Free The Cactus Creek Challenge by Erica Vetsch

before was now barely enough to fill even half of each bread pan.
    Hoping the little girl wasn’t watching, he flipped the pans one onto the other and reduced four loaves to two. That should do it. Maybe Jenny would think he’d sold two others. Quickly, he shoved them into the oven next to the cake.
    How long did one bake a cake, anyway? Or bread, for that matter. He had a pretty good idea that it wouldn’t help to keep opening the door to check on them, so he busied himself wiping down the counter where the bread dough had sat and sweeping the floor again. It seemed flour sifted out of every crack and crevice of the room and dusted the floor when he wasn’t looking.
    The bell on the front door jangled, and he went to wait on customers. Hawkins and his crew filled the small room, looking as out of place as Carl felt.
    “Thanks for helping Mrs. Hart out. I appreciate it.” He decided to take the high road, though it still rankled him that he’d left her in that position—and that she’d chosen Brady Hawkins to help her out of it.
    “It was our pleasure.” Hawk squatted and all but pressed his nose to the glass, peering at the lower shelves of baked goods. “I believe I’d like that pie right there.” He pointed to a cherry pie with fancy lattice on top. “Boys, point out what you want. It’s on the house.”
    They took their sweet time, and every last man wore a smirk, winking and elbowing each other, whispering behind their hands as they checked out every goodie in the place. Carl was ready to toss the bunch of them out on their duffs, but he gritted his teeth and waited.
    By the time he’d served all eight men and they’d trooped out with their purchases, the bakery case looked like a horde of locusts had descended. How on earth was he supposed to fill it up again?
    As Hawk, the last to leave, opened the door, he turned and grinned. “I gotta say, Carl, you sure look fetching in that apron.” He laughed and scooted out the door like his tail was on fire.
    Carl looked down and groaned. He’d put the ridiculous garment on while he washed the dishes to keep his pants dry and promptly forgot about it. Smacking his forehead, he sank onto the stool behind the counter.
    No wonder Jenny—Mrs. Hart—had been laughing at him, standing like an idiot in ruffled calico right there on Main Street for all the world to see. He whipped off the apron, wadded it up, and as he was winding up to throw it across the room, something tugged at his pant leg.
    He looked down at the little girl who pointed toward the kitchen door. He sniffed, his heart dropping.
    “My cake.” Plunging into the kitchen, he gasped, inhaling a lungful of smoke, his eyes stinging. Wrenching open the oven door, he reached for a towel to shield his hand and yanked out the smoldering cake. The molten pan quickly heated through the tea towel and scorched his fingers. Yelping, he flung the pan at the dishwater where it sent up a gout of steam. Smoke continued to pour from the stove where the cake had overflowed the pan and charred in great dollops on the bottom of the oven.
    Sucking on his hand, he backed away, bumping into the shelf where he’d piled the muffin tins. They promptly clattered to the floor, scaring him into leaping away and barking his hip on the corner of the table.
    “Oh, my sainted aunt Jemima!” He roared out his pain and frustration. “Lord, give me strength!”
    The little girl gave a wide-eyed little squeak and bolted for the door.

C HAPTER 4
    M ortified and angry at herself for handling the brawl so poorly, Cassie gathered her pride and her skirts and threaded her way through the crowd now disbursing in front of the saloon. Her cheek and her tailbone stung after being knocked in the dirt, but her pride hurt the worst. Some of the dirty water had splashed her skirts, not that anyone would be able to tell, since the garment was damp and filthy from scrubbing the jail all day. Humiliation trickled through her. She’d been