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Suddenly self-conscious, Micah had an unexpected memory flash before his eyes. His older brother had always dared him to do this or that and then taunted him for not performing perfectly the first time. He dismissed the memory. Grace might tease him, but she wouldn’t criticize. He gripped the handle of his gun and quickly slid it from the holster, then fanned the hammer with his left hand, firing off three rapid shots. Each time his hand hit the weapon, it threw off his aim, and not one shot struck an empty tin.
“Uh-huh.” Grace’s tone held no condemnation. “Mind if I ask where you learned that?”
He cleared his throat, and his face warmed. “Last July Fourth at the fastest draw contest.”
“Uh-huh,” she repeated. “Sometimes cowboys like to show off with that style because they think it looks fancy. But if you ask ’em, they’ll admit it’s a little hard on the gun’s action. Plus their six-shooters need fixin’ real often. Anyway, it’s not even the fastest draw.”
“Ah.” Micah returned his Colt Peacemaker to its holster. “And I fell for it. All right, you show me the right way.”
She gave him a brief nod and stepped away several paces from him. “Thumbing is the best way. You grip the handle and at the same time place the tip of your thumb on the hammer.” She demonstrated as she spoke. “As you begin to draw, let your thumb roll off the inside of the hammer. At the same time you’re drawing, get a full grip on the handle, aim and squeeze the trigger.” Her Colt .45 fired three times before Micah could blink, and three tin cans flew off of the fence.
He whistled in admiration. “I see what you mean.” He slowly went through the smooth motions, returned his gun to his holster and then drew quickly but without firing. The roll of his thumb seemed the key because it had to bring the hammer back and yet not hold it there. The pull of his trigger finger felt instinctive. On his third draw, he fired, knocking a can from its perch.
“Good job, Rev.” Grace seemed about to slap his shoulder, but turned the gesture into a strange little wave. “Most folks can get the hang of it with one lesson. You have the advantage of being real good with your rifle. I didn’t have to remind you to keep your eye on the target.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Warmth spread through his chest. Her approval meant a great deal to him. Maybe she wouldn’t mind if he confided in her about his plans for courting. After a few more fast draws, a reload and a few more cans scattered across the corral, he holstered his gun. “I think we’re done here, but I’ll keep practicing. May I buy you some ice cream as a thank-you?”
An odd, almost vulnerable look crossed her pretty face. “I’d rather have some of Miss Pam’s pie.”
“If we’re going there, we’ll just have dinner. What do you say?”
She shrugged in her endearing “aw-shucks” way. “Sounds good.”
While Micah retrieved the battered cans from the corral, he spotted fresh hoofprints in the smattering of snow. “Say, Grace, I didn’t think anyone was living here.”
She strode over to him and eyed the ground and then knelt down to trace the wider-than-normal horseshoe print with a slight indention on one side. “Hmm. Could be our man Hardison. Could be a drifter taking shelter last night.”
She stood and walked toward the half-open barn door. Micah followed her inside, and they both looked around. The unusual hoofprint wasn’t repeated, and nothing caught their attention as being disturbed.
Outside again, Grace tilted her head toward the run-down cabin and spoke a little louder than necessary. “Well, let’s get back to town.” She drew her gun and walked toward the wood frame abode.
“Good idea.” Micah also spoke loudly, while the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Had they been watched the whole time they were shooting?
Grace again tilted her head, this time toward the side of the cabin. Micah nodded and ambled around the corner to peer in through a shattered window. The room held broken-down furniture, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
From the other side of the room came the screech of a rusty-hinged door opening, and soon Grace appeared in the room. She caught his gaze and shook her head. “The snow on the porch didn’t have any prints, and the dust hasn’t been disturbed in any of the rooms, so I reckon nobody’s been in here.”
Micah nodded his agreement. Every afternoon, the wind blew a new coat of dust over the entire San Luis Valley, so those fresh hoofprints could only be a few hours old.
He met Grace by their horses. “Why would anyone want to ride into a corral like that if they weren’t going to take shelter in the barn or the cabin?”
“Maybe some drifter stopped to see if there was any hay in the barn.”
“Could be.” Micah heaved out a quiet sigh of relief. The idea that they might have been watched had unnerved him, and yet Grace had remained as cool as an autumn day. Most girls he’d ever known were skittish as colts about such things. What a woman Grace was! He felt privileged to be her pastor and her friend.
* * *
The Rev didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get back to town, so Grace kept Mack’s pace to a moderate walk. After a few hundred yards, the Rev seemed inclined to talk, so she gave him an inviting smile.
“Something on your mind?”
