Tumbleweed Weddings (2 page)

Behind the main room, the former dining area had been remodeled as a children’s book nook. Callie wheeled her cart through the wide archway. She greeted a young mother with two children who were seated at one of the small tables.

After reshelving a dozen books in the children’s section, Callie pushed the empty cart back to the front of the library. On the other side of the mansion through double-wide french doors, she glanced into the conservatory. It ran the width of the house, with tall windows and plants—a comfy place with sofas where people liked to sit and read.

A loud guffaw drew her attention.

She frowned. Bruce MacKinnon and Vern Snyder were making way too much noise.
“You must keep the patrons quiet so others are not disturbed.”
Miss Penwell’s voice again.

Callie walked into the conservatory, folded her arms, and stared at the two old men. They didn’t notice her scowl. It was probably because her glasses, which her sister called “Coke-bottle bottoms,” made her eyes look big and round. Tonya said Callie looked like she was always about to say
Huh?

She did not appreciate her sister’s opinion.

Bruce held an open newspaper and pointed to the article he was reading. “Listen to what Herbert Dreyfuss says.” His
r’s
rolled slightly. “Wyoming is the best place in the United States to raise kids.”

“Now ain’t that a hoot?” Vern had a thin, high voice, but it was loud—probably because he seldom wore his hearing aid. “That Dreyfuss is a smart one.”

“Aye, that he is.”

“He’s so famous, and here he says Wyoming, our grand old state, is the best. Too bad his column’s only in the paper once a week.”

Bruce turned a page. “I enjoyed that article last Friday on the history of golf. Dreyfuss does good research. Made me feel like a boy again, before I left bonny Scotland.”

Callie cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but you two need to keep your voices down.” She motioned around the conservatory to the other library patrons—ten of them, some sitting on sofas and others studying at tables near the back of the room.

Vern looked at Bruce. “What’d she say?”

“Are you trying to tell us how to live, Callie Brandt?” Bruce spoke in a loud voice. “Why, I remember the day you were born, and here you are, reprimanding me about talking too loud in the library.”

Vern laughed. “Shoot! I remember when her daddy was born.”

Callie rolled her eyes. “If you want to talk, go upstairs to one of the conference rooms.” Several of the bedrooms had been modified into study rooms with soft lighting, tables, and chairs.

“A conference room!” Vern patted the sofa. “But the chairs up there are hard. We want to be comfortable.”

“That’s the truth.” Bruce shook the paper with a rattle. “All right, Callie, we’ll be good.”

Vern perused his paper. “You won’t hear another peep from us.”

Callie stood there a moment, but the two men didn’t move. Bruce MacKinnon had always reminded her of Clark Gable. He had a commanding presence and was still a handsome man, even in his seventies. As president of the town council, folks looked up to him.

She walked to the checkout counter, remembering another pet saying from the head librarian.
“I would love this job if it weren’t for the people!”

Callie moved behind the counter and turned her back to look at the reserved books on the shelves. If some of these people didn’t pick up their interlibrary loans, she would have to send them back to Casper.

Behind her, a patron placed books on the desk. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, shoving a reserved book back in place.

“Take your time.”

Callie didn’t recognize the bass voice. Must belong to that new guy in town. What was his name? It was an unusual name, nothing common like John or Tom. He had visited the library yesterday, and Miss Penwell informed her the man was an insurance salesman.

What is he doing in a little town like Fort Lob?
Young people didn’t move in—they moved out. The shrinking population, now fewer than five hundred, was predominantly made up of older folks, many retired.

She turned around. “Hello. Thanks for waiting.”

He smiled. “Sure.”

My goodness, he’s handsome!
She adjusted her glasses. This was the first time she had seen him up close.

Callie pulled the stack of five books toward her. His library card lay on top, and she glanced at his name before she flashed it under the scanner.
Lane Hutchins
.

While she checked out Lane’s books, Callie checked
him
out. He was tall—at least six feet—with brown hair and brown eyes and no glasses to cover his good looks. Nice hands—tanned and clean with trim nails—and no wedding ring.

No wedding ring!
Her heart leaped at the implications. But as she slid another book under the scanner’s laser, her shoulders drooped. Why should she get her hopes up? Her sister would probably snag him. Tonya just glanced at a man with her beautiful twenty-twenty-vision eyes, batted her thick lashes a few times, and he would ask her out.

Callie pasted a smile on her face, determined to be friendly. “There you go, Mr. Hutchins.” She pushed the books across the counter toward him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re new in town. Didn’t you just move here?”

“Uh, yes.” He picked up the heavy volumes and stowed them under one arm. “About three days ago.”

“I’ve lived here all my life, except the few years I was in college. The University of Wyoming, of course.”

He nodded and moved toward the door.

Callie didn’t want him to leave. “Do you have family here in Wyoming?”

He turned. “I grew up in Cheyenne. Have a good day.”

“So, where are you staying right now?”

He pulled on the doorknob. “Down the street.” The door shut behind him.

Callie frowned. “Down the street” could be anywhere in this small town. He must be renting an apartment at the Stables, Mrs. Wimple’s place. Didn’t she have an extra one available? Callie would ask her at church on Sunday.

She turned back to the reserved books. Evidently Lane Hutchins was the type who kept to himself. But time would tell why he was here. A person couldn’t hide in a small town like Fort Lob, Wyoming.

Lane blew out a breath.
What a nosy girl
. A warm, dry breeze lifted his hair as he walked the four blocks to the Stables. Why couldn’t he move to a small town without people asking questions? He had lived in other small towns, and most people didn’t pay any attention to him.

