Cally And The Sheriff

has always lived in north central Kansas, and was raised on museums and arrowhead hunts; when she began writing, America’s Old West seemed the natural setting. Now she writes between—and sometimes during—4H, school events and the various activities of her three children. Her husband farms, and they live in the house where he grew up.

For Dad,

for lots of reasons

Chapter One (#ulink_3db5ec10-e430-5a44-bb2b-d3eccf9445c4)

Salina, Kansas 1877

Cally slid off the mule and brushed at the dust on her oversize pants. She didn’t like to come to town and neither did Royal. The poor dog tried to look in every direction at once and wouldn’t get farther from Cally’s side than the long hairs on his back.

Cally tied her father’s mule in front of Mr. Lafferty’s feed store as she always did when she was forced to come to town. She trusted Mr. Lafferty. He didn’t look at her funny the way other people did. Of course, Mr. Lafferty was nearly blind.

She noticed with a little disappointment that Mr. Lafferty had already closed up his store. She hadn’t meant to stop and visit him, but it was always nice to see a friendly face. And he usually fed her mule a little grain while she was gone. “Sweepings,” he would explain. “Spilled the stuff and can’t sell it now.”

She rubbed the old mule’s nose. “Don’t worry, Jewel, I won’t be long,” she said softly. Squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up to her full five feet two inches, she headed purposefully toward the sheriff’s office. Royal trotted at her side.

Her eyes narrowed when she thought of that low-down sheriff. He had found every weapon she had tried to sneak in to Pa, but he wouldn’t find this one. She had wrapped the butcher knife in leather and tucked it in her pants. He wouldn’t dare find it. Somehow, she would slip it to Pa, or she would use it on that sheriff herself!

She prayed that tonight’s plan would work. The only weapons left at home were the shotgun and the ax. They would be hard to sneak in to Pa.

Outside the sheriffs office, she motioned Royal to stay. He whimpered but complied. She pulled her hat down securely and pushed the door open, letting it slam behind her as she entered. The room was lit only by fading sunlight through the windows and one lamp on the sheriff’s desk. Cally stood for a moment while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Sheriff Andrew Haywood was sitting with his long slender legs propped lazily on his desk, his head bent over a book in his lap. His straight dark hair, she noticed not for the first time, was ridiculously neat. He raised his head reluctantly, and snapped the book closed, bringing his boots to the floor with a bang. The cool gaze he leveled on her revealed nothing.

But he didn’t frighten her. “I came to see Pa,” she announced in a firm voice, sending a quick glance toward the cell where her father slumped against the wall.

“What a pleasant surprise.”

Cally sneered at his sarcasm. She watched him come to his feet and walk slowly toward her, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room. She wouldn’t be intimidated by his air of authority or his size. When he stopped two feet in front of her, she was forced to tip her head back in order to look him in the eye. She was proud of her own cool, steady stare.

His chest beneath the perfectly laundered shirt expanded as he took a deep breath. “Hand it over.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m unarmed,” she said, perturbed at the way his gaze probed hers. It was all she could do not to look away.

He shook his head slowly. “You’re never unarmed, Miss DuBois.” He pronounced her name the way Pa did, “du Bwah.” Most people said “boys.” He did it to flatter her, to put her off guard.

She gritted her teeth as he continued. “You can’t break your father out of jail. You’ll go to jail yourself. Just give me the gun or knife or whatever you’ve brought this time, and make it easy for both of us.”

Right then she decided she hated his voice. It was smooth and self-assured, deep and soft at the same time. A tempting voice, her mind warned. She could almost believe he really cared.

She stood her ground and watched him look her over. His searching eyes made her want to laugh. He would learn nothing from looking at the baggy clothes.

Abruptly he moved forward. She drew back involuntarily, but only a step. His hands dug into the huge pockets of her overcoat, then searched the hidden ones inside. She almost relaxed. Did he think she was stupid enough to try the same thing twice?