He chuckled in that way of his that always put her at ease. “I could use your advice.” He tilted his Stetson back on his head a ways. Once again, she felt pleased that he hadn’t worn his dandified bowler hat. That thing sure did annoy her, though she couldn’t say why she concerned herself so much with his appearance.
“About shooting?”
“No. I think we covered that this morning.” He gazed east across the San Luis Valley toward Mount Blanca, which was nearly snow-covered despite it only being October. “I have guests coming to visit from Virginia around the first of December. Joel Sutton’s a childhood friend. After the war, he and his folks were the only people who remained friendly. The rest treated my family badly because my uncle fought for the North.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Some in the South continue to fight the war even though it’s been over for almost twenty years. Even my decision to attend seminary in Massachusetts angered many people, and they didn’t want any part of me after I graduated. Couldn’t get hired in a church, no matter how many I applied to.”
Grace shook her head in disgust. The war wasn’t his fault. In fact, he was truly a man of peace. Those people didn’t know what they were missing to reject him that way. “Their loss is Esperanza’s gain. Now tell me about this Joel Sutton.”
The Rev leaned down to pat his horse on the neck, a gesture Grace found endearing. He took care of his horse just like he took care of the folks in his congregation and anybody else who needed a kind touch, including her. “Joel and I have been corresponding for a few years, and now he wants to come out here, he and his sister.”
Grace didn’t need for the Rev to tell her the rest. This sister was probably a gracious Southern belle like Susanna Northam, all pretty and petite and just what the Rev needed in a preacher’s wife. But if all things worked together for good, then Grace should assist him all she could. Maybe she’d even play matchmaker and help him get the job done.
“So, are these folks going to stay at the hotel, or should I see if Mrs. Foster wants to take in a couple of new boarders?” Grace liked that plan. She could get the measure of the woman and decide if she was good enough for the Rev.
“No, I think they should stay at the parsonage. I have those two extra bedrooms, and they’re rarely put to use.”
Grace held her breath and counted to ten while she considered how to answer. “Will you be comfortable with a single lady staying in your home?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I wanted your advice. Do you think anyone will be offended, considering that Joel will be there, too?”
For some odd reason, Grace wanted more than anything to say yes, the whole town would be offended. That by all means, Joel and his sister should stay someplace else. Anyplace else. But she couldn’t lie. Nor could she explain her reservations about the plan. After several seconds of listening to the clop of their horses’ hooves and an occasional bird calling out from the thickets along the road, she sighed to herself.
“Well, Rev, we don’t have a whole heap of gossips around here, and most folks don’t pay them any mind when they do speak out of turn.” She had to force a smile as she finished her thought. “I think you should have your friends stay at your house so they don’t have to pay rent. Maybe that sister can feed you some fine Southern cooking and put some meat on your bones.”
Why had she said that?
He sent a worried frown her way. “You think I’m too thin?”
Oh, my, no. Not thin at all, and certainly not the opposite. He appeared as strong as any hardworking cowboy, although she had no idea how a preacher who read books and visited the sick all day could be so well put together. She also had no idea why she’d made such a foolish remark about putting meat on his bones. The local ladies kept him well fed with their best cooking. Now, how could she turn this into teasing?
“Naw, not too thin.” She grinned. “Just on the edge.”
He laughed. “Don’t say that to Mrs. Foster. She already sends over enough food for a small army.”
“I’ve noticed that.” Grace chuckled. After some serious thought last evening, she’d decided to put four pieces of her special fried chicken into Mrs. Foster’s basket. Of course he had no idea, and Mrs. Foster had promised not to tell. Not that Grace meant anything by it. She was just trying to be helpful. That was all. Yet it pleased her that he hadn’t complained about last night’s supper.
* * *
“She did something special with that fried chicken last night.” Micah could still taste the mouthwatering fare. “Best I’ve ever eaten.”
Grace looked away quickly, and Micah followed her gaze westward toward the San Juan Mountains, seeing nothing of significance.
“Something grab your attention?”
“Nope. Just checking the landscape.” She gave her familiar dismissive shrug, but when she faced toward town again, she seemed to be fighting a smile.
Maybe she was embarrassed about her comments regarding his health. Ladies and gentlemen didn’t usually discuss such matters. And yet Grace always spoke the truth, painful or not, so Micah had a feeling she might be right about his condition. He’d always vowed not to become a flabby, indolent preacher, like some he’d met. However, being too thin wasn’t any healthier. So far he’d managed to stay fit, but maybe he needed more exercise.
