by Kim Redford
Fern walked over, admiring the small, round ice cream tables with matching chairs tucked into a quiet corner near a front window.
“What can you do me for?” Hedy laughed at the old joke, then sipped from a delicate, floral china cup.
“I thought you might need some last-minute help, but if you’re drinking tea, you must have everything under control.”
“Don’t let it fool you. You know as well as I do it’s an illusion that I project to keep folks around me on their toes.”
“Like cowboy firefighters?”
“You know it.”
“I suppose you’ll be at the dunking later.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Hedy chuckled as she set her cup on its matching saucer, then cocked her head to one side. “You haven’t heard any more from your stalker, have you?”
“Please don’t call him my stalker. But no, not a peep or rose.”
“Good. We can all hope he’s gone, but let’s still stay alert.”
“I will.” She moved closer, lowering her voice. “Listen, do you know much about the legends of Sure-Shot?”
“I didn’t know they had any except the one about Little Miss Sure Shot herself, Annie Oakley.”
“Maybe you heard about a one-room schoolhouse?”
“Schoolhouse? No, I can’t say I’ve heard it. Why? Did Craig mention it?”
“Yeah. I just thought maybe you—”
“Not me, but it could be an interesting tale.” Hedy appeared thoughtful. “You need to talk with one of the old codgers. Not Wildcat Jack. He’s still a spring chicken.”
“Can you recommend someone?”
Hedy tapped the edge of her cup with a fingernail. “Sure-Shot? Let’s see. It’d be a horse rancher. You might try Arn of the Crazy Eight. If anybody knows a wild legend, it’ll be him. The trick will be getting him to tell, but you might try to track him down after Wild West Days.”
“Thanks.” Fern stepped back. “Guess I’d best get on my way. I want to check out the dunk booth.”
“I’ll see you there later. My help will arrive soon.”
“Great. Good luck with your day.”
“Thanks for the wishes, but my luck is always good due to the major mojo of Rosie, the Queen of Adelia’s.”
“I’m with you on that one. Nothing’s better than the luck of a cat.”
“You know it.”
“See you later.”
She stopped a moment to admire Rosie, who raised her head and gave Fern a slit-eyed, sleepy look. She stroked Rosie’s head for luck, then stepped back outside. She immediately noticed the day was already heating up. It was promising to be a scorcher. The cowboy firefighters were probably going to be thrilled to get a dunking in cool water.
She paused to check her surroundings, particularly for Simon, saw nothing suspicious, and walked past folks gathering on the boardwalk. She admired a pair of red cowgirl boots in Gene’s Boot Hospital, which had been popular with cowboys since the cattle-drive days when they’d order their handmade boots on their way to Kansas and pick them up on the way back, after they had money in their pockets. They’d also spend some of that hard-earned cash in the Lone Star Saloon and other places that catered to them before they headed back down to South Texas.
At the end of the row of businesses rose the beautiful Wildcat Hotel with a second-floor balcony enclosed with a stone balustrade supported by five columns wrapped in red, white, and blue ribbons. Folks would have checked in the night before to get an early start on Wild West Days. She saw several couples sharing breakfast at white-linen-covered tables on their balconies. She hoped they enjoyed their stay in Wildcat Bluff.
And that’s when she spotted the dunk booth. It’d been positioned at one end of the vendors, in a prime spot, with plenty of space around it. She wasn’t sure if the location was to keep spectators from getting wet if water managed to splash out or to simply leave more standing room for an audience. In either case, it was sure to garner plenty of attention.
Sydney had chosen well when she rented the booth. Firefighters would sit atop a small seat above a round blue plastic enclosure with a clear section in front, to reveal the water inside the oversized tub about four feet high. A firefighter would be caged in by silver-colored metal vertical bars that rose almost five feet high above the oversized tub. To the right was what looked like an orange plastic shower curtain stretched on all sides to a frame a big white circle in the middle of a large, blue splash design. Red balls were set in a bucket in front of the shower curtain, all ready to be thrown at the white circle that would release the catch holding up the seat above the water and dunk the firefighters.
She walked around to the back of the tank to see how it functioned and saw several steps leading to the water. She walked up the stairs, glancing around from the elevated height to get a better view of the street of vendors.
Everything looked all set for fun. Folks were already beginning to mingle and walk from booth to booth, checking out food and wares. They were probably getting out ahead of the heat so they could go back to their hotel rooms in midafternoon, before they came back out for the night’s activities. She figured that was a good idea.
As she stood there, she felt something hit the back of her legs. Puzzled, she turned and looked down. A single white rose lay on the ground behind the dunk booth. She felt chilled and horrified. She glanced up and saw a tall man wearing a cowboy hat pulled low disappear around the side of the hotel. Simon? If it was, he was back and bolder than ever.
She froze, not knowing whether to get down or stay there. Had that been Simon? Was he nearby, just waiting for her to move and become more vulnerable? She’d thought she’d be perfectly safe with so many people milling about. Now she wished she’d called for a deputy to escort her.
