Scooter reached for it, and Amanda stopped him with her hand. Never in all her born days had she seen a more sorrowful excuse for a meal, and her stomach turned. The coffee looked murky as dishwater, and the rubbery gray eggs drowning in water would make a chicken blush in shame. No words could adequately describe the charred strips of bacon.
“What is that?” Amanda asked.
The woman reached her hand beneath a stained apron to scratch her belly. “It’s his breakfast. Whatcha think it is?”
“It doesn’t look fit to feed a hog.” Amanda picked up the tray and shoved it back at her. “Take it away. We no longer need your services.”
The woman’s face collapsed inward like a prune left in the sun too long. “Harrumph. I’d like to see you do better.” She left in a huff.
Scooter shook his head. “By ginger, I guess you told her.”
“Yes, well…” Amanda reached in the desk drawer for her purse and drew out several coins. “Go to the hotel, and purchase the breakfast special. And hurry. Poor Mr. Rennick is probably starved.” Poor? She called a suspected killer poor? Fortunately, Scooter didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes, sir, Sheriff!”
* * *
Thanks to the lady sheriff, Rick’s meals were suddenly fit for a king. Eggs cooked to perfection, along with fluffy flapjacks and crisp bacon made up his breakfast. Savory roast beef, creamy mashed potatoes, gravy, and string beans arrived for his midday meal. Roast chicken, pork, or leg of lamb were on the menu for supper.
Never could he remember eating so well. Least not in recent years. It sure did beat the worm-infested meals served at the state pen. Mealtime was the only bright spot in an otherwise frustrating existence.
He was no closer now to proving his innocence than he was at the start. He sure wasn’t making any headway with the lady. Despite his best efforts to win her over and convince her of his innocence, she refused to cooperate. Food was his only consolation. At least till he came up with another plan.
Regardless of the heavy rains, the chants continued outside calling for the lady’s resignation. When she wasn’t waging a war on dirt, Miss Sheriff faced her critics with composed dignity, earning his begrudging respect. Whenever someone criticized her deputy, she resorted to bluster and bravado—also earning his respect.
Only on the rarest of occasions and after the most trying of situations did he glimpse a chink in her armor. Even then, it took a sharp eye to note the droop of a shoulder, the clench of a hand, a quiver of her pretty pink lips.
After thoroughly cleaning and disinfecting one cell, she and her deputy had moved him into it so that they could clean the other two.
For the remainder of the week, she scrubbed—or rather attacked—floors, walls, and windows. Soap bubbles flurried up as years of grime vanished beneath the rough surface of her scrubbing stone. He was willing to bet it wasn’t just dirt she battled, but something more personal and deeply ingrained. Fear? Self-doubt?
She made her deputy toss out the thin mattresses and stuff clean straw into new ticking. After trashing all the moth-eaten wool blankets, she replaced them with new ones. She then sprayed the place with lavender perfume.
“Smells like a bordello in here,” Rick said, though he had no complaint.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. She looked at him so funny, he got a sick feeling in his gut.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He backed against the rough wall of his cell, palms spread outward. “Don’t even think about it.”
She tossed a nod at her deputy. What Deputy Hobson lacked in years, he made up for in enthusiasm and had been racing around all week eager to impress his new boss. Now he approached his cell with a bowl of soapy water and a razor.
Rick took the bowl of water but refused the razor. “I’m not shaving.” He still hadn’t given up hope of escaping. Until then, he didn’t want anyone knowing what he looked like without his beard.
Aware suddenly that Miss Sheriff was watching him with arms folded, he shook his head. “I said I’m not shaving.”
“Have it your way, Mr. Rennick, but you should know that I just got word that the circuit judge is on the way.”
“So? Hasn’t he ever seen a man in a beard?”
“Oh, he’s seen them all right,” she said. “They’re always the ones he condemns to hang.”
Rick took the razor.
