6

Little more than an hour later, a crowd gathered in front of the candy shop to stare at the broken window. Mr. Williams from the Haywire Sash and Window Shop had removed the fragments of glass and was now priming the frame to get it ready for a shiny new pane.

Though Kate had already told the spectators everything that had happened, the questions kept coming.

Lucky Lou pushed his way through the crowd. For once, he didn’t have Ringo with him. “Did you recognize him?” he asked.

Kate shook her head. “No, his head was covered.”

“What did the bank robber say?” asked another.

Though Kate had little information to give them, the onlookers hung on her every word. There had been other robberies, of course, but none had ended in a dramatic foot chase down Main. Texas Ranger Tucker was new in town, but already his name was on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Some couldn’t make up their minds whether to condemn him for stopping Kate’s wedding or to praise him for preventing a bank holdup.

Doc Avery shook his grizzled head. “I was sure the ranger would get his man.”

Just then, Aunt Letty’s horse and wagon came barreling down the street and pulled up in front of the shop. She’d left earlier to purchase flypaper. The broken window had served as an invitation to every winged insect in town.

“Lord have mercy!” she exclaimed upon joining the knot of onlookers in front of the store. “Haven’t you folks got anything better to do with your time than stand around gawking?”

“Now, Aunt Letty,” Kate whispered. “They’re just concerned.”

Even as she spoke, the crowd continued to grow. Even Harvey Wells showed up. Never missing an opportunity to demonstrate his latest invention, he immediately set to work.

“Are you tired of walking around with food on your mustache?” he asked of the crowd at large. Without waiting for an answer, he added, “No more, my friends, no more.” He whipped out a piece of metal attached to two pieces of string. These he tied around his head. “This is what I call a mustache apron.” Showing off the ridiculous-looking piece beneath his nose, he seemed oblivious to the giggles it generated. “Never again will you have egg on your face,” he said with a deadpan expression.

“There ought to be a law,” Mrs. Cuttwell said, her pointy nose twitching. As the town seamstress, she was as quick with her needle as she was with her tongue.

Harvey blinked. “A law?”

Mrs. Cuttwell gave an impatient flick of her hand. “I’m talking about thieves shooting out windows and scaring folks.”

Next to her, Mr. Bellwether, the former mayor, glared at the sheriff, his ponderous girth shaking like a leaf. “There is a law.” It was no secret that he blamed the sheriff for not doing something about the crime rate that had caused him to lose the last election. “And if the sheriff would do his job, we could put the criminals in this town where they belong. Behind bars!”

Sheriff Keeler glared back. He didn’t take kindly to criticism. No one knew how he’d react to praise, since none had ever been given. “If you could do better…”

Bellwether made a face. “I dare say that even our dear Mrs. Cuttwell here could do better.”

Mrs. Cuttwell tittered like a schoolgirl and punched the former mayor playfully on the arm. “Why, Mr. Bellwether. What a nice thing to say.”

Mrs. Peters shuddered and directed her question to Kate. “I can’t imagine coming face-to-face with an outlaw. Weren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” Kate admitted. “Maybe a little.”

“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” Aunt Letty said. “A body’s not safe anymore. In my day, I could have put my life’s savings on the front porch, and it would have still been there in the morning.”

Ironman Watkins shoved his blackened hands into the pockets of his leather apron. “That’s because more money could be found in the poorhouse,” he said, his comment followed by a ripple of laughter.

Knowing that the blacksmith spoke in jest, Kate joined in the fun, but her laughter died when she spotted Frank shouldering his way through the crowd. Not wanting to deal with him, she turned her back. Coming face-to-face with an outlaw was enough drama for one day.

“The point I’m trying to make,” Aunt Letty said, “is that we were once able to leave our doors unlocked and not have to worry.”

“We still leave our doors unlocked,” Kate said. Most doors didn’t even have locks, and those that did were seldom used.

“Yes, but I no longer feel safe doing it,” Aunt Letty said.

The seamstress folded her arms across her ample chest and lifted her pointy nose. “You’re a fine one to talk, Letty. You’re part of the problem.”

Aunt Letty’s jaw dropped. “Me? What are you talking about? How could you say such a thing?”

