Tumbleweed Weddings (3 page)

“I don’t read poetry,” he scoffed. “I check those books out for my mother in the nursing home. Now come on, Callie. Let’s make it an evening on the town.”

She pushed his library card across the counter. Murray Twichell was the only guy who ever asked her out. They had grown up together, and when they were twelve years old, he declared he was going to marry her someday. But Murray was not
the one
, and she was tired of dating him every three or four weeks. “Sorry, not this weekend. I don’t …”

Her words died as the front door opened and a man walked in. Lane Hutchins? He was here yesterday—and the day before.

Callie smiled. “Hi, Mr. Hutchins. Back at the library so soon?”

“I’m returning these.” He set down the five books she had checked out yesterday. “I also need to research something and was wondering if you could help me.”

“I’d be glad to.” She motioned to Murray. “This is one of Wyoming’s patrolmen, Murray Twichell, and—”

“You new in town?” Murray stuck out his hand. He wasn’t smiling.

Lane shook hands. “Lane Hutchins. I just moved here a few days ago. I’m staying at the Stables.”

So, he does live there
.

Murray frowned. “What’s your business in Fort Lob, Hutchins? It better be legitimate.”

“Murray!” Callie felt like slapping him across the nose. “A person has a right to live in Fort Lob if he wants to, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Just doing my job.” Murray stretched to his full height, which still fell short of Lane’s by six inches. “The townspeople count on their cops to keep law and order. We don’t want any unsavory characters moving in.”

“I understand, sir, and my business is quite legitimate.” Lane had a serious expression on his handsome face. “People in a small town are protective of their community, and rightly so.”

“That’s right.” Murray looked at Callie. “Smart man.” He picked up his book and walked to the door. “Welcome to Fort Lob, Hutchins. See you later, Callie.” He exited the library.

Lane turned to Callie. “Was he carrying a Herbert Dreyfuss book?”

“Yes, the new one about gunfights. I had to order it on reserve from the Casper library.”

He nodded. “It’s only been out a few weeks. I guess you haven’t had time to buy a copy for the Dorsey-Smythe Library.”

“Well, that’s not the problem.” Callie looked down, shuffling some papers into a neat pile. It was hard to concentrate with Lane’s brown eyes staring at her. “Usually Miss Penwell buys all the bestsellers for our library—in fact, we bought all the other Dreyfuss books—but the town council put a cap on our spending.”

“Oh?” Lane folded his arms. “Does that mean you won’t be able to buy any new books?”

“That’s exactly what it means. They cut our funding, and we haven’t bought a new book in four months.” She motioned behind her at the thirty or so volumes on reserve. “I have to order books from Casper all the time now. And if they don’t have it, I call the library in Cheyenne.”

He nodded. “I grew up in Cheyenne with my aunt and uncle, but I’ve lived in other places more recently.”

“Oh.”
His aunt and uncle?
Maybe he was an orphan. “So were you—”

“Say, I need your help.” He glanced up the wide staircase. “Are your reference books upstairs?”

“Yes, let me show you.” She walked to the stairway. “What’s your topic?”

“I’m interested in Yellowstone National Park.”

Callie ascended the stairs. “In that case, I’ll show you the Wyoming Heritage Room. There’s lots of information about Yellowstone in there, and unlike the reference books, you can check them out.”

“Good.” Lane moved up to walk beside her. “I figured a library in Wyoming would carry a number of volumes on Yellowstone, and this is one of the best libraries I’ve ever visited.”

“Thanks to Mildred Dorsey-Smythe.” She didn’t mention how fast the library was going downhill—thanks to the town council.

They entered the former master bedroom that was packed with shelves of geographical books and local history tomes. Callie scanned the volumes as she walked down the aisles. Lane followed her.

“Here we are.” She pointed to four shelves. “Yellowstone National Park. You have a lot to choose from.”

“Wow.” A spark jumped into his eyes. “This is great.”

Callie wished she could stay with him, but her job of pointing out the books was done. “Let me know if you need more help.”

“I will.” Lane pulled a book from the shelf. “Thanks, Callie.” He opened the volume and began perusing it.

Her heart did a little flip as she left the room.
He said my name
. She almost floated down the stairs.