* * *
Amanda stared out the office window onto Main. The rain had stopped the day before, and rays of sunshine trickled through parted gray clouds. Steam rose from water-soaked rooftops, and ribbons of mud still ran ankle-deep through the center of town. The Rain King had made a believer of her.
For three days, the rain had kept most, but not all, disgruntled citizens from traipsing a path to her door and demanding her resignation. For that, she was grateful, but she had a feeling the reprieve was about to end.
The rain had been a boon to farmers, but the best thing it did was curb crime. Almost as soon as the rain stopped, the stage was robbed, someone stole farmer Hancock’s chickens, and one of the local ranch owners complained about somebody cutting his barbed wire fence.
She walked to her desk. Scooter had left to fetch Rennick’s breakfast, as was now his morning chore. As soon as he returned, they would ride out to the Wendell farm. There was still the matter of those missing horses. She planned to stop at Tee Pee’s ranch on the way back. He’d threatened to pursue the rustlers himself, and she intended to make sure he stayed within the law. She also wanted to find out how Mary-Louise and her new baby were doing. Amanda still had questions about the fire before she could file away the report.
She reached for her Colt and dumped the bullets out of the chamber. She then walked to the door of the cellblock. Rennick stopped pacing, an inquisitive look on his face. He still hadn’t shaved, but his hair was neatly combed and tied at the back of his neck with a piece of rawhide.
Several dime novels supplied by her deputy were stacked at the foot of Rennick’s cot.
She tossed a nod toward the books. “Escapist literature?” she asked with a wry smile.
“Absolutely. Did you know that Billy the Kid escaped jail through a chimney?”
She shrugged. “Sorry we can’t accommodate you, but as you see, we have no chimneys.”
“What a pity.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” She tilted her head. “Any advice on how to find missing chickens?” Her prisoner seemed to have an answer for most everything.
“Track down the local wolf pack and smell their breaths.”
“Very funny.”
His gaze fell on the Colt in her hand, and he arched a dark eyebrow.
“How about helping me with my aiming problem?” she said.
“You gonna trust me with your gun?” he asked.
“It’s not loaded,” she said.
“Ah.”
She handed it to him muzzle first.
He spun the chamber to check for bullets. “Lesson number one, never point a gun unless you mean to use it.”
“I told you, it’s not loaded.”
“Yeah, well, the graveyards are filled with men shot by unloaded guns.” He pointed the gun, sighting it on the water basin in the next cell. “Hold your gun in both hands like this. Now aim at your target, and bring your eye to the front sight. Keep your arm solid, your wrist straight.”
He talked in a clear, smooth tone, taking his time. “Next, cock the hammer with your thumb. Remember to squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it.” He turned to her. “Got all that?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Now you try it.”
“Chow time.” Scooter appeared at the doorway. Seeing Rennick with a gun, he dropped the tray. Quick as a flash, he pulled out his weapon. “Shall I shoot? Shall I shoot?”
* * *
After calming her deputy, Amanda sent him
back to the hotel for more food while she cleaned up the broken dishes and mopped up the coffee.
No sooner had she finished than the door flew open and in popped Mrs. Mooney, followed by several other posse members. The group crowded into the office, careful to wipe their muddied feet on the rug in the doorway. Amanda almost didn’t recognize them.
Gone were the bustled frocks, fancy hats, and chatelaine purses. Instead, every last one of them had followed her example and were now appropriately dressed for the job in divided skirts, white shirtwaists, and vests. High-button boots had replaced dainty slippers, and Mother Hubbard bonnets and bird-trimmed headgear had been exchanged for sensible wide-brimmed hats, each sporting a tall red feather.
Even Becky-Sue had traded in her frilly skirts and lacy shirtwaists for a more conservative skirt and shirt. The giggles, however, remained.
Somehow, Goldie managed to make a divided skirt and plain shirtwaist look like something that should only be worn in a bawdy house.
