Chapter 28
CHAPTER 28
Early the next morning, after an even earlier breakfast, Cally and her family and Sheriff Sam gathered on the gravel drive alongside the James house. The morning was still cool, the cloudless sky blue, the sun low to the east. Apollo was back in the stable after a small warmup ride before breakfast.
Excited jitters danced in Cally’s stomach—in another hour, she and Apollo would be crossin’ the finish line of the Tenth Annual Mule Stop Horse Race.
Along Main Street, neighbors were gathering in their own driveways, everyone looking forward to the race, the race early enough to avoid the heat that would come as the morning progressed.
“Where’s Max?” Bart said, his voice taut over the sound of a meadowlark on the prairie behind the house. They’d heard at breakfast that Evil Prince Hugo had gone storming into the mayor’s office first thing that morning, complaining of slow—or nonexistent—service toward his employees among the merchants of the town. Max had left the house soon after, saying he had business to conduct before the race.
Bart was worried the Evil Prince might go after Max, but Cally was sure her prince could take care of himself, and as far as they knew, the Evil Prince believed Max was his cousin. Even evil princes, according to Max, didn’t harm too badly their own royal relatives.
“There he is,” Cally said, a-spying him walking toward her along Main Street, her heart beating faster at the sight. A different kind of excited beat, one that she’d never experienced before meeting Max.
Dressed in one of them Western shirts he’d bought the day before, this one blue with a subtle cotton plaid similar to the ones Sheriff Sam favored, he strode with long, masculine strides in a pair of denim trousers that fit his powerful legs better than they ought to. Nodding hellos to the neighbors as he passed, he walked like a man confident in himself and his world, even if his world was a hundred and twenty-some years from now.
“That’s quite a swagger he’s got going there,” Livie said, standing next to Cally. With one hand on her growing belly, and a smile on her face, Livie looked happy and contented in her long pink summer dress.
“Just like you, Sam,” Bart said on Livie’s other side, dressed in a charcoal-gray summer suit, seeing as how he wasn’t entered in today’s race.
Sun glinted on the silver star attached to Sheriff Sam’s brown leather vest. “I don’t swagger,” he said.
“Sure you do,” Livie said. “In a competent, manly way.”
But Cally only had eyes for Max. He was manly, for sure. And competent, too. Why, he could ride nearly as well as she could, and had proved to be a good shot on the shootin’ range at home, even with a pistol from an earlier century to his; a pistol, she’d been given to understand, that might be considered a bit primitive in his time. He’d even gotten inside Prince Hugo’s castle to help rescue her, giving his ancestor a good run for his money.
She wondered if not having money of his own here in this century bothered him. She admired his resourcefulness in acquiring what he needed.
He didn’t need much, she’d noticed. A horse, a pistol, a rifle, an outfit or two of ranch clothes, plus some fancy ones for while he was being a duke. Compared to his ancestor Hugo, he was downright parsimonious.
Ma always said that a man who understood the meaning of ‘waste not, want not’ was a man of good character.
“Stop that,” Sheriff Sam said with a growl when Max turned onto the drive and stopped beside them.
A silver band etched with little crowns adorned the base of Max’s dark-brown cowboy hat. A matching silver belt buckle adorned his leather belt, the crown on the buckle large and distinguishable and looking a mighty lot like the brand of the Crown of the West Ranch. “Stop what?” Max said in his princely Zalgravian accent, the European tones at odds with his clothes, and yet, to Cally, the combination fit him as well as his trousers did.
Sheriff Sam, dressed nearly identically to Max in a green plaid shirt and denim trousers, his brown cowboy hat sporting a braided silver band around the crown in honor of the day’s festivities, scowled. “Walking like I do.”
“You mean, the swagger?” Livie said.
Max laughed.
A hint of a laugh came to Sheriff Sam’s otherwise hard eyes. “ I don’t swagger .”
“Sure you do,” Bart said.
“You two could be twins,” Livie teased.
But Cally’s ma, wearing a fancy day dress of cream muslin, seeing as how she’d be meeting up with the mothers of Cally’s suitors at the race, looked solemn and grave. “Perhaps,” she said, “the resemblance will keep Prince Hugo away from Max.”