A redheaded blur, in the form of eight-year-old Kincaid Watson, barreled into her as she turned toward the checkout counter. Her daydream disappeared with the impact.

“Sorry, Callie.” Kincaid dashed out the front door.

Callie trudged to the desk. Who was she kidding? Lane would never be attracted to her with her ugly glasses. She would probably end up like Miss Penwell, working in the library her whole life as an unmarried librarian. Even if she saved up the resources to begin her dream bookstore, she would do it single-handedly—and single.

But Lane had never answered Murray’s question about what he was doing here. Was it to sell insurance? If so, wouldn’t he be handing his business card to every patron in the library? On the other hand, the citizens of Fort Lob didn’t need an insurance man in town. Everyone got their insurance over the phone through agents in Casper or Cheyenne.

So why did Lane Hutchins move here?

A
t exactly two o’ clock, Callie heard the regimented tap of sensible shoes striding toward her.
I could set my watch by her arrival
.

Miss Lucille Penwell marched into the library.

Callie moved to let the head librarian take her place behind the counter. “Good afternoon, Miss Penwell.”

The older woman pursed her lips, causing the skin above them to pucker into ripples. Her thin face and high cheekbones made her look like a skeleton, and the short-cropped gray hair did not soften her angular features. “How many reserved books were picked up?”

“Six or seven, I think.”

Miss Penwell adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. “You should know exactly, Miss Brandt. Did you make any phone calls to remind people about their books?” She pressed a few keys on the computer.

“Yes, Miss Penwell.”

The head librarian kept her eyes on the computer screen. “And how many patrons are in the building right now?”

Callie had counted five minutes ago, knowing Miss Penwell would ask. “Eight people are in the main room, four children in the book nook, eleven people in the conservatory, and one person upstairs.” She wondered how long Lane Hutchins would stay. He had been in the Wyoming Heritage Room almost two hours.

Miss Penwell scanned down the list of those who had checked out. “Only seven books from Casper were picked up. Why don’t these people come and pick up their books? Don’t they understand we have to order these from somewhere else? We have to send them back.”

Callie shrugged, knowing it was useless to answer.

Outside, a car backfired.

“Oh, that awful Spencer boy is here.” Miss Penwell glared at Callie as if it was her fault. “I hope he didn’t bring any of his friends with him. The last time they were in the library, they made so much noise that I kicked them out.”

Chance Bixby, the janitor, ambled toward the conservatory. He held a mop in one hand, and the front of his shirt was soaked, emphasizing his potbelly. He glanced at the two women and lifted his baseball cap an inch. “Hey there, Callie.” The light cast a glint on his gold front tooth.

“Mr. Bixby!” Miss Penwell folded her arms across her thin chest and stared at him.

“Well, hello there, Lucille. Nice day, eh?” He moseyed toward the conservatory.

Miss Penwell huffed out a breath. “A word with you, Mr. Bixby.”

He stopped and frowned at her.

“Have you fixed that hole in the ceiling of the main room?”

“No, I haven’t.” He began to walk away.

“Why not? It’s not going to fix itself. That hole is a danger to our library patrons. More plaster could fall and hurt someone.”

Oh no
. Callie let a sigh escape. Miss Penwell was looking for a fight.

Chance stopped. “No money. That’s why.”

“What do you mean? We have a repair fund.”

“It’s empty—as if you didn’t know.” Chance headed toward the conservatory.

“Mr. Bixby, come back here! I’m not finished speaking with you!”

Chance sighed and walked back to the checkout counter. “Well, I’m done. If there’s no money in the repair fund, how can I fix anything? No money, no repair. Even
you
should be able to understand that.”

Miss Penwell ignored the insult. “Then talk to the town council—”

“I’ve talked to them!” His voice increased a decibel. “And they’re taking their good old time trying to decide if the library’s worth repairing.”

“What?” Miss Penwell’s gaunt face paled. “Of course it’s worth repairing. Use your own money! Plaster can’t cost that much.”

“My own money?” Chance eyed her. “Do you know the little pittance I make at this job? If I didn’t have my pension from the army, I’d be on the street!” He looked at Callie. “You know it’s true.”