“Now don’t go acting all hoity-toity.” Mrs. Cuttwell stuck her cone-shaped nose practically in Aunt Letty’s face. “You know darn well that those awful books you insist on selling are responsible for leading our youths astray.”

Aunt Letty’s face turned an alarming shade of red. Hers was the only shop in town selling books, and she took great pride in keeping the latest dime novels in stock. “I know no such thing.”

Mrs. Cuttwell glowered. “If you don’t, you should. Why just the other day, Johnny Marsh was caught stealing fruit from Gordon’s—two apples and an orange,” she added for the benefit of the crowd. Receiving the appropriate gasps of disapproval, she continued. “He told the sheriff he had been led down the road of iniquity by dime novels.”

Aunt Letty stared daggers at the woman and refused Kate’s effort to drag her away. “I’ve read just about every dime novel that comes through my store, and not one mentioned an apple! You must be thinking of the Good Book.”

“I most certainly am not!” Mrs. Cuttwell’s florid face turned another shade darker. “The very idea! Your books are filled with people killing each other and”—she sniffed—“doing other despicable things.”

Steam practically escaped from Aunt Letty’s ears. “And how would you know that unless you’ve read them yourself?”

“Ladies, ladies!” Mayor Wrightwood positioned himself between the two glaring women and separated them with the spread of his arms. “I think we should put this topic of conversation to rest until another day.”

“I agree,” Kate said, pulling her aunt away from her nemesis and into the store. Since half the population of the town was gaping through the window, she led Aunt Letty into the kitchen where they could talk in private.

Her aunt practically shook with rage. “Oh, that woman makes me so mad.”

Kate refrained from telling her to calm down. That always made her aunt more intense rather than less so. “She makes a lot of people mad,” she said instead.

“It makes me sick to think that she made your wedding dress.”

“Now, Aunt Letty. You know she’s the only seamstress in town, and you can’t deny that she does good work.”

“Yes, well, she should stick to sewing and keep her honker out of everyone’s business.” A worried frown replaced her aunt’s anger, and she quickly changed the subject. “Oh, Kate. I can’t stop thinking about what happened. You could have been injured. Or worse. All that glass.”

For her aunt’s sake, Kate tried to act nonchalant. If her aunt knew how frightened Kate had been, it would only worry her more. “Fortunately, the bullet lodged in a wall by the window, so neither Dusty nor I were in any real danger.” She only wished that Dusty hadn’t witnessed the whole thing. She wouldn’t blame the poor lad if he never set foot in her shop again. “The outlaw’s only interest was in making his escape.”

Aunt Letty scoffed. “That still doesn’t explain why he shot out our window.”

Kate didn’t dare relieve her aunt of that false notion. If Aunt Letty knew that the same man who had disrupted the wedding was the real culprit, there was no telling what she would do.

“Guess he panicked.”

“Hmm.” Aunt Letty was about to resume the conversation but then changed her mind. “Do you want me to make the deliveries today? You must still be upset. I know I would be.”

“There’s no rush. They can wait till tomorrow. It’ll give me a chance to stop at Connie’s.” Kate hadn’t seen her best friend since the wedding. Truth was, she hadn’t felt much like socializing.

“Good. Maybe Connie will talk some sense into you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her aunt planted her fists on her ample hips. “You know darn well what that means. It’s been nearly a month since your disastrous wedding, and you’re still brooding.”

“It’s only been three weeks, and I am not brooding,” Kate said.

“I saw how you looked at Frank out there,” Aunt Letty argued, crossing her arms. The stubborn look on her aunt’s face told Kate she had no chance of winning that argument. None.

Fortunately, the bells on the door jingled, giving Kate an excuse to end the conversation.

* * *

Seated at Foster’s kitchen table, Brett stifled a yawn and debated whether to indulge in another cup of coffee or leave. A glance at his pocket watch told him it was after ten p.m., and he could use some shut-eye.

It had been a frustrating day. If only he hadn’t been cursed with such a strong sense of justice and responsibility. He took any burden to bear upon his shoulders. Fool that he was, he always tried to make things right.

In his mind, every wrong had to be remedied. In that regard, his conscience wouldn’t let him rest until he’d made amends and brought Kate and Foster back together again.