Very few people knew that, weather permitting, he rose early six days a week before anyone else was out and about so he could run around the outskirts of Esperanza. After that, he lifted the barbells Bert, the blacksmith, had made for him, which he kept hidden in one of his extra bedrooms. He’d have to find a new place for them before Joel and Miss Sutton arrived. Would have to find another place to do the lifting. Maybe when he ran, he needed to add another lap around town.
Other than Bert and the sheriff, no one seemed to know about his exercising, which was just as he preferred it. Like his writing, he kept his exercise private, a part of his life that belonged to him alone. Once he married, he’d tell his wife, of course. But for now, he did what he had to do to keep up with the hardy folks in his congregation. No one needed to know how he managed it. In fact, telling others about it might seem boastful. And surely his cowboy friends would laugh at him for having to go out of his way to stay strong and healthy while their normal work kept them in fine fettle. Not that he minded teasing. Their good-humored remarks made him feel even more a part of the community. But he would still keep his exercise a private matter.
“I hope Miss Pam still has some of her beef stew left,” Grace said as they dismounted in front of Williams’s Café. “I didn’t realize how late it was.” She nodded toward the brand-new clock tower above the bank. “One thirty. The pickings will surely be slim.”
Before Micah could voice his agreement, Mrs. Winsted barged out of her store two doors down from the café.
“Grace, where have you been? I couldn’t find the sheriff, either.”
All business now, Grace hitched up her gun belt and strode over to Mrs. Winsted. “What happened?”
Stifling his surprising disappointment that their time together would be cut short, Micah followed her onto the boardwalk and focused his attention on Mrs. Winsted.
Hands fisted at her waist, the older woman glared at Grace as though her troubles were the deputy’s fault. “Why, I’ve been robbed again, and this time it’s even worse.”
Chapter Three (#u7f0bbe08-aa9d-5666-a8b6-6e544b3652d0)
Grace eyed Dub Gleason and his friends, who sat outside the store and watched with smirking grins. She didn’t suspect them of the thefts. To a man, the four of them were the laziest polecats she’d ever seen. The most energetic thing they did was make fun of her when no one else was around.
“Let’s go inside.” She nodded toward the open door of the mercantile. No use broadcasting the details of the robbery. As stupid as Dub and his friends were, they’d blab anything they heard all over the place. The guilty party might hear them and figure out a way to hamper the investigation.
Mrs. Winsted turned in a huff and stormed back into her store. Grace didn’t fault her for being upset, but it seemed this usually levelheaded lady was becoming more like her daughter-in-law every day.
Behind her, Grace could hear the Rev’s footfalls. She turned and gave him a quizzing look.
He returned that bothersome attractive smile of his. “As I said the other day, I want to help.”
“Right.” She shrugged. “Come on, then.”
Inside the store, Homer Bean, the clerk, was straightening merchandise behind the counter.
“Hey, quit that.” Grace tried not to bark the order, but Homer jumped nonetheless. “Don’t be moving stuff around. I need to look for clues, and you might cover them up.”
“That’s just the thing.” Mrs. Winsted pressed trembling hands against her temples. “Nothing seems out of place. If I didn’t know my inventory like the freckles on my granddaughter’s nose, I’d say nothing had been stolen. Whoever took the items cleverly shuffled the other merchandise to fill the empty spaces.”
When Grace reached back to retrieve the pencil and pad of paper she kept in her hip pocket, her elbow met something solid. She glanced to the side and saw it was the Rev’s arm. A pleasant shiver slid up to her neck, but he seemed unmindful of the contact. Instead, he was staring around the large room, frowning thoughtfully like he was the deputy doing the investigation. Grateful for his help, she poised her pencil over the paper. “Now, ma’am, what was stolen?”
“Well...” Mrs. Winsted huffed a bit and stared off as though gathering her wits. “Several woolen blankets, a tan Stetson, a pearl-handled Colt .45, a Remington rifle and ammunition for both guns.” She gazed around the room. “That’s what we’ve figured out so far.” She tilted her head toward Homer to indicate he was the other part of we. “Last time it was a coffeepot, a bag of coffee, some tins of food and other such items a person might steal if he was needy. This time it’s much more serious, with guns being stolen and all.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grace listed the items on her pad. “Show me where they were displayed.” Even though she knew the store pretty well, she hoped to calm Mrs. Winsted down by keeping her occupied.
The locked gun case appeared just as the woman had said. Seven handguns were displayed in an orderly fashion with no obvious empty spaces.
The Rev bent down to study the lock on the front of the case. “It doesn’t look as though it’s been tampered with.” He straightened and looked to Mrs. Winsted. “Where do you keep the key?”
Grace felt a pinch of annoyance that he asked the question before she had a chance. She’d have to talk to him later about letting her lead the investigation. “Is it nearby?”
