The Cactus Creek Challenge (6 page)

What was she going to do? She had to stop them, or what good was she as a sheriff?

Jigger reached out and pulled her back when she moved to tuck into the fray once more. “Don’t.”

“I have to stop them. I’m the sheriff. We can’t have brawling in the street.”

“Just leave ’em be. They’ll run out of steam in a minute or two.”

“Leave them be?” Her cheek throbbed, her backside stung, and her elbows protested. She jammed the gun back into the holster. “Is that what Ben would do?”

“Sure it is. He knows better than to get between them boys when they’re tusslin’. They ain’t armed, and they never hurt anyone but themselves anyway. Anyway, what could a slip of a girl like you hope to do against those two ornery buzzards?”

His patronizing tone irked her. Exhausted from scrubbing that infernal jail, embarrassed by her failure in her first attempt to uphold the law, and tired of being treated like a child, she surveyed her options and then marched into the barber shop next to Barney’s.

Jake stood at the window watching the proceedings, his hands stopped in midair where he’d been stropping a razor. His customer stood alongside him staring through the glass, white foam dripping from his chin and a sheet draped about his throat. The barber’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t stop her when she lifted a bucket of dirty, whiskery, soapy water and toted it outside. Taking careful aim, she sent the contents of the bucket into a silvery arc that splatted over the Shoop brothers in a bay-rum soap scented cascade.

They broke apart, blinking and sputtering, yelling and wiping soap scum and hairy water from their eyes.

“Hey,” yelled Melvin. “What’s the idea?”

“The idea is, if you’re going to fight like dogs in the street, you’re going to be treated like dogs. Now, unless you want to be hauled to the jail for creating a public disturbance, I suggest you quit your brawling and go home.” She turned to the onlookers. “You all go about your business. This fight is over.”

She stared from one face to the next, letting them know she meant business. Until she realized one of the faces was Ben’s.

T
he faster she tried to work, the further behind she got. Jenny Hart used the back of her wrist to wipe stray hair off her cheek. The hands on the bakery clock judged her, and she hollered up the stairs, “Amanda Jane, hurry up. You’re going to be late for school.”

With dough clinging to her fingers and flour dusting her apron, she plopped the last loaf of marble rye into the pan to rise. Hefting the stoneware bowl of muffin batter she’d whipped up earlier onto her hip, she prepared to ladle the apple-cinnamon concoction into the prepared muffin tins.

“Mama, can you button me?” Amanda tripped down the stairs, her schoolbooks under her arm and her golden curls bouncing. The back of her pristine pinafore hung open.

Jenny plunked down the heavy bowl. “Yes, of course. Then you’re going to have to hurry. Be a good girl for Sheriff Wilder today. He’s bound to be nervous.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she glanced at the chaos surrounding her. No time to clean up, no time to sweep, no time for anything but getting Amanda to school and hurrying to the livery. Late her first day. Not a good way to start this Challenge.

With more than misgivings, she closed the back door to the bakery, waved to her daughter, and braced herself for her encounter with Carl Gustafson. A giant of a man with bushy, red-gold hair and a flowing red beard, he was a regular customer at the bakery. Though she’d met him practically her first day in Cactus Creek, she still couldn’t claim she really knew him all that well. At first she’d thought he might have been interested in her, since he came to the bakery like clockwork every Friday, but he made his purchases, speaking only when necessary, and tipping his hat brim before leaving.

She’d had plenty of offers from frequent customers since arriving in Texas. Not that she was looking for a husband. No, she had no desire to step into that particular quagmire again. But though other men had approached her, Carl always hung back. Cassie had mentioned that Carl had been widowed a few years ago but gave no details, and Jenny didn’t pry. Perhaps he was still mourning the woman, or perhaps he had the same bad taste in his mouth about marriage. He was invariably polite when he came to her shop, and he watched her intently while she packaged up his standing order of six sugar cookies, one loaf of sourdough bread, and one apple turnover.

The earthy odor of animals hit her when she was still twenty paces from the barn. Hay, horse, and harnesses. And standing in the open doorway of the board and adobe barn, Carl stood, pitchfork in hand. He was so … big … he seemed to fill the whole barn.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

They had spoken at the same time.