But that wasn’t the only thing weighing him down. He’d failed yet again. Yes, failed with a capital F. He’d practically had that would-be bank robber and possible Ghost Rider in his clutches. Had his bullet not ricocheted off the lamppost and into the candy shop window, he might have succeeded.

Instead, the outlaw had vanished somewhere between Outhouse Alley and the maze of streets running parallel to Main. Had it been Foster One? God, Brett hoped not. It pained him to think that the man he hated more than he’d ever hated anyone might have escaped yet again.

He’d never met Foster One, not personally. No one could have been more shocked than Brett was to learn of his stepsister Alice’s marriage to a man she’d known for only a short while. But by the time Brett had taken leave from the Texas Rangers and traveled home to meet his new brother-in-law, it was too late. Foster had already vanished, taking what little money his stepsister had and breaking her heart in the process. Breaking Brett’s too.

He’d blamed himself as much for Alice’s death as he blamed Foster. He was only sixteen when his parents died. His brother, Paul, was fourteen and Alice only twelve. Being the oldest, Brett took it upon himself to care for both siblings and, working a series of odd jobs, he’d done just that.

When Alice turned eighteen, she’d landed a position as a housekeeper to a cattle baron. That was the year he’d fallen in love with Deborah Freeman. Convinced that Alice had a real home and a secure future, he was ready to ask Deborah to marry him and settle down. His plans came to a screeching halt when he found out that his brother had been seeing her on the sly, and the two had eloped. Heartbroken, Brett had left town and joined the Texas Rangers.

How was he to know that Alice would meet up with the likes of Foster One? Had Brett stayed home and watched over her like he should have, Alice might still be alive.

Now, Foster Two set a fresh cup of coffee in front of him, bringing him out of his reverie and reminding him of the purpose of his visit.

“Her favorite color is blue.” Brett was willing to bet it wasn’t just any blue Miss Denver liked, but a blue that was brilliant and clear and matched the depths of her eyes.

Foster plopped down in the seat opposite him, his expression grim. It sure looked as though that old monster, jealousy, was about to rear its ugly head again.

“How do you know that? How do you know her favorite color is blue?”

“How do you not know it?” Brett shot back. The only way to combat Foster’s jealous streak was through guilt. In that regard, Foster gave him much to work with.

Guilt worked this time too. Foster looked like someone had pulled the stuffing out of him. “Why you making such a fuss? I don’t even know my own favorite color.”

Brett shook his head in disbelief. He’d been in love only that one time, but he still recalled how it felt. He’d wanted to learn everything he could about the woman he’d loved—what she thought about, dreamed about. How she spent her time. No detail had been too small or irrelevant. Love had a way of turning even the smallest details of one’s life into something big and magical.

“Is it really that important?” Foster asked. “To know her favorite color, I mean?”

“Of course it’s important,” Brett said. “The way to a woman’s heart is to pay attention to all the little things that make her who she is. Knowing her favorite color might seem trivial to you, but it will tell her how much you care.”

Foster set his elbows on the table and raked his hair with both hands. “Cripes! Why am I even listening to you? You’re the reason I’m in this mess.”

“And I’m trying to help you out of it.”

A dubious look crossed Foster’s face. “What makes you such an expert on women?”

“Experience,” Brett said. Okay, claiming to be experienced where women were concerned was an exaggeration, but it seemed to do the trick. At least Foster looked less resistant.

“Okay, so we know what color she likes.” Foster gazed at Brett in despair. “Now what?”

“Now you purchase the biggest bunch of flowers you can find. And don’t give me that garbage about flowers dying. Flowers are an expression of love, and that’s the language any woman understands.” Brett reached into his vest pocket for a small notebook and slid it across the table.

Foster examined the notebook. “What’s this for?”

“That, my friend, is the key to success. You will write words so sweet that they will melt your lady’s heart.” The signs that hung in the candy shop and the books displayed in a corner suggested Miss Denver had a fondness for the written word. Why else would she decorate her shop with sayings by Shakespeare, Tennyson, and Elizabeth Browning?

Foster’s forehead creased. “I’m not very good at…you know…putting my feelings on paper.”

“That’s what you have me for.” Brett glanced around. “Where do you keep your writing supplies?”

Foster pointed to the parlor. “In the desk drawer.”