Sheriff Sam shook his head. “Prince Hugo will be mad as a hornet when he discovers Max is the one who arranged for his servants to receive slow or nonexistent service in town.”
“That’s not my doing,” Max said. “He created that all on his own.”
“Then what have you been up to this morning?” Cally said.
He gave her a smile that went all the way to her heart. “Spending some of that royal Zalgravian money I received yesterday.”
Ma frowned. She still wasn’t sure she approved of Max takin’ money from his own family without them realizing who he really was.
“Spending it on what?” Sheriff Sam said.
Max’s amused face turned hard. “Let’s just say Hugo will find his servants scarce after this morning.”
Max rode his bay horse Ares up Main Street alongside Cally and Apollo, Cally dressed in a dark-brown split skirt and a long-sleeved, violet-hued blouse neatly buttoned to her lovely neck. Her shiny, dark braid hung over one shoulder from beneath her brown cowgirl hat.
The rest of her family traveled alongside them, Bart driving June and Livia in a large, elegant buggy they kept for town use. Luke Wade and the ranch hand Nick rode behind the buggy, both having volunteered to help with the horses before and after the race.
Creede had gone on ahead to the race grounds north of town, to keep order among the townsfolk.
The road was crowded, everyone who was in Mule Stop for the next few days of festivities seemingly headed in the same direction. The air, still on the cooler side, was filled with laughter and jesting, people making good-natured bets on the race’s outcome.
A mile from the house, Main Street ended, transitioning to a narrower wagon trail with rolling, sagebrush-flecked prairie on both sides, the trail continuing to head straight north. The trail itself looked recently resurfaced, its dirt smooth, unlike the rutted track they’d followed yesterday into town.
Another quarter mile, and traffic began to slow, just this side of a wide river rather low on water.
“That there is the Frisch River,” Cally told him, the sound of the running water faint beneath the clop of many horses hooves, the crunch of many buggy and wagon wheels. “Named after one of the first residents of Mule Stop. Folks will be parking their buggies over along them cottonwood trees.”
‘Them cottonwood trees’ grew in abundance along the length of the riverbank, not too densely packed and providing shade to the buggies and wagons and spectators on foot who were gathering beneath them. A small wood stage—a two-foot-high wooden box about six feet square—faced the trees.
Beyond the stage stood the racetrack. An honest-to-goodness racetrack, complete with whitewashed railings on the inside, its packed-dirt surface flat as could be and clear of the rocks and scrub that marked the adjacent prairie.
“That’s some track,” Max said to Cally, the two of them following the buggy toward the trees. “Someone did a lot of work.” A lot of work for a single race, he thought, but watching the gold coins exchanging hands among the spectators, he had a feeling a great deal of horse-trading and betting went along with the race, making the work to build the track worth the time and effort.
“It’s a prestige race,” she told him solemnly as Bart drove the buggy into a shady spot with a good view of the track, and Max wondered if she had pre-race jitters. “Folks come from miles around.”
With the words ‘good luck’ from her family ringing in their ears, Max and Cally rode their horses past the spectators to a shaded, roped-off area farther along the river. A series of hitching rails had been installed for the competitors, and Max followed Cally as she rode toward the farthest out of the rails, away from the handful of competitors gathering with their horses at the nearer ones.
She was beautiful as she rode, lithe and strong and at home in her silver-tooled saddle, handling the powerful Apollo as easily as if he were a kitten, and Max knew it was her way with horses that gave her that command over the stallion, that and her deep love for the horse. A love that had led her to braid violet ribbons into Apollo’s black mane that matched her violet-colored blouse. A love that had her crooning to him, telling him how they would win this race.
They reached the last hitching rail, the tree-filled area around it empty of people and horses, an isolated oasis of peace among the hubbub of excitement and merriment from the spectator area. The air along the river was cool.
Max dismounted. Tying his reins to the rail, he refrained from trying to help Cally down from Apollo in view of the townsfolk, Max not wanting to cause talk, not wanting anyone to think he thought she needed his help.
