The Cactus Creek Challenge (2 page)

Cassie’s cheeks heated, but she tried to ignore Mrs. Pym and not let anything dampen her pleasure. Attorney Jones wrote her name up on the board. Right next to Ben’s. Silly that seeing them up there together should give her a thrill.

“Now, I believe we should let folks know the causes we’ll be trying to raise money for and remind folks how the Challenge works.” Her father rested his hands on the back of the chair. “Each of our contestants will be swapping jobs for one month with a fellow contestant. They will be responsible for the running of the business or holding of office of the other, and we, as the town, will be the judges of who does the best job.”

Hobny Jones set two glass candy jars from the mercantile on the desk. One bore a white label that said B
OOKS
in black letters, and the other had a green label that said P
UMP
.

“Cassie and Mrs. Hart will be raising money for new textbooks for the school and new hymnals for the church.” Hobny’s voice squeaked, as if his vocal chords needed oiled.

She wished he wouldn’t call her Cassie in front of the town. It should be Miss Bucknell, as befitted her station as schoolteacher. The scant shelf of schoolbooks beside her teacher’s desk drew her attention. They were mostly tattered, old, and in some cases written in German or French or Norwegian. Most of her students were using books passed down to them from their parents. If the school could provide at least a couple of sets of McGuffey Readers, some history, spelling, and arithmetic books, how much easier would it be for her to teach and for the children to learn? With more families moving into the area each term, the problem of not enough schoolbooks would only worsen. She resolved to do her best to run Jenny’s bakery well and win the Challenge, not just for herself, but for her students.

“If one of the ladies wins the competition”—her father lifted the jar—“all the money raised will be split between new textbooks for the school and the purchase of hymnals for the church. I, for one, will be rooting for the ladies, not just because one of them is my daughter. Hymnbooks on Sunday would go a long way toward smoothing out the bumps in our congregational singing.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“Now, if one of the men wins”—he picked up the other jar—“all the money raised will go toward the installation of a new town pump and horse trough on Main Street. I’m sure you can all agree that hauling water from the creek is adequate, but a town pump would be a big improvement. Let’s have the contestants come forward.”

Cassie found herself standing between Jenny and Ben on the platform. She was used to standing in front with many pairs of eyes looking at her, but this time was very different. She wasn’t in charge, and the people watching her now would vote on how well she completed the Challenge.

Her mind clicked and hummed, formulating plans for how she would run the bakery for the month. Though she was adequate in the kitchen, thanks to her mother’s training, she hadn’t done much baking beyond bread and cookies, nothing like the fancy cakes and pastries Jenny turned out that had been such a hit with her customers.

Jenny would be as good a teacher as she was a mother. Sweet Amanda Hart, Cassie’s youngest pupil, was the spitting image of her mama, shy and withdrawn. She touched a tender place in Cassie’s heart. Cassie could rest assured her students were in capable hands. Things couldn’t have worked out better.

April is going to be a wonderful month. This Challenge will be long remembered as the best one the town ever had
.

Her father turned the glass jars so the labels faced the assembly. “Now, these jars will be placed in Mr. Svenson’s mercantile, right on the front counter opposite the post office boxes. It’s up to you, the townspeople, to observe how our contestants are faring, how well they’re doing another person’s job, and vote by donating money to the cause and the contestants you want to support. Each Saturday afternoon, the contestants will be available at the mercantile to answer questions and campaign for their cause.” He circled round to the front of the desk and perched his hip on the corner.

“As an added bonus, my son-in-law, Donald Penn, will be putting up the grand prize of one hundred dollars to the winning cause.” He motioned to where Donald stood in the back.

Donald raised his hand, though Cassie imagined everyone in the room knew him. As the only son of the wealthiest rancher in the Texas Panhandle, Donald could well afford the one hundred dollars. His wife, Cassie’s oldest sister, Louise, threaded her arm through his and squeezed, laying her auburn head against his shoulder briefly. He patted her hand, and jealousy shot through Cassie. Not that she begrudged her sister her happiness with Donald or wanted Donald for herself. It was just that she longed for that closeness, to matter to and belong to someone.

But not just any someone.

For her, it had always been and always would be Ben Wilder.

Not that he saw her that way. No, he still treated her like a child to be humored, patted on the head, and sent on her way. The big lunkhead.

Still, once she’d successfully run the bakery for a month and campaigned for her cause, surely then he would finally notice she was all grown up. Winning the Cactus Creek Challenge would be a feather in her cap.

Competing in the Challenge alongside Ben had to be some kind of a sign, right? An indication that Ben was God’s will for her life? She’d been sure of it for so long. If only it wasn’t taking Ben such a long time to realize they belonged together.

“Before you all leave …” Her father raised his voice above the folks who had begun talking and making motions to leave. “I have one more announcement.”

Everyone stilled.

“In order to keep the Challenge from growing stale, the council has decided to add one more twist this year.”

Cassie’s senses sharpened. She knew that tone. It flowed straight from the fun-loving reservoir deep in her father’s personality, the one that few people suspected until the joke was played on them.

“In order to liven things up and keep everyone on their toes, Ben and Carl, you will be trading jobs with the women. Mr. Gustafson, you’ll be trading places with Mrs. Hart and will run the bakery for the month, and Ben, you’ll be teaching school in Cassie’s place.”

A hundred words crammed into her throat and lodged there, and she knew her jaw had dropped open, leaving her gaping like a bullhead. Finally, something squeaked out. “We’re doing what?”

She couldn’t miss the mischievous glint in her father’s eye or the suspicious twitch to his white moustache. “That’s right. Carl, you’ll be baking dainty treats. Ben, you’ll be instilling knowledge in our youngest citizens. Mrs. Hart, you’ll be in charge of the livery animals and equipment, and you, Cassie, are tasked with the safety of the community.”