Brett left the kitchen. Finding what he was looking for in the rolltop desk, he returned a moment later. He set pen and ink in front of Foster and sat again.

Foster took the pen in hand and stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. “I’m not good at expressing my feelings. I don’t even know how to start.”

“It’s customary to start a letter with the word Dear, as in Dear Kate.”

Foster’s eyes flashed. “You have no right calling her ‘dear.’”

Brett was fast running out of patience. “If you’re serious about winning her back, you’ve got to control your jealousy. Otherwise, you’ll drive her further away.”

“So, what’s a man supposed to do when someone else hankers after his gal?”

“I don’t know. Sing. Dance. Think about something else.” Brett thought a moment. “Whistle.”

Foster frowned. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Whistle.” Brett demonstrated. “Whenever that green-eyed monster starts to roar, whistle. It’ll help you focus on something else.” Convinced he’d hit upon the perfect solution to Foster’s jealousy problem, Brett tossed a nod at the still-blank paper. “Now write.”

When Foster hesitated, Brett pounded his fist on the table. Holding Foster’s hand was not what he’d come to Haywire to do. “I said write!”

Surprisingly, Foster did what he was told, this time without argument. He formed each word with slow, careful movements, then stopped. “What should I write next?”

Brett stared at the two-word greeting and sighed. The man was hopeless. “How do you feel about losing her?”

“How do I feel?” Foster’s eyes grew as dark as two deep wells. “I’ll tell you how I feel,” he said, his voice shaking. “I feel like crap. Like rotten eggs. I feel like a big mound of horse—”

“Okay, that’s good. Real good. Now you just need to find a more…delicate way of putting your feelings into words.”

Foster eyed him in bewilderment. “How do you mean?”

Brett thought for a moment, and a vision of Miss Denver on her wedding day popped into his head. No sooner had the vision faded than another took its place. It was all he could do to keep from smiling at the memory of entering her shop following the attempted bank holdup.

She’d been ready to fight him tooth and nail. No soldier in combat could have looked more determined than she had in protecting that little boy. Grateful that the candy jar hadn’t hit him in the head, Brett rubbed his still-sore arm.

Later, when he’d stopped by to make sure the window had been replaced to her satisfaction, she’d looked happy to see him. Well, at least she didn’t throw anything at him.

He’d found her in the kitchen, cranking hard candies from a press. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, and her lips looked velvety soft. She wore a pink apron over a blue floral dress, and shiny gold globes danced at her ears.

“Well?” Foster said, snapping Brett out of his thoughts. “What should I write next?”

“I’m thinking,” Brett said. It had been a long time since he’d written words of love. “Maybe you can say something like ‘My heart is broken in a hundred little pieces.’”

Foster dipped the nib of his pen into the bottle of ink. “You want me to write that down?”

“Maybe not in those precise words, but something like it. It’s better if the words are your own.”

Foster thought for a moment and then brightened. “Kate loves animals. How about ‘Losing you is like riding a lame horse.’”

Brett wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think that’s the image we’re looking for.”

“A lame mule?”

“Forget ‘lame.’”

Frank’s mouth drooped for a moment. “Okay, what do you think of this? ‘Losing you is like walking around with my head in a bag.’”

Brett made a face. “That’ll only make her think of the bank robber. Confound it! Why are you making this so difficult?”

“I’m not making it difficult,” Foster said peevishly. “You are.”

Brett pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. When did you two first meet? When did you first know that you were in love?”

Frank answered the questions in long, rambling sentences. He and Kate had met as children. “I was nine, and she was six,” he said. “We both came out west on an orphan train.”

Hearing how the two of them had met under such trying circumstances, how they had protected each other and grown up together, made Brett feel worse for having come between them.

At long last, Foster fell silent, and Brett sat forward, feeling hopeful. Maybe the trip down memory lane had served as inspiration. “You’ve known her for most of your life. Now think. How does losing her make you feel?”

“Like rotting fish. Like garbage that has been in the sun too long.” Brett’s spirits sank, but Foster didn’t seem to notice. “Hey, that’s what I call poetic. I bet what’s-his-name Poo couldn’t do any better.”

Brett slumped in his seat. “Poe. You mean Poe.” Pulling the watch out of his vest pocket, he flipped the case open with his thumb. It promised to be a long and torturous night.