborn knot head on the fast path to the glue factory? He could hardly put one foot in front of the other. If I hadn’t let him taste my quirt, I’d still be plodding out there on the prairie.”

Ben lay down and poked his head through the hole where the ladder stuck up. A small man stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Mrs. Hart. Something about the man was familiar, but Ben couldn’t quite place him, at least not from this angle. The horse, a sorrel, stood with his head down, sides heaving, sweat dripping from his flanks and neck. Ben gripped the edge of the opening, anger flaring.

“Sir, that is a kind and willing horse. Or at least he is in the hands of someone who knows what he’s doing. I’ve never had a single complaint, and if you think you’re going to abuse a horse from this stable and then get your money back, you are gravely mistaken. Now, either get out of this barn right now, or I’ll have the sheriff after you.”

“Ha! The sheriff. I heard the only law around here is a little girl no bigger’n you. If I want my money back, I’ll get it.” He pushed past her toward the tack room where Ben knew the money box was kept. “And if I want to, I’ll help myself to a little more cash.”

Ben pushed himself up and put his boot on the top rung, glad he had insisted on going around heeled. His Colt might prove handy.

“Stop right there.”

Ben froze. That wasn’t Mrs. Hart’s voice. He ducked to get a look at the barn aisle.

“I saw you return to town, and figured I’d come over and check things out. I see my concern was warranted. This horse is in pitiful condition. You should be ashamed of yourself, and if you don’t vacate these premises, you’ll be enjoying the hospitality of the Cactus Creek jail until such time as I decide to release you.”

Cassie, playing sheriff. She stalked through the barn, taking the reins of the trembling horse and leading him into a stall and shutting the door.

The strutting rooster sneered. “Well, if it ain’t the little girl playing sheriff.” He circled around until he stood between Cassie and the door. Jenny edged away from him and went to stand beside Cassie, bringing her pitchfork with her.

“I’m not playing. I
am
the sheriff, and you’ll show some respect or you’ll find yourself behind bars.” Cassie put her hand on her sidearm.

Quiet as he could, Ben leaned farther out of the loft over their heads, slipping his revolver out of the holster and pointing it at the offensive little man. When the fellow chanced a glance up at Ben, Ben flicked the gun barrel toward the door, staring hard and demanding without words that he get out.

The customer stopped midleer and put his hands up. His eyes widened, and he backed up. “Fine, I’m going. I’m going. Dunno what kind of a crazy town this is, women running the livery and the jail … What are your menfolk doing? Needlepoint and crochet?” He spun on his boot heel and disappeared though the barn door.

The girls sagged against each other, and Cassie gave a weak laugh. “Whew. That was close. I’m glad he folded his tent and decamped.”

Jenny glanced up and caught Ben’s eye, but he put his finger to his lips, winked, and disappeared. The twins sat in the straw staring at him, and he cautioned them to be quiet, too. They nodded, golden curls bobbing in the shaft of sunlight pouring in the hay door. He leaned down to listen.

“Thank you for your help, Cass. What a singularly unpleasant man. I had better tend to this horse. Poor thing. If I had known how he would be treated, I never would’ve rented him out. I would’ve let the man have Misery. He’d have torn him to shreds and stomped on the bits that were left.”

“If you need any more help, give a shout, and I’ll come running.” Ben waited until he spied Cassie out on the street below before descending the ladder. Going to the stall where the winded horse stood, he put his arms on the top of the door.

“Thank you, Ben. That could’ve gotten ugly.” Jenny backed the animal into the aisle.

“What will be ugly is if you ever let on that I was in the loft. Cassie will flay me alive. She already thinks I’m butting in too much on her sheriffing. If she knew I’d backed her up here, she’d blister me raw.” He reached for the cinch and unbuckled it, stripping the saddle and blanket from the horse.

“This poor beast. What should I do for him?”

“Give him just a couple of sips of warm water to take the edge off his thirst, then start walking him slowly until he cools all the way down and his breathing is normal. You can sluice him down with a few buckets of water once he’s cooled out. Check those welts, and if any are open, there’s some salve in the tack room. When he’s dry and clean, put him in a loose box with lots of straw in case he wants to lie down. Give him all the hay he wants and about a half bucket of water. And tomorrow he’s going to be sore, so walk him around the corral a couple of times a day, and let him rest otherwise.” Ben ran his hand over the horse’s ribs. “And delay as long as possible telling Carl what happened. If he finds out about this while that joker is still in town, Carl’s liable to slam him over his knee and break him like kindling.”