“The day starts early here.” He leaned on the pitchfork.

She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gustafson. I can’t get here any earlier. I have to see Amanda off to school.”

He pursed his lips, then jerked his chin. Did that mean he understood, or that he was upset?

“If you’ll just tell me what I should do, I’ll get to work.”

The wide brim of his brown felt hat hid his eyes, but he held his shoulders at a stiff angle, and his jaw was rock solid. “This is ridiculous. You’re half the size of my pitchfork. There’s no way you can do a man’s job around here.” He jabbed the handle of the pitchfork into the hard-packed dirt, making the steel tines quiver.

She didn’t know what to say. Misgivings had burdened her sleep the night before, but she refused to let them show. Walking small and apologizing for living was part of her old life. She was a new woman, and she could take care of herself and whatever obstructions arose. Hopefully.

“I signed up for the Challenge. I’ll see it through.”

“Are you going to wear that to work in a barn?” His tone was disapproving.

She glanced down at her plainest skirt and severest linen blouse. Her husband had taken great pride in seeing her well-dressed, a showpiece for him to parade about town. As a result, she had very few utilitarian garments. She’d worn the least ruffled, most practical outfit she had.

“My attire is no concern of yours, Mr. Gustafson.” If he could be tart with her, she could be a bit fresh right back. She’d had quite enough of being judged for what she wore.

He rolled his eyes, as if imploring the heavens for patience or common sense. “The council must be out of their minds. The mayor has no idea what it takes to run this place, or he’d never have suggested a woman take it on. Have you ever even been around horses?” He turned and headed into the barn without waiting for an answer.

Assuming he meant for her to follow, she eased in after him. A wheelbarrow stood in the center of the aisle, and several equine rumps faced her. The wheelbarrow was heaped with malodorous stall bedding and buzzed with flies. Huge horsey feet shifted weight, and tails swished. Beyond the large block of light falling through the doorway, the interior of the cavernous barn lay in dimness.

She entwined her fingers and twisted her hands, sure it wasn’t in her best interest to mention she’d never spent much time around horses. Her family had employed coachmen and grooms back in the city, and when she’d married, her husband had rented animals when he needed them.

“What would you like me to do?”

He ran his work-roughened hand down his beard, his brow puckering. “You’ll need to feed and water all the horses, turn out the ones that need exercise, curry ’em all, clean the rest of the stalls, repair and clean harnesses and saddles, pick out hooves, get horses reshod when they need it, keep the barn in good repair, go over the buggies and wagons every day, rent out horses, maintain all the tools, order feed, stack grain bags, fork hay. The list is about as long as my arm.” He shook his head.

She straightened to her full height—all five feet one inch of it. “Surely that list doesn’t all need to be accomplished in one day?” She tried to inject a little humor into her voice, but his list of duties had made her want to gulp. “Mr. Gustafson, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I’m stronger than I look. I’m sure I can manage.”

“And I am just as sure you cannot.” He sighed, stirring the dust motes dancing in the sunshine slanting through the doorway. “Still, I don’t have much choice. I let myself be talked into signing that contract. I gave my word, and I won’t go back on it. But if you decide the work is too much for you, come find me. I’ll be playing baker, twiddling my thumbs, and waiting for closing time.”

His tone did little to bolster her confidence, and the notion that all she did all day was sit behind a counter chafed. Who did he think filled all those cases and shelves every day?

Carl heaved another sigh, this one hard enough to part her hair. “I will at least get you started.” Leaning the pitchfork against a stall partition, he pushed his hat back and eased his suspenders on his shoulders. “I waited on the feeding, thinking you’d show up earlier. One scoop of grain for each horse, and a couple of forkfuls of hay. Hay’s in the loft. After they’ve been fed and watered, you can turn most of them out into the corral. Leave one team and two saddle horses inside in case someone wants to rent a rig or take a ride. Rate sheet is on the wall over there.” He motioned to a tattered bit of paper tacked to the rough boards beside the door. “One thing, though. Stay away from Misery.” He jabbed his thumb toward the west wall of the barn. “I turned him out this morning, and you shouldn’t need to fuss with him.”

“Misery?”