She smirked until his hands settled on her waist. A jolt like lightning charged through her with his warm touch. She gasped, a combination of surprise and fear. He was so close she could smell the soap his laundress used on his shirt. She watched his eyes light with understanding and tried too late to pull away.

Strong fingers locked around her slender arm while he grabbed a handful of britches that included the knife. She had no choice but to give it up. He wasn’t even gentleman enough to turn his back while she loosened the rope belt and retrieved the leather-wrapped weapon.

She felt her cheeks burn and knew they were fiery red as she readjusted her clothes. She looked up to find his attention elsewhere. He was carefully unrolling the leather. She was pleased, at least, to see his face register some shock at the huge knife.

“I liked it better during the trial when you brought your father pies and such,” Haywood said, carrying the knife to the desk and jerking open a drawer. “What did you plan to do with this?”

Cally looked longingly at the drawer’s contents— Pa’s razor, three knives and a pistol. The butcher knife clanked on top of the others, and Haywood slammed the drawer shut.

He straightened to look her in the eye. She squared her shoulders. “I was going to bury it in your gut.”

Pa spoke for the first time. “Cally girl, I thought I taught you better. That’s no way to talk to an officer of the law.”

Cally exploded. “An officer of the law! He’s a nogood, bushwhacking, bloodthirsty snake!”

Royal’s concerned whimper could be heard through the door.

“Now Cally,” Pa admonished, resting an obviously aching head against the bars.

“Now Cally! Pa! He’s going to hang you!” Saying it aloud brought a sudden lump to her throat. She barely heard Royal as he whined and scratched at the door. She all but forgot about the lean lawman propped against his desk, watching her. Her attention centered on poor Pa behind bars.

“What am I gonna do?” she whispered. She walked slowly toward him.

He took her hand and pulled her into his arms as much as the bars would allow. “Ah, Cally girl, I’m so sorry. But you can’t keep trying to bust me out.”

She wanted to tell him she had to, but she didn’t want the sheriff to overhear. It would be better if he thought she had given up. She tried to fake a sob and it came out a hiccup.

Pa patted her shoulder. “Have you thought about it, Cally? We’d have to run, and what would you have then? You can’t think you could just take me home.”

Of course she had thought about it. It wouldn’t be easy, but she couldn’t just let her father hang. She tried for a more realistic sob.

Andrew leaned against his desk, watching the pair. His desire to give them a few moments in private warred with his conviction that he didn’t dare take his eyes off the girl. From where he stood, he couldn’t see Cally’s face; it was hidden under the brim of her absurd hat. He heard her sniff as she drew herself out of her father’s arms.

When she reached into her hip pocket, Andrew came automatically to his feet and started toward her. She withdrew a jackknife, snapping it open an instant before he could stop her. Menacing him with it, she demanded, “Get the keys.”

“You’re not serious?” Andrew was more disgusted than frightened.

“Get the keys,” she screamed.

The dog’s bark caught the girl’s attention for an instant. Andrew took the last step that separated them, grabbing for her wrist. Her arm swung up to ward him off, and the blade sliced into his upper arm. Andrew gave a startled grunt as he drew back.

High on Andrew’s right sleeve a red streak appeared and slowly spread downward. Andrew gave it barely a thought. Cally stared at it in horror. She started to sway and the knife clattered to the floor.

With a muttered curse, Andrew caught her shoulders. “You can’t be a killer if you faint at the sight of blood,” he said, leading her to his chair.

“Ah, Cally girl, you know how you are,” moaned the prisoner. “She can’t even kill a chicken, Sheriff. She couldn’t have meant to hurt you.”

“Pa!” Cally wailed, burying her face in her hands.

Andrew planted himself between the trembling girl and the drawer full of weapons, being careful his own holstered gun was beyond her reach. The girl’s dog was putting up such a commotion he was a little concerned it would come through the door. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his arm. “Damn,” he muttered. “I should have known she’d eventually think of hiding two knives.”

At the sound of his voice, she raised her head, her green eyes bright with hatred. The freckles across her nose stood out in stark relief against the too-pale skin. “I have to help Pa,” she whispered.