She needed to contact Sheriff Calhoun right away. He’d be somewhere in the area, but no telling how long before he could get to her. Until then, she thought she was safer staying exactly where she was because at least she was on higher ground, with a better view all around her.
She pulled out her phone to call the sheriff, but before she hit his speed dial number, she heard the jingle of bridles and clip-clop of hooves. And there, much to her relief and happiness, appeared Sheriff Calhoun at the head of his mounted patrol.
Thanks to the Queen of Adelia’s Delights, she’d just gotten lucky.
Chapter 31
Fern caught her breath at the sight of the Wildcat Bluff Mounted Patrol—six men and women in matching navy blue uniforms with gold badges, buttons, and insignia on their jackets and the WBMP logo in the center of their cowboy hats, on their right shoulders, and on the right-back-side of their navy horse blankets. They were magnificent. Nothing said power like a cowboy or cowgirl on horseback. They rode strong and straight and tall with beautiful mounts in a variety of colors beneath them. They often led parades carrying the Texas Lone Star flag and the Wildcat Bluff County flag. She couldn’t have been gladder to see them.
She motioned to Sheriff Calhoun and caught his attention. He left the formation and rode over to her with a concerned expression on his face.
“Fern, what are you doing up there?” he asked.
“There’s been another incident.”
“What!”
“I was just up here checking out the dunk tank when something hit the back of my legs. If you’ll look, there’s a white rose on the ground behind me.”
“So he’s here and he wants you to know it.”
“I guess so.”
“Did you see him?” Sheriff Calhoun asked.
“My back was to him, but when I looked around, there was a man about his size wearing a beige cowboy hat disappearing around the side of the hotel.”
“Not much to go on.”
“No. Wish I had more information to help.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes. Craig’s out at Steele Trap Ranch. I figured I’d be okay here in the open.”
“You are okay. We’re here. I’ll send a couple of deputies to check behind the hotel, but I bet he’s long gone.”
“Me too.”
“We’ll also pick up the rose and put it in an evidence bag, but so far he’s left no traces on the flowers or anywhere else.”
“He seems to know what he’s doing.”
“Could be he’s done it before.”
“Craig mentioned that early on, but I hate to believe it.”
“We won’t draw any conclusions, but anything is possible. This guy is serious, and that means he’s dangerous.”
“He’s certainly dangerously disturbed.”
“Wait here till we secure the evidence.” Sheriff Calhoun turned, motioned two of his deputies forward. “Stalker’s been here. Check for a cowboy in a beige Stetson behind the hotel. I know that description fits fifty guys here, but give it a try.”
“Good luck.” Fern hoped some of Rosie’s luck might rub off on the deputies as they rode away.
While she watched, another deputy bagged up the white rose, looked for any other evidence, then remounted and tucked the evidence in a pocket of his saddlebag.
“Fern, I’d feel more comfortable if you were indoors, in a safe environment,” Sheriff Calhoun said. “I know your job as cochair of Wild West Days is to be out and about so you can quickly respond to any issues that might arise.”
“Yes, that is my job.”
“Would you at least consider going someplace like the Lone Star Saloon, where you could field phone calls and be nearby if there was an emergency? You could stay there till Craig gets back.”
“I hate to let this man limit my life.”
“Understandable. We just don’t know how far he’s willing to go.”
“What can he possibly think he’s going to get out of this harassment?” She felt so frustrated by it.
“We don’t know what’s in his mind. It may be as simple as harassment to get your attention, or it could turn into…well, I don’t want to alarm you, but there are cases of kidnapping involved in these incidents.”
“Kidnapping! Do you mean like those cattle thieves snatched Fernando?”
“Yes.” Sheriff Calhoun glanced toward his deputies riding back from the hotel. “But there is no way we will let that happen to you.”
She shivered despite the heat. She wasn’t as strong as Fernando. At two thousand pounds, he had the ability to fight his way free from his captors, and he had done it. She shivered harder, trying to figure out how she’d gotten into this fix and how to get out of it.
When the two deputies rode up, they simply shook their heads, then rejoined the rest of the patrol.
“That’s that,” Sheriff Calhoun said. “Nothing. We didn’t expect anything, and that’s exactly what we got.”
“As much as I regret it, I guess I’d better go to the Lone Star and wait for Craig.”
“Do you want a personal deputy assigned to you for the duration of Wild West Days? I’d be happy to do it.”
“You need all the deputies to watch over our guests. I’d feel bad about taking someone away from their real job.”
“You are our real job…and much more than that to us.”
“Thank you.” She finally stepped down from the dunk booth and looked up at the sheriff. “I’m sorry for the extra trouble.”
“No. I’m sorry for your trouble. But don’t worry. We’ll keep you safe.”
She nodded, but she didn’t quite believe it anymore, not since the stalker had been close enough to touch her.
“Stay on the boardwalk, and I’ll have a deputy follow you. Nobody is getting away from a fast horse.”
She nodded in agreement. “That’s surely the truth.”