When her feet were on the ground, he ducked under the rail to stand with her between the two horses.
The scent of horseflesh and leather filled his senses. The scent of womanly rosewater filled his heart. His gaze caught hers.
Slowly, a blush crossed her pretty cheeks, and he realized there was something different about her today. Not the demure lady he’d met at June’s parties, not quite the slang-speaking, heedless tomboy, either.
A vibrant young woman, instead, in whom the lady and tomboy seemed to meld, and in whose eyes there was an awareness as to why he’d joined her in this private space between the horses, the two of them hidden from view by the trees.
Holding his gaze, she leaned forward toward Max, rising on her toes until her mouth was inches from his. “A kiss for good luck, prince?” she said in a low voice.
He gave a soft laugh. Took off his leather gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. Gently, he cupped her face in one hand, her soft skin like a spur to his desire. He bent his head.
Her eyes closed.
His lips pressed to hers. Joy, need, an overwhelming desire to take her to his home in Zalgravia and keep her there forever, rushed through him.
Her hands grasped his shoulders. Her mouth opened with a desire that seemed to match his own, a taste of strawberry jam from their early breakfast on her tongue.
A shout from over by the stage broke through his daze, the officials calling the race to order.
Slowly, reluctantly, Max pulled back from Cally’s lips.
“I reckon they’re starting the race now,” she whispered, looking as dazed as he did, her hat, like his, now askew.
“I reckon so,” he whispered back.
“Good luck beatin’ me and Apollo,” she said, the imps coming to her beautiful eyes.
He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, then adjusted her hat, then his. “Good luck, indeed,” he said and turned her toward the racetrack.
Gracious , Cally thought, stepping out from between Apollo and Ares, her heart still racing from her kiss with Max. She would do better to keep away from him until the race was over, she told herself. He was too distractin’. His lips were too…
She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to run her fingertips over her own lips. His lips were too desirable, the feel of him when he held her too tempting.
She needed to focus on the race. She aimed to win another silver trophy cup.
Luke and Nick came over to watch the horses as previously agreed, so’s that Cally and Max could join the other racers to listen to the rules.
The mayor was standing in the center of the officials up on the wood stage when she and Max strode up—Mayor Watson, running things, as he usually did. An honest, outgoing, short, round man, who on occasions such as this got a bit puffed up with himself, he’d been in office going on for ten years now, folks real happy with the way he kept out of everyone’s business while keeping the town running real good, with decent roads, well-taught schooling, and a volunteer fire department that knew what it was doing. Dressed in a white linen suit, he reminded the race entrants—Cally looked around, counting ten racers, plus Max and her—of the rules.
“No jostling the other riders,” the mayor said as she turned back toward him, but not before catching out of the corner of her eye the sight of Evil Prince Hugo striding up to the back of the group, and her heart froze for an instant, remembering two days ago, when she’d been kidnapped and taken to the castle.
The memory sent a rush of cold through her veins.
“No lashing out at the other riders with your horsewhips,” the mayor said, squinting against the growing sun. “This is a friendly race, among neighbors. Any infractions of the rules will result in disqualification. Remember, you’ll be meeting your fellow contestants in town for the next year.”
Telling herself she wasn’t afraid of anyone, Cally peeked back around Max’s broad shoulder at the Evil Prince.
He wore his military uniform today, like he had all the other times she’d seen him, and the memories rushed back harder, and she fought a tremble of anger, and a bit of fear—the fear she’d felt in those moments when he’d accosted her in the bedroom that she’d finally escaped from with Max.
Max glanced down at her.
She gave him a fierce, determined smile.
The mayor raised in the air a small leather pouch, the contents of the pouch sending quiet clinks into the air. “The winner will receive ten double-eagle gold coins,” he called out, “compliments of Mr. Stubby Ogg?—”
Shouts and cheers rose for Stubby.
“—and this beautiful silver trophy, donated by Danner’s Livery,” the mayor said, holding the racing cup Cally meant to win above his head, the silver cup sparking like fire in the sun.