The Cactus Creek Challenge Read Online Free PDF Page B

race down the aisle and hug Mary Alice. Her offer of hope was like a lasso landing on a longhorn mired in quicksand.
    “Thank you. That would be fine.”
    He consulted Cassie’s list.
    “Second Primer Class, come forward.”
    Nobody moved.
    “Second Primer Class, I said, come forward.” He planted his knuckles on the desktop and stood. “Enough of this foolishness.”
    Again, Mary Alice’s hand rose, slowly, halting about halfway up.
    He dragged his hand down his face. “Yes, Mary Alice?”
    With a pitying tone that reduced him to about boot high, she said, “The twins
are
the Second Primer Class, and you told them not to move from their corners for a whole hour.”
    By afternoon, he felt like he’d crossed the
Llano Estacado
barefoot in the blistering August heat. His head hurt, he was hoarse, and he couldn’t make sense of even the simplest lesson. The older kids’ grammar exercises had left him feeling like a complete fool as they instructed him on the proper parsing of sentences containing gerund phrases, and as for geography, why on earth would kids need to learn the exports of Brazil by heart?
    Just before three o’clock, he closed the record book and dismissed school. Today had been the biggest waste of his time since he didn’t know when. This kind of book learning might be all right for kids east of the Mississippi, but how were they going to survive in the West if all they did all day was spell long words and learn poetry?
    He glanced at the calendar. Only twenty more school days in April.
    This was going to be the longest month of his life.

    Cassie pinned the badge on her lapel and walked away from the school. That man could drive her crazy quicker than she could skip a rock across Cactus Creek.
Teaching was easy, was it? He didn’t need her advice, did he? Well, fine then. Sink or swim, Benjamin Wilder
.
    She entered the jail, or at least she tried to. The door stuck and ground hard against the floor. She had to throw her shoulder into it to get the rotten thing to even move. Glancing down, she noticed the deep, pale groove worn into the floorboards in a perfect arc. The hinges squealed as if being tormented.
    After the bright morning sunshine, she had to let her eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior. A musty fog hung in the air, lingering testament to dust, boot scrapings, and unwashed men. Grime clung to the two front windows, defeating the sun that tried to penetrate the gloom.
    She froze when someone in the rear grunted. A squeaking sound, like ropes being pulled taut, came from the cells. She’d thought she was alone.
    “Who’s there?” Fiddlesticks. Her voice had trembled. What kind of sheriff quaked at the first sign of something amiss?
    Another grunt and more squeaking. She ventured toward the dark cells. A shadowy figure turned on the bunk, his hat falling to the floor.
    “Is that you, Jigger?”
    “My mercy! What time is it?” He hauled his bulky self up off the protesting bunk.
    “It’s after nine.” The musty smell was worse back here. Cold iron bars, dirty blankets, aged straw pallets. When was the last time this place was even swept out?
    “Miss Cassie.” He grinned, his face pale and his beard jutting. Jigger hauled at his belt and smoothed his wrinkled shirt to little effect. “Sheriff for a month.”
    “So it seems.”
    “Don’t you fret. I can handle everything for you. Don’t worry your pretty little head. You won’t have to do a thing.” He swiped at his beard and ran his fingers through his wiry, unkempt hair. “Where’s my hat?”
    “There. And what do you mean you can handle everything?”
    Grabbing up his battered headgear, he scratched his armpit. “Just that. I reckon I can take care of the town this month, and you can walk around wearing the badge and raising money for your cause, letting folks pretend you’re the sheriff.” He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Ben told me what he expected of me, and it ain’t nothing I can’t