The women all appeared to be armed. A few guns were holstered. The grip of Mrs. Perl’s peacemaker stuck out of her rucksack along with her knitting needles. Other firearms were tucked into the waists of split skirts.
Her deputy returned from the hotel. He took one look at the newly clad ladies and almost dropped the breakfast tray a second time. “Gee willikers, will you look at that?”
Through the open door in back, Mr. Rennick could be seen gawking through the bars, a look of sheer disbelief on his face.
True to form, Mrs. Mooney took charge. “As the bank president’s wife, I wish to inform you that we are reporting to duty.”
Deputy Hobson found his voice. “By Jupiter. A real posse!”
“You better take the prisoner his breakfast,” Amanda said. She was having a hard enough time dealing with Becky-Sue’s giggles without Scooter adding to the confusion.
“Yes, sir, Sheriff!”
Amanda waited for him to slip through the door leading to the cellblock before facing the women. Never had she seen such an earnest-looking group, not even at the suffrage meetings. Their eagerness to please and put themselves in danger touched her deeply. She also felt responsible for their safety. If anything should happen…
“Do you all know how to fire your weapons?” she asked.
Ellie-May Walker seemed to regard the question as a personal affront. “My husband wouldn’t sell a gun without giving proper instruction,” she said with a shake of her saddlebag hips.
Mrs. Mooney lifted her head with an air of importance. “Just tell us what you want us to do, and we’ll do it!”
T-Bone’s wife pumped the air with a fist. Her rounded curls hung down her back like the sausages sold at her husband’s butcher shop. “We’ll show the men of this town how to end crime.”
“You got that right,” Mrs. Albright sniffed. The narrow crown of her hat rose from her head like a stove pipe. “Do you know what my Carl said when I told him what I was doing? He said this was a great day for outlaws and a bad day for the town.” She placed her hands at her waist. “I intend to make him eat those words.”
“Speaking of eating,” Mrs. Myrtle Granby said, holding a jeweled lorgnette to her eyes. “Let’s get on with it. I need to be home in time to cook supper.”
Mrs. Mooney leaned sideways to whisper in Amanda’s ear. “Her poor, dear husband is like a bagpipe. He never utters a sound until his stomach is full.”
Every gossipy comment that fell from her lips was prefixed with the word poor, as if that somehow took the sting out of any unkind words.
Amanda regarded the group with misgivings. If anything should happen to any of them…
“Upholding law and order is dangerous work even for a man. But for us women—”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Perl said with a shake of a knitting needle. “It would have to be a pretty low man to harm a woman. That gives us the advantage.”
Her remark was followed by murmurs of agreement, and Amanda’s warnings fell on deaf ears.
She glanced at the stack of complaints on her desk. Somehow, she had to put her posse to work without putting them in danger—at least until she knew their full capabilities, if any.
The bank lost a large shipment of gold during a recent stage holdup. Before that, a bag of money was stolen from a bank teller. But the horses taken from the county poor farm were by far the greater loss in term of need. Mr. Wendell depended on those horses to work his fields. Then there were those missing calves…
“Are you ready to ride?” Amanda asked. With a group this size, they could scour the Wendell farm with a fine-tooth comb. The rain had probably washed away any clues, but it wouldn’t hurt to check, and it would give her posse practice working together in a relatively safe environment.
“We’re ready,” Mrs. Mooney said, and for once, she didn’t mention her social position. “Don’t you have to swear us in or something?”
“Yes…yes, of course.” Amanda cleared her throat. She had no idea how to swear in a posse, but the oath couldn’t be much different than the one she herself took as sheriff.
“Wait,” Mrs. Perl said. “I think we need a name for our posse. It would make us sound more official.”
Amanda frowned. Did a sheriff’s posse have a name?
Becky-Sue waved her hand. “We should call ourselves the Red Feather posse.” She pointed to the feather on her black felt hat and giggled.
Mrs. Mooney nodded. “As the wife of the bank president, I say we make it official. All in favor of calling ourselves the Red Feather posse, say aye.”
