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Authors: Deeanne Gist
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looking for the third mouse. Her gaze halted abruptly and she flew across the room to a small gap between some shelves and a wall of bins.
The fancy-pants proprietor stood dazed, motionless, and as worthless as a milk bucket under a bull. Adam hurried over to catch the mouse Essie had spotted, but before he could reach her, she knelt down on all fours and squeezed her arm into the crack between the shelves.
The space was too dark and narrow to look into, so she pressed her ear against it and blindly felt inside.
‘‘Need some help?’’ he asked, squatting down beside her.
‘‘I have it, sort of.’’
‘‘Sort of?’’
‘‘The very tip of its tail is underneath my finger. I’m just trying to . . .’’ She clamped her tongue between her teeth, then gasped. ‘‘Botheration!’’
She leapt up, searching the floor around them. A lump beneath her skirt caught his attention. The pesky thing was climbing her petticoats like a ladder.
‘‘Hold still!’’ he hissed. She froze and he flicked up her skirt, sliding his hand between the dark serge and white petticoat underneath before latching on to the varmint.
When it dawned on him where his hand lay, he glanced up at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. He might have long been floundering in the mire of sin, but she looked like somebody’d shown her a fifth ace in a poker deck.
A thunder of boots on the wooden floor at the other end of the store drew his attention. The old cuss with the newfangled mouse catcher spun around like a button on a privy door, trying to capture the wily rodent.
The children shouted. One of the women swooned. A quick survey of the room assured him no one was taking notice of him and Essie.
Keeping a tight hold on his own mouse, he rotated his hand so his knuckles rested against her leg, layers of soft, ruffled petticoats shielding her skin from his touch. He was in no hurry as he drug his hand down her long, long leg.
For a moment, her expression turned soft and dreamy. She was a ripe one, all right. But she was the judge’s daughter and possibly Mr. Prissy Pants’ betrothed. She must have remembered this herself, for she suddenly jerked away from his touch.
He pulled his hand out and dropped her hem, taking in the dips and swells of her landscape as he stood.
‘‘Did you . . . did you get it?’’ she whispered.
‘‘Right in the palm of my hand, sweetheart.’’
A cheer rose up from the other faction. ‘‘He caught it! He caught it! Mr. Vandervoort caught it!’’
Adam gave her the mouse and gently squeezed her waist. ‘‘They’re calling for you, Miss Essie. You’d best go see to them.’’
Essie helped Mr. Vandervoort put the last mouse into the cage while the children all spoke at once. The cowboy lifted the women by their waists and set them back on solid ground. The sound of his pandering voice, full of false solicitude, turned Hamilton’s stomach.
The last time he’d experienced this kind of anger was when his older brothers had bent the tip of a willow tree to the ground and told him to grab on with both hands and feet. They let go and left him clinging upside down for what had seemed like hours.
He still remembered how helpless he’d been, stuck atop that tree with no way of getting down. If anything, this was worse.
The front door wrenched open and Sheriff Dunn stomped in. ‘‘What in tarnation is going on?’’ His hollering brought silence as quickly as a gavel in a noisy courtroom.
Dunn was a solid man. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. Just solid. His gray, bushy moustache hid his mouth and made Hamilton want to sell him a moustache comb and scissors every time he saw him.
Gripping his rifle, Dunn scanned the room, taking in the Gillespie boy and then halting altogether on the cowboy.
‘‘Uncle Melvin,’’ Essie exclaimed, hurrying toward him. ‘‘There’s no need for distress. Just a little game of cat-and-mouse.’’
Vandervoort let out an amused
The fancy-pants proprietor stood dazed, motionless, and as worthless as a milk bucket under a bull. Adam hurried over to catch the mouse Essie had spotted, but before he could reach her, she knelt down on all fours and squeezed her arm into the crack between the shelves.
The space was too dark and narrow to look into, so she pressed her ear against it and blindly felt inside.
‘‘Need some help?’’ he asked, squatting down beside her.
‘‘I have it, sort of.’’
‘‘Sort of?’’
‘‘The very tip of its tail is underneath my finger. I’m just trying to . . .’’ She clamped her tongue between her teeth, then gasped. ‘‘Botheration!’’
She leapt up, searching the floor around them. A lump beneath her skirt caught his attention. The pesky thing was climbing her petticoats like a ladder.
‘‘Hold still!’’ he hissed. She froze and he flicked up her skirt, sliding his hand between the dark serge and white petticoat underneath before latching on to the varmint.
When it dawned on him where his hand lay, he glanced up at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. He might have long been floundering in the mire of sin, but she looked like somebody’d shown her a fifth ace in a poker deck.
A thunder of boots on the wooden floor at the other end of the store drew his attention. The old cuss with the newfangled mouse catcher spun around like a button on a privy door, trying to capture the wily rodent.
The children shouted. One of the women swooned. A quick survey of the room assured him no one was taking notice of him and Essie.
Keeping a tight hold on his own mouse, he rotated his hand so his knuckles rested against her leg, layers of soft, ruffled petticoats shielding her skin from his touch. He was in no hurry as he drug his hand down her long, long leg.
For a moment, her expression turned soft and dreamy. She was a ripe one, all right. But she was the judge’s daughter and possibly Mr. Prissy Pants’ betrothed. She must have remembered this herself, for she suddenly jerked away from his touch.
He pulled his hand out and dropped her hem, taking in the dips and swells of her landscape as he stood.
‘‘Did you . . . did you get it?’’ she whispered.
‘‘Right in the palm of my hand, sweetheart.’’
A cheer rose up from the other faction. ‘‘He caught it! He caught it! Mr. Vandervoort caught it!’’
Adam gave her the mouse and gently squeezed her waist. ‘‘They’re calling for you, Miss Essie. You’d best go see to them.’’
Essie helped Mr. Vandervoort put the last mouse into the cage while the children all spoke at once. The cowboy lifted the women by their waists and set them back on solid ground. The sound of his pandering voice, full of false solicitude, turned Hamilton’s stomach.
The last time he’d experienced this kind of anger was when his older brothers had bent the tip of a willow tree to the ground and told him to grab on with both hands and feet. They let go and left him clinging upside down for what had seemed like hours.
He still remembered how helpless he’d been, stuck atop that tree with no way of getting down. If anything, this was worse.
The front door wrenched open and Sheriff Dunn stomped in. ‘‘What in tarnation is going on?’’ His hollering brought silence as quickly as a gavel in a noisy courtroom.
Dunn was a solid man. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. Just solid. His gray, bushy moustache hid his mouth and made Hamilton want to sell him a moustache comb and scissors every time he saw him.
Gripping his rifle, Dunn scanned the room, taking in the Gillespie boy and then halting altogether on the cowboy.
‘‘Uncle Melvin,’’ Essie exclaimed, hurrying toward him. ‘‘There’s no need for distress. Just a little game of cat-and-mouse.’’
Vandervoort let out an amused
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