Callie didn’t want to get involved in the argument, even though she agreed with Chance. Her librarian’s salary was too low to live on by herself, which was why she still lived at home with Mom and Dad.

Chance looked back at Miss Penwell. “You’re the head librarian. Maybe
you
should pay for it.”

Miss Penwell pursed her lips. “I’m sure the town council will pay you back for—”

“Pay me back? Oh sure.” He slapped his hand on the counter. “In five years, they might get around to voting on it.”

“What seems to be the problem here?”

The three of them turned toward the voice coming from the conservatory.

Bruce MacKinnon strode up to the checkout counter. “The entire library can hear you two.” He kept his voice low. “I suggest you take your fight outside.”

Miss Penwell scowled. “We are not fighting. I merely suggested—”

“We are too fighting, Lucille!” Chance thumped his mop handle on the floor as he turned to Bruce. “She’s being ridiculous, telling me to use my own money to make repairs. Now where is
that
going to end, I ask you.”

Bruce’s eyebrows dipped. “But the library has a fund for repairs.”

“We have zero money in our fund, Mr. Town Councilman, but a certain town council is too stingy to—”

“Did you put in a request?”

“Yes! Last week! I talked to Ralph Little, since he’s the treasurer.” Chance shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word.”

Bruce sighed. “Ralph said nothing to me. But we have a council meeting tonight, and I’ll be sure to bring it up. In the meantime …” Bruce took his wallet from his back pocket. “Here’s some money to buy plaster.” He handed Chance a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

Miss Penwell’s eyebrows shot up. “Bruce! You shouldn’t give him your own money.”

“Aha!” Chance waved a thick finger in her face. “He shouldn’t spend his money to fix the library, but I can spend mine. Is that it?”

“I never said that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“You are putting words in my mouth!”

“Hold on, you two!” Bruce clapped his hand on Chance’s shoulder. “Let’s stop this foolishness. Buy the plaster and fix the hole.”

Chance nodded and stomped toward the back of the building.

Bruce leaned across the counter. “Now, Lucille, you have to stop these arguments.” His voice was low as he took her hand in his. “No one wants to hear you bickering.”

Miss Penwell snatched her hand away. “This is
my
library, and I’ll do as I please.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself, Lucille, but someday—someday
soon
—you may discover that someone else is running this library.” He glanced at Callie. “And that is the town council speaking.”

Miss Penwell’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”

He cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll gallivant over to the Cattlemen’s Diner for a good supper. T-bone steak is the Saturday night special.” He moved toward the door. “See you later, ladies.”

“Good-bye, Bruce.” Callie was glad another infamous Chance-Lucille argument was over. They always ended one of two ways: Either Chance would stalk off and Miss Penwell would purse her lips for a half hour, or Bruce MacKinnon would stop it. Callie was caught in the middle—she had to stay on Miss Penwell’s good side, but she liked Chance. He was a good janitor, and he was usually right.

She sighed as she stacked books on a cart to reshelve. Catching a movement from the corner of her eye, she glanced toward the stairway. Lane Hutchins descended, a huge stack of books in his arms.

He approached the desk and set the volumes on the counter.

Miss Penwell frowned. “You’re checking out all those books?”

He grinned. “I have more.” He ran back up the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

“He can’t check out all these.” Miss Penwell counted the books with her pencil. “He has eleven books here, and he’s going to get more?”

Callie winced. Lane was going to catch the wake of Miss Penwell’s bad mood. “But we don’t have a rule about how many books a person can check out.”

“We do for him! This man is a stranger, and who knows where he came from? My intuitions often prove correct, you know.”

No, I didn’t know
.

Lane descended the stairs with an equally tall stack of books. “This should do it.” He set them beside the other books.

“Young man.” Miss Penwell pursed her lips. “You may either go upstairs and study these in one of the conference rooms, or you may check out five books.”

Callie’s mouth dropped open. “Five books? But, Miss Penwell—”

“Miss Brandt!” The head librarian turned her frown on Callie. “You stay out of this. I believe you have some reshelving to do.”

Callie folded her arms.
I’m staying right here
.

“Now then.” Miss Penwell raised an eyebrow at Lane. “What will it be?”