“No.” Mrs. Winsted walked toward the door to the back room. “I’ll fetch it.”
“Wait. I have an idea.” The Rev gave Grace an apologetic grin. “If you don’t mind?”
Grace answered with a scowl, but he’d already turned his attention back to Mrs. Winsted.
“I know this may sound odd,” he said. “However, it may help us to find the thief.”
Mrs. Winsted glanced doubtfully between the Rev and Grace. “Deputy?”
Grace hid her annoyance with a smile and a shrug. Oh, she truly must speak to the Rev about this. He was damaging her image of authority. “Go on, Rev. Anything you can do to help.”
“Very well.” His gray eyes twinkled with excitement, which considerably diminished her irritation. Not only was he way too handsome when he smiled, he seemed to be enjoying himself in a mighty big way. She couldn’t scold him for either one of those.
“I recently read Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, which is a collection of his short stories. In one story, a murderer was caught because his bloody thumbprint was left on a piece of paper, and he was later identified through that mark. Recent research has shown that no two people have identical finger marks. Maybe we could find the thief’s prints on the key or this case.” He indicated the glass display. “Of course, we’d have to be sure no one else touches either one while we figure out how to capture the image. Then we can try to find the person whose prints match it.”
Grace stared at him with new respect shaded with just a smidgen of skepticism. If what he said was true, it would help law enforcement immensely.
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Winsted frowned in dismay. “I’m afraid we already dusted and wiped down everything this morning. It’s the first thing Homer does every day. Isn’t it, Homer?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young, sandy-haired clerk had joined them by the gun display as soon as the Rev started talking about the Twain story. “And I’ve already handled the keys this morning when I showed Mrs. Bellows some items in the jewelry case.”
“Hmm.” Grace wrote brief notes so she’d remember to tell the sheriff about the whole conversation. She wondered whether he’d heard about finger marks. “Let’s have a look at the other places.”
Mrs. Winsted pointed to a plaster hat stand molded in the shape of a man’s head. “They stole the tan Stetson that should be here and put this porkpie hat in its place.” She leaned against the display case, and her usually friendly face drooped into a weary expression.
Grace patted the woman’s forearm. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Winsted. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Now, who were your last few customers just before you closed up yesterday?” She glanced at Homer to include him in the question.
They both offered names, and Grace wrote them on her pad, flipping to a second page to list them all.
“The last person out the door was Adam Starling,” Homer said. “He bought some flour for his mother and asked to put it on their tab.” He cleared his throat. “Not that this means anything...”
“Go on.” Grace kept her eyes on her notes. She’d had some concerns about sixteen-year-old Adam but would keep that to herself for now.
“Well...” Homer shuffled his feet. “The last thing Adam looked at was the pearl-handled Colt .45 that’s missing now. Said he sure would like to have one like it someday. I, uh, I took it out of the case and let him hold it. I don’t like to make judgments about folks, but if a man could look hungry at a gun, then I’d say that was how Adam looked at that revolver.”
A sick feeling rose up inside of Grace. She snapped her notepad closed and stuck it back into her pocket. “All right. I’ll report this to the sheriff. If either of you think of anything else, let one of us know.”
She strode toward the front door only vaguely aware that the Rev was on her heels. Outside on the boardwalk, he touched her arm to stop her. She did stop, but only because Dub and his friends had wandered down the street.
“Grace, I can see what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong about Adam.”
She shifted her gun belt and gave him her best deputy glare. “That so?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by her tough posture, which pleased her in the oddest way. “Why would such a hardworking boy risk everything—his family, his reputation, his jobs—for a gun? Or for any of those other missing items?”
“I’ll admit he’s always seemed like a straight-up fella.” She wouldn’t speak about the way Adam avoided her. Lots of men in town avoided her because they didn’t know how to behave around a female peacekeeper. She preferred that to Dub Gleason and his pals. “But you gotta admit a poor family like the Starlings don’t have much in the way of necessities. Maybe he needed the rifle to kill jackrabbits for their supper.”
The Starling family had been in town for about a year and a half. Adam’s father had yet to recover from injuries sustained when outlaws beat him and stole the payroll he was delivering for the railroad. Adam was still in high school, and he worked hard at three jobs to support the family. Mrs. Starling took in sewing and laundry, but the family still needed help from the church from time to time. Grace didn’t mind their receiving charity. Christians were supposed to take care of needy folks. But the way Adam had been avoiding her recently, refusing to look her in the eye at church or ducking around corners if he saw her during the week, caused her some concern even before the robberies. What could he be hiding?
“I’m sure the Starlings already have a gun of some sort for small game hunting.”
