Seventeen
Miranda set her pies on the checkered tablecloth beside the tags designated for her entries. The judging would take place in one hour. She mingled with the other women, many whom had become close friends. They exclaimed over other entries, fancy meringues, cinnamon-topped apple, berry pies oozing their sweet juices over the edges of the pans.
“There are so many more entries this year,” Miranda said to Hetta Grant.
“Oh, you’ll still win a prize, I just know it. Nobody makes a pumpkin pie that ends up as light as yours. Why, I could eat a whole pie in one sitting.”
Both women laughed, and they wandered to the table that held cakes. Hetta was older than she, a woman whose children were already grown. Miranda enjoyed their talks, enjoyed the woman’s company when she had stayed with her while Jake was hunting mustangs. He had captured the black stallion, his pride and joy. He had brought it to the auction just to show and advertise the animal for stud service.
Lloyd was with his father. The boy refused to leave the man when they were in a crowd. He was shy, but where most toddlers clung to their mothers in such times, Lloyd clung to his father. She knew she would have to get over to the horse-showing stands soon and take the boy whether he liked it or not, since Jake did not like him playing around the unpredictable stallion. She smiled at how excited Jake was this year about the auction. He had several quality horses to sell. They would make a good profit.
“This fair is much bigger than last year’s,” she told Hetta.
“Thanks to Joe’s advertising in San Diego,” the woman answered, putting an arm around her waist and walking with her to where handmade quilts hung on display. “I think the challenge involving your husband and the shooting contest is what brought a lot of these people. I notice there are a lot more men here this year. They probably want to know who Jake Logan is.”
Miranda felt a hint of alarm. “Did Joe use Jake’s name in the newspaper article?”
Hetta laughed lightly. “Yes. Jake didn’t want him to, but Joe thought that giving a name for people to look for would make it even more interesting.”
Miranda stopped walking and faced the woman, unaware that a bearded, blond-haired young man who had spotted her was running off toward a scarred Mexican who carried a big knife. “Hetta, Jake asked Joe not to use his name. He would have preferred the challenge against one man wasn’t even mentioned.”
“It’s all right. It’s all in fun, dear. Come now, let’s see if any of these other women can make a quilt pretty as yours.”
Three other women friends caught up to them. One, Betsy Price, was a year younger than Miranda and a newlywed. Betsy and Miranda worked together on church projects for the one-and-only church in town, a Catholic mission around which the little settlement had been built.
Desert had never been so busy or so populated. Baked goods, quilts, canned goods, and all sorts of homemade wares were on display in the town’s only street. Jake had joked once about it being called “Main” Street. Only Street is what it should be called, he had said. There were booths set up for children’s games and for adult games. In the distance some children played tug-of-war with a rope over a man-made mud puddle, their parents cheering them on. The weather was beautiful, and Miranda thought what an enjoyable day it was going to be. She had made a picnic lunch of fried chicken, which they would share with the Grants. She decided to ignore the uneasy feeling she had over Jake’s name being used in the San Diego newspaper, and she decided it would be best not to mention it to Jake. The town was full of strangers, but they all seemed to be good-natured people come to enjoy the fair, many of them probably here for the one-hundred-dollar pot raised for the shooting contest. Since there was a charge to enter the contest, even with the hundred-dollar prize, Desert stood to raise a good deal more than that from the entries; and to top off the day, she was confident Jake would be the one to walk off with the prize.
Behind her, the blond-haired young man was pointing her out to the Mexican with the ugly scar. A few people glanced at the Mexican, thinking to themselves how very ugly he was and not too sure he and the men some of them had seen him ride in with were the kind they wanted around Desert. The blond-haired man left, flagging down some more of his friends, and the Mexican and a light-haired, blue-eyed man walked casually toward where Miranda stood visiting with her women friends.
Somewhere in the distance a band struck up “Sweet Betsy from Pike,” and it was the last lovely memory Miranda had of that day. A strong hand suddenly came around her middle, and something poked her sharply at her right side, making her gasp. “Miranda Logan?”