Folks broke into conversation, but all she could see was the shocked expression on Ben’s face and the way his hand went to the star on his chest. His eyes locked with hers, something that normally sent her senses spinning. This time, though, the shocked and stubborn gleam she saw there got her hackles up. Didn’t he think she could do his job?

Then again, could he do hers?

She took it back.

April was going to be the longest month of her life.

Though he’d tried to hide it, Ben hadn’t been thrilled when his name was chosen. After all, he’d been waiting what seemed his entire life to land the job of sheriff. Now he was expected to give it up for four weeks? His father had needled him into throwing his name into the hat
—punch bowl
—saying it was his civic duty, people needed to see him taking part in community activities, and a half a dozen other reasons, all of which seemed plumb puny now.

Swapping places with Carl wouldn’t have been too bad. The big livery stable owner was more than capable of keeping order in the town for a month.

But swapping with a girl? And not just any girl, but Cassie Bucknell, the fire-headed tomboy who had always been more trouble than a wagonload of barbed wire?

The minute this crowd cleared out, he was going to state his protests and withdraw his name.

Carl crossed his arms over his burly chest, his lips a thin line that disappeared between his bushy moustache and beard. “This is ridiculous. What are they thinking?” he muttered.

They had to wait quite awhile for the crowd to thin, what with all the talking and teasing and laughing they had to endure.

“Never thought I’d see you in an apron with flour on your hands, Carl,” one man joshed.

“Sheriff, you might want to bring your handcuffs and leg irons to the school. I’ve heard some of those little boys can be a might rowdy,” another joked.

Ben smiled and nodded, looking over their heads. Cassie Bucknell stood beside the Widow Hart, fidgeting as she listened to Mrs. Pym, who was probably talking about either those punch bowls or her various aches and pains.

What possessed Cassie to enter this silly challenge in the first place? She was a nice kid, but he still thought she looked like a little girl playing dress-up in that long skirt and with her hair piled up on her head. Shouldn’t she be in a pinafore and braids instead of pretending to be grown up? He still remembered her barefooted in the creek with a frog gigger, stalking bullfrogs. Skinny, freckled, with eyes too big for her face. Always leaping before she looked.

How on earth would she manage the jail and the sheriff’s duties for a whole month?

She couldn’t. That was all there was to it. He’d have to back out of the Challenge, and the sooner the mayor and the council knew it, the sooner they could find someone else to take his place.

Cassie glanced up, and even from several feet away, he could see how green her eyes were. Funny how all the Bucknell girls had red hair, but they all had different colored eyes. Louise’s were pale blue, Millie’s were brown, and Cassie’s were green as spring grass. Louise had been in his class in school, with Millie a year behind. Cassie had been several grades younger, always running and yelling and haring around, trying to keep up with the boys at recess, but once the bell rang, she’d sit at her desk, prop her chin in her hand, and look out the window, staring into her daydreams.

Just a kid. A kid who had no business wearing his badge for a day, much less a month.

He edged through the crowd to her side and touched her elbow. Jerking his head to the corner, he drew her away from folks.

“What are we going to do?”

She shrugged, tilting her head in that saucy way she had. “I’m going to be a sheriff for a month, and you’re going to teach school.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t be sheriff. You’re a girl.”

Her pointed little chin came up. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“It’s got everything to do with it if trouble comes calling.”

“This town hasn’t seen trouble in a month of Sundays.”

He tipped his hat back and put his hands on his hips. “Well, missy, if you think that, then I must be doing my job right.”

“Don’t call me missy. It’s Miss Bucknell to you.” Her green eyes snapped.

“Ha. It’s Cassie or missy or little girl, just like it’s always been.” He caught himself reaching out to tug her braid like he had for years. Only she wasn’t wearing braids. Funny how he missed the feel of it in his hand.

“You’re impossible, Ben Wilder.”

“So you’re always telling me.”

She turned away from him, greeting someone across the room and heading that way.

He followed her with his eyes. Sassy today. Come to think of it, she’d kind of been that way with him ever since she got back from that fancy eastern school last fall. He touched his badge and then rested his hand on the butt of his sidearm, turning to listen to more good-natured razzing from townsfolk.

When only the Challenge contestants and the council members remained, Ben stepped forward.

“You know I’m all for going along with things, and the last thing I want to do is put a damper on the festivities, but the notion of us trading places with girls”—he glanced at the widow—“er, ladies … is ridiculous.” He turned to his father, the man he admired above all others and hoped to emulate. “Dad, you can’t be serious about us swapping with girls?”

The legendary former lawman leaned back in his chair. “I don’t see a problem. Are you afraid to teach school, Son?”

How could he say this in a polite way? He thumbed through a few responses and came up with nothing that wouldn’t earn him a tongue-lashing from Cassie, but he had to tell the truth.

“What I am afraid of is that little Cassie Bucknell isn’t up to protecting this town.”

She snorted and opened her mouth to answer, but her dad held up his hand. With a mutinous scowl, she crossed her arms and tapped her foot. Ben almost smiled. Not that he was a gambling man, but it sure would be fun to play poker with Cassie. Everything she thought or felt played out on her face, and he never had any problems reading it. She was as transparent as glass.

“Why don’t you think she’d make a good temporary sheriff?” Dr. Bucknell asked.

“She’s a … a … girl.” The truth was so obvious he didn’t know how else to express it. “She’s a kid. The rowdies down at the Royal or at Barney’s Bar will take one look at her and trample this town worse’n a stampede of longhorns. You wouldn’t want to see your daughter facing down some puncher on a bender, would you, sir?”