But Fort Lob, Wyoming, was the smallest town he had lived in during the past five years. It was number sixteen in his venture to live in a small town in every state in the Union. The thing that surprised him about this town was its fantastic library.
What a find!

The rumble of a muffler sounded behind him, and he turned as a black 1972 Ford Mustang thundered by. The kid behind the wheel bopped to loud music. His car backfired twice as he hit the brakes at a stop sign, and when he took off, the Mustang protested with a screech of tires.

Lane shook his head. Had he ever craved that much attention when he was sixteen?

Arriving at his new place, Lane opened the door beside the garage and took the inside stairs two at a time to his second-floor apartment. Mrs. Wimple had informed him that her apartment building used to be a horse stable, built by James Thomas Lob himself in 1878. Now the stables on the first floor formed the garage for the residents’ cars, and the rooms upstairs had been divided into apartments.

That’s what I like—living history
.

In the tiny kitchen, he set his books on the table and looked out the window. From here he could see Main Street, which dead-ended at the imposing Victorian mansion that housed the Dorsey-Smythe Library. The mansion was built on a small hill and towered over Fort Lob. Between the library at one end and the post office at the other, Main Street was lined with shops, including a grocery, a Laundromat, a hardware store, a newspaper office, and two restaurants. The residential streets—with names like Elk, Bison, and Bighorn—spread out from Main.

And that was the extent of Fort Lob, Wyoming.

A smile touched his lips as he thought back to the conversation he overheard in the library’s conservatory. Those old men sure liked Herbert Dreyfuss. In fact, everywhere Lane stayed in America, people spoke highly of the author and his articles in the newspaper.

He took a seat at the table and opened one of the books. “People enjoy your writing, Uncle Herb. Especially the old people.” He chuckled.

Then his mind drifted to the girl with the curly dark hair who had checked out his books. She certainly asked a lot of questions. But she had a pretty smile, and he liked the way her mouth moved when she talked. She might be attractive if she didn’t wear those thick glasses that magnified her eyes.

One of the old men had called her Callie. Callie Brandt.
Pretty name
.

Lane sighed, thinking of the lonely life he led. It was nice to have someone take an interest in him for a change. Maybe he would spend more time at the library… .

But no, he should avoid Callie Brandt and her questions. He planned to stay only three months in Fort Lob gathering information, and then he would move on. Hopefully, no one would find out who he really was.

C
allie stacked the older woman’s three books and slid them across the counter. “Two weeks, Mrs. Nielsen. They’re due on Saturday, August sixteenth.”

“Thank you, dear.” She placed the books in her bag and tottered toward the library’s entrance. Just as she reached for the handle, the door burst open, and Murray Twichell, dressed in his patrolman uniform, strode inside and almost trampled the woman with his polished black boots.

“Whoa!” Murray caught Mrs. Nielsen’s arms before she fell down. “Sorry, Mrs. Nielsen. Didn’t mean to run you over.”

Callie rushed to the door. “Mrs. Nielsen! Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Just startled, that’s all.”

“I’m so sorry.” Murray looked concerned and then seemed to remember he was part of the Wyoming Highway Patrol. He straightened, stretching as tall as his five-foot, six-inch frame would allow him. Placing his left hand over his patrolman’s badge and his right hand on the gun holster residing on his hip, he bowed slightly. “I sincerely hope you will accept my most humble apology, ma’am.”

“Oh, Murray.” Mrs. Nielsen laughed. “I’m all right. Really.”

Callie took her elbow. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, dear. You have work to do.” She exited through the doorway. “No harm done.”

Murray closed the door, and a puff of warm air wafted the strong scent of his Stetson aftershave toward Callie. He brushed a hand over his reddish-brown crew cut. “Whew! Every time I come to the library, I run into someone I know. This time I literally ran into someone.”

“You need to be more careful, Murray.” Callie walked back to the checkout desk, away from his overpowering fragrance. “The last place a person expects to be injured is at a library.” She pulled a book from the Reserved shelf. “Your reservation came in from Casper.
A History of Gunfights in America
by Herbert Dreyfuss.” She shook her head as she laid the book on the counter. “Well, if that’s what you want to read …”

“Hey, this is going to be interesting.” Murray picked it up. “Have you ever read anything by Dreyfuss?”

“Of course. I’ve read all his books except this one. It was just published. I’ll read it because I love history, but gunfights are not my favorite subject.”

“His research is amazing.” He pointed the book at her. “When you read history by Herbert Dreyfuss, you know this is not some piece of fiction. It really happened.”

“True.” She held out her hand. “Your library card, please.”

Murray unfastened the brass button on his uniform shirt pocket. “Why do you need my card? You know who I am.”

“I know
everyone
in this town, but it’s one of Miss Penwell’s rules. ‘All patrons must present their library card at time of checkout.’ ”

“Oh, brother.” Murray fished the card from his pocket and handed it to her. “By the way, Callie …” He lowered his voice. “I have some business over in Lusk this evening. Thought maybe you and me could have dinner and catch a movie.” He raised his reddish eyebrows then jiggled them up and down.

Callie looked straight across the counter into his blue eyes. She had always thought Murray Twichell looked like a leprechaun. All he needed was a green suit. “Not this week, Murray, but thanks for asking.” She scanned his book.

“Come on, Callie. It’s Saturday night. We need an evening in the big city.”

In Lusk?
“I have to work until six o’clock.”

“So? I’ll pick you up at six. I’m so busy with my highway duties, you hardly ever see me. When was the last time you saw my handsome face at this library? Three weeks ago?” He placed his right hand over his badge. “My heart yearns within me for time spent alone with you, my darling, and only you.”

Callie rolled her eyes. “You’ve been reading those poetry books again, haven’t you?”