Their voices rang out in unison. “Aye!”
“Okay, Red Feathers,” Amanda said. “Raise your right hands.”
The women repeated after her in solemn voices. Scooter returned, and after setting the empty tray on her desk, took the oath too.
After duly swearing them in, Amanda explained their first assignment. “Horses were stolen from the Wendell farm. I want you to check out the property while I question the residents. Someone might have seen or heard something. You never know.”
Becky-Sue pressed her hands together. “Oh, this is so exciting!” she said and giggled.
“Yes, it is,” Scooter agreed, and they both laughed.
Amanda frowned. “Just remember to stay together and wait for instructions. The bad guys have guns, and they know how to use them.”
Not that she thought they would run into any outlaws at the farm, but every possibility must be considered.
Scooter gave a solemn nod. “Like Grandpappy always said, there’s a cure for everything but stark death.”
Nineteen
The sight greeting Amanda outside the office made her stop in her tracks and do a double take.
Wagons, buggies, and buckboards were parked haphazardly in all directions. The vehicles not only created a logjam, they broke every parking law on the books and then some.
Bullwhip, the stagecoach driver, stood on the opposite side of the street shaking his fist. “Get these doggone vehicles outta my way!” he bellowed, his red beard quivering along with his low-crowned felt hat. “Or I’ll be late.”
Amanda glared at him. When had Bullwhip ever concerned himself with staying on schedule? She still hadn’t forgiven him for leaving her stranded in the middle of nowhere. Since the stage was robbed, he did her a favor, which was the only reason she hadn’t confronted him. Still, she wasn’t ready to altogether excuse him or his obnoxious ways.
He wasn’t the only one throwing a fit. Far from it. Traffic was stopped on Main in both directions, and curses rent the air.
Amanda raised her hand and called, “Give us a moment.” She turned to Mrs. Mooney. “We have a problem.”
Mrs. Mooney folded her arms across her ample chest. “I’ll say. How dare they talk to the bank president’s wife in such a way! Have they no respect? There ought to be a law.”
&
nbsp; “You can say that again,” added Mrs. Perl. “How else could we park without getting our wheels stuck in the mud?”
Amanda threw up her arms. “The problem I’m talking about is that I need my posse on horseback.” Who ever heard of a posse on wheels?
“Horses?” Mrs. Mooney’s eyebrows shot up. “You said we needed guns. You said nothing about horses.”
“I just assumed…”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Perl rubbed the small of her back. “My sacroiliac won’t let me ride a horse.”
Deputy Hobson commiserated with a shake of his head. “My grandmama had the same problem.”
“I can’t ride my horse either,” added Mrs. Granby, eyes rounded behind the frame of her lorgnette. “He’s scared of noise, and there’s no telling what he’ll do once we get to shooting.”
The former schoolmarm tossed her head in agreement and added, “I haven’t ridden horseback since I was thrown at the age of twelve and…”
The excuses seemed to know no end. The minister’s wife spoke for several women when she explained her husband’s objections. “He said it’s bad enough that I’m now dressed like a man—he’s not having me spread my limbs like a clothespin just to ride a horse.”
Becky-Sue got all red in the face and giggled.
By now, the angry group of men had grown in number and stood on the opposite side of the street shoulder to shoulder like an army about to advance.
“If you don’t move those blasted vehicles, we’ll do it for you!” someone shouted and followed with enough curses to make a sailor blush.
Fearing violence was about to break out, Amanda jogged down the steps to her (Rennick’s) horse. She still felt the need to remind herself that it wasn’t her horse, but he felt more like her own every day.
Right now, the only way to assure a peaceful resolution was to get the ladies out of town. Fast! The transportation problem would have to wait.
She quickly untied Spirit and swung onto the saddle. “All right, Red Feathers. Time to hit the trail!”
* * *
A Match Made in Texas Page 12