And so she turned back, feeling like a different person as she trudged past one store after another, intensely aware of the mounted patrol following her…and even more aware that there was a stalker somewhere in the crowd watching her. How one man could cast such a pall over such a fun event amazed her. She took a deep breath. What would MG do? She’d mentioned groupies in her past. She’d obviously handled them with her usual aplomb, but this was more—much more—than adoration. This guy had burned down Craig’s barn and could’ve killed people and animals. He meant business.
She might take chances with herself, but she’d never take chances with others. There were simply too many vulnerable people everywhere around her, and that was probably precisely why he picked this day to reappear. She had no choice but to wait for Craig to return. In the meantime, she’d make the best of a bad situation and enjoy the saloon.
She waved goodbye to the officer, then pushed open the batwing doors of the Lone Star and felt as if she’d stepped back in time. Unlike Wildcat Hall, this establishment had been a fancy, popular saloon with drinking and gambling during its heyday, and the large room still retained much of the original decor and ambiance to prove it.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling to illuminate red-flocked wallpaper with gold fleurs-de-lis on the walls and cherubs flinging arrows from bows on the ceiling. An immense mahogany bar of intricate design dominated the length of one wall. In front of it was a long brass rail for boot soles and a row of spittoons for tobacco. Behind the bar rose a huge sideboard with rows of upside-down glasses and a wide expanse of gold-flecked mirror. To each side hung an oil painting in a massive gilt frame of dusty cowboys driving longhorn cattle.
Two bartenders with handlebar mustaches and long hair, wearing white shirts, stood behind the bar ready to serve cold drinks, wine, beer, and water, unlike the old days when it would have been straight-up liquor. They also served ice cream cones, sundaes, malts, and oversize cookies for those with a sweet tooth and individually packaged nut and pretzel mixes for folks with a different taste. Faro and poker tables had been converted to regular tables with barrel chairs that hugged the walls to leave room for dancers in the center of the room.
Near the dance floor, an upright player piano tinkled out music that also evoked the era. She knew the owner had updated the vintage piano to run on electricity, because originally someone had to pump the large pedals with their feet to activate the mechanisms that created music. If the bellows inside weren’t engaged, the instrument could be played using the keys like a normal piano.
She liked this place, particularly since the air-conditioning felt really good after the heat outside. People already sat at tables drinking cold drinks and eating ice cream with a few colorful packages purchased from vendors setting out on tabletops. Some folks even wore the popular Wild West Days caps, adding more color and interest to the saloon. Other than the rose incident, she’d say everything was moving along just fine. And she was happy to see it.
For now, she might as well take a break and catch her breath while she had the chance. She wanted to call Craig, but she really didn’t want to update him on the stalker, because he’d drop everything and be there as quick as he could make it. He needed to finish up at Steele Trap, so he could get the situation with Fernando settled to everyone’s satisfaction.
She didn’t see anyone she knew in the saloon, which wasn’t too surprising since she was just back in town and hadn’t been in here much except to work with Hal Holston, the owner, about lining up musicians and deciding on numbers for Craig and his band, as well as what she’d sing that evening. Hal was probably in a storeroom, and she didn’t want to disturb him when she really didn’t need anything.
She ordered a bottle of water at the bar, then walked over to the player piano, imagining what it must have been like over a hundred years ago for a pianist to be sitting there pounding out waltz after waltz as loud as he could make it for the dancers on the floor. After months on a dirty, dusty trail drive, cowboys were eager to spend their wages on hot food and hotter baths. They’d arr
ive at the saloon with slicked-back hair and large mustaches to squire sweet-smelling young ladies wearing ruffled white pinafores over waists and skirts of bright colors.
She looked up at a magnificent staircase with a brass railing and burgundy carpet that swept in a wide arch upstairs, then down at a raised dais that held several green floral tapestry chairs. That was where they’d play this evening. A microphone and sound system were already in place, since the Lone Star normally had live music on weekends. It was a lovely setting and she’d enjoy being there.
For now, she just sat down in one of the empty chairs, set her purse on the dais, and opened her bottle of cold water. She looked out over the saloon and past the batwing doors to the bright sunshine, listening to the cacophony of voices outside. She’d call Craig in a bit and let him know to find her there. In the meantime, she thought about the numbers they’d perform that evening. She thought she might substitute a Dolly Parton for a Willie Nelson, but on the other hand…
Sunlight was blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered figure who thrust open both doors at once and walked into the saloon. With narrowed eyes, he looked around, obviously searching for one person and one person only. He could easily have passed for an old-time gunslinger or maybe a sheriff, hunting for somebody.
She felt her breath catch in her throat. She knew that form only too well. Craig had found her before she had a chance to alert him. Somebody, maybe the sheriff, had called him and explained the stalker situation. He didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked downright mad. She sat up a little straighter, readying an explanation.
When he saw her, he stalked straight through the saloon, boots beating an angry staccato as he narrowed the gap between them.
“Why didn’t you let me know?” He spoke in a voice still rough from smoke inhalation as he came to a stop in front of her.
“Sheriff Calhoun?”
“Right. Do you really think it’s okay not to let me know when you’re in danger?”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Are we back to the beginning?”