“You’re right. I won’t tell him if I don’t have to. And I’ll take good care of the horse. I feel responsible, letting him out to that evil man.”

It finally clicked with Ben who the man was. Ivan Shoop, eldest of the Shoop brothers. He hadn’t been seen around Cactus Creek since Ben was in his teens. In fact, the last time he’d been in town, Ben’s father had arrested him for robbing a stagecoach and sent him to Huntsville for a spell in the pen.

Carl wiped down the top of the display counter, eyeing Amanda and her friend. They’d slipped inside the bakery half an hour ago, and neither one had said a word. Of course, he was used to that where Amanda was concerned, but what puzzled him was how they both watched him and the older one kept writing on her tablet.

“Can I get you girls something? A biscuit maybe?” Why weren’t they in school?

“Mr. Gustafson, why are you only selling biscuits?” the older girl asked,

Familiar chagrin prickled his skin. “’Cause that’s all I know how to make.”

She blinked and wrote something in her tablet. What was she up to?

Amanda tugged on the girl’s sleeve and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. The bigger girl’s eyebrows went up, and she cast a dubious glance his way.

“Are you sure?”

Amanda’s curls bounced, and she whispered some more, guarding her lips with her little hand.

“Well, all right, if you’re sure. Mr. Gustafson, my name is Mary Alice. Amanda and I would like to help you out. I’m very good at mixing up cakes, and Amanda says she knows how to make cookies.”

Carl smoothed his beard, unable to quell the burst of warmth in his chest when he looked down into Amanda’s china-blue eyes. He hadn’t been able to talk to her yet about her mother’s unreasonableness about the mare and foal, and he’d thought for sure she’d think he had taken back his offer, but here she was, sweet as ever, and not only wanting to help him out in the bakery but bringing reinforcements, too.

“I suppose you can if you want to.”

Before a half hour had passed, he was certain that if Mary Alice had been born a boy, she would have had a brilliant future as a general in the US Army. He had never been ordered around to such effect in all his thirty-two years.

“You have to whip those egg whites hard, until they’re stiff, glossy peaks. If you don’t, your cake won’t have any loft to it. It will look and taste like a horseshoe.”

He went back to slopping the whites in the bottom of a big copper bowl. Beside him, pinned into a pint-sized apron, Amanda cut circles out of cookie dough that she’d mixed and rolled out with an ease that made him squirm at his own lack of culinary skill.

Mary Alice spread butter into a cake tin with her fingers. “This needs to bake for about forty minutes, but you have to keep turning it in the oven or it won’t brown evenly.”

“Maybe you should write down all these instructions. I looked all over for a recipe book or box, but I couldn’t find one.”

“Mama doesn’t use recipes. She says baking comes from the heart, not the mind.” Amanda’s high, childish voice snagged his attention. “Mama says she just knows when a dough or batter is ready. She learned when she was a little girl like me.”

It was the first time the child had spoken above a whisper in his presence, and he tucked away the pleasure to mull over later.

“What else does your mama say?”

“She says giving men sweets is the best way to stay on their good side. Maybe if she gave my daddy more sweets, he wouldn’t have been so mean.”

Carl’s eyes met Mary Alice’s across the table. His curiosity roused and grabbed hold of his tongue, forbidding him from heading the little girl off, though he knew her mama wouldn’t want her spilling secrets about the past.

For Amanda, it seemed once the floodgates had opened, there was no closing them. “My daddy was a mean man. He used to make my mama cry, he was so mean. I cried, too. He would say hurtful things, tell Mama she was weak and stupid and that she had shamed him because I was a girl and not a boy. Sometimes he would hit Mama. I wasn’t a bit sorry when he keeled over and died. Does that make me bad?” Amanda finished putting the last round of cookie dough on the baking sheet. “I need some sugar now and some cinnamon to sprinkle on top.” She said this in the same, matter-of-fact tone in which she’d just announced that her dead father had been a wife beater and child abuser.

“Mr. Gustafson?” Mary Alice asked.

Red mist formed at the corners of Carl’s vision. He wished the sorry excuse for a man stood before him right now. He’d teach him a thing or two about violence. Beat him so bad he’d never raise his hand or his voice to a woman again.

“Mr. Gustafson?”

“What?” he barked the word harsher than he’d meant to.

“I think you can stop beating those eggs now.” She rounded the table and peeked into the bowl. “In fact, I think you might’ve overdone it.” Taking the whisk from his hand, she jabbed the mass. “They’re starting to liquefy again. Maybe you’d better start over.”