“My new stallion. He’s wild still, so stay clear of him.” Sliding his pocket watch from his jeans, he shook his head. “I’ll see you around five, if you last that long.” Without another word, he strode away.

Jenny stood there for several long minutes, staring out the door, shocked at his abrupt departure. Not only had he given her the barest of instructions, but he hadn’t waited to let her tell him about the ins and outs of running the bakery. As if his job was difficult, but hers was … she laughed to herself … a piece of cake. She’d show him who would last the day and who wouldn’t. She snatched up the pitchfork.

And promptly underestimated the weight, clonking herself on the head with the wooden handle.

“My stars and garters, girl, pull yourself together.” She rubbed her crown and tried to remember everything he had said needed to be done. Food, water, clean stalls … and a whole bunch of other things.

“Ma’am?”

She jolted out of her thoughts. “Yes?”

A short, thick-set man with a balding pate stood in the doorway. “Carl around?”

Her first customer. “Come right in.” She gave her best Southern belle smile and went to greet him. “I’m sorry. Mr. Gustafson isn’t in right now. Perhaps I can help you?”

“Naw, just tell Carl the feed he ordered is in, but he has to pick it up today because they piled it on the loading dock, and Ralph over at the depot said it can’t be there when the evening train rolls in.”

She swallowed, wiping her hands on her skirts. “How much feed is there?”

He tugged at his earlobe. “He ordered an even ton. Forty bags. He paid for it in advance, but he didn’t pay for hauling it and stacking it here. If you want that, it’ll cost ya extra.”

Forty bags of grain, each weighing fifty pounds.

“Thank you. I’ll see that it’s taken care of before five.”
Though I have no idea how
.

The man slapped his thigh. “By sugar, I plumb forgot. The Challenge started today, didn’t it? Interesting little twist they threw in there this year, ain’t it?”

“Interesting.” That was one word for it.

“Well, I’d best get back to the feed store. Best of luck to you, ma’am.”

“Wait. I had a question you might be able to help me with.”

“Shore thing.”

“Do you have any idea where Mr. Gustafson keeps the horse feed here, or is the stuff at the station what I’m supposed to feed the horses this morning?”

He cackled and hitched his pants up on one hip. “Carl threw you in at the deep end, didn’t he? I s’pose it’s all part of the competition. He can’t help you too much or you might win. I’ll show you where the bins are.” He led her to the back of the barn. “This room’s where the feed is kept and where you can stack the grain you pick up at the depot.” He opened the door and a familiar scent rolled out. She was used to the smell of wheat flour and oats in her baking, and under the dust, barnyard odors, and hay, the grain smell hung in the air. “Across the way is the tack room. That’s where you’ll find the harnesses, saddles, and such. And next to that is the toolroom. Pitchforks, shovels, hand tools for working on the wagons, and the like.”

Lifting the lid on one of the bins that lined the walls, he bent over the edge. “The scoop’s in the bin. One scoop of grain for each horse, and a couple forkfuls of hay. Hay’s upstairs.” He showed her the metal scoop. “Just climb the ladder and fork it down into each manger.”

“Yes, Mr. Gustafson mentioned that part. Thank you so much Mr …?”

“Lewis. Barton Lewis. And it’s no trouble. You need anything else, just holler. I’m a few doors up across the street at Lewis Feed and Seed.” He sauntered away, and Jenny put an imaginary halo and wings on his stout little frame.

She scooped up a measure of grain, barely able to reach it in the bottom of the bin but refusing to give up until she’d wrestled it out. She’d had enough of being treated like a china doll. Her husband, a small man in both mind and body, had married her because she was petite, and he thought he could push her around.

Which he had. First with words, then with his fists.

Jenny hadn’t stood up to him then, but she refused to be bullied now. She’d show Carl Gustafson that she could do his job as well as he could, and maybe even better.

But first she had to gather her courage and actually approach one of the gigantic equine beasts under her care.

“Hello, pretty horse. Are you hungry?” She edged alongside the brown animal in the first stall. He … or she, Jenny hadn’t taken the time to check, obligingly sidled over and gave her more room. She dumped the food into the wooden box hanging from the wall and checked the water bucket in the opposite corner. Half full.