The Cactus Creek Challenge by Erica Vetsch Page A

fixed his sisters’ hair when they were little.
    The child stood by the door as if prepared to bolt, and he turned away from her, going about his business.
    “I think I’ll mix me up a batch of biscuits.” Dragging open the flour drawer, he measured out the right amount and dumped it on a spoonful of sourdough starter in the bottom of the bowl. “You know, I have me a little problem that I wish someone would help me with.” He kept his tone quiet and conversational, careful not to look at her.
    “You see, awhile back, I sold some feed to a fellow who was passing through town. He needed some grain for his team and his harness needed some repairs. Trouble was, he was short of cash. So, being the softy that I am, I took a horse in trade.” He scraped a spoonful of lard into the mixing bowl.
    “You could hardly call her a horse. She’s a dumpy little pony, shaggy and round as a pumpkin. Way too small for any of my customers to want to rent her. I suppose she could pull a pony trap if she was broken to harness, but she isn’t. And she’s due to foal any day now.” A little milk went into the bowl.
    Just as he’d hoped, Amanda placed her books on the counter and edged closer.
    “This baby is going to need a lot of care. It’s bound to be small. I just wish I had someone I could count on to look after it while I’m stuck here in the bakery.”
    Stirring the dough, he dared a glance Amanda’s way. She now stood with her fingertips on the worktable and her chin resting atop them.
    “Baby horses need a lot of caring for, especially if you want them to grow up liking people and not be afraid of them. There’s lots of training that someone can do before you ever put a saddle on a horse. Things like getting them used to wearing a halter and used to having people touch them, pick up their feet, mess with their mane.” He sighed. “I just wish I had the time. The sooner you start on something like that, the easier it is. And that baby is going to show up any day.”
    He plopped the dough onto the floured worktable and rolled it flat with the rolling pin. “And I wish I had someone who could run down there from time to time and check on the little mama. The guy who sold her to me called her Short Stack, but I don’t like that name. Maybe someone will come up with a better one.”
    While he went for a new baking sheet, Amanda edged closer, picked up the biscuit cutter, and began cutting rounds out of the sheet of dough. Carl hid his smile, but he couldn’t deny the burst of pleasure that shot through his chest. He’d needed to bake another batch of biscuits like he needed another head, but it had been worth it to build a bit of a bridge between himself and the little missy.
    The bell on the front door jangled. “Customers. I’d best go see what they want, though if it ain’t biscuits, they’re clean outta luck.”
    Alvin and Melvin Shoop slouched at one of the tables. Two bigger knuckleheads couldn’t be found in the state of Texas. Many’s the time Carl wanted to clang their brainpans together. At least Ivan wasn’t with them. Of the three, the oldest Shoop brother, Ivan, was the most cunning and dangerous. Lazy as a hound dog on a hot afternoon but sly as a rattler trying to get into a henhouse. He hadn’t been seen around these parts for a while, and when and if he did come back, it would be too soon.
    “We come to get us some cake.” Melvin shoved his shaggy hair out of his eyes.
    “Too bad. We’re out. Got some biscuits if you want ’em.”
    “I don’t want no sinkers. I want cake. This is a bakery, ain’t it? Where’s that purty lady who makes the cake?”
    The reek of whiskey surrounded them like a fog. The notion that they’d come into this place tighter than ticks raised his ire. What if they’d wandered in when Mrs. Hart was here alone?
    “If you don’t want biscuits, then I don’t have anything for you. And I don’t serve drunks. Get on out of here and sober up.” He crossed his arms