The heat had been unbearable for the past two weeks, and most people had retreated indoors, with the lights off. Tempers were short, too, and so, in order to maintain public peace, everyone was keeping conversation to a minimum. Anyone dumb enough to say, "Oh, it's not nearly as hot as it gets in Missouri!" could be met with a hammer or even a shotgun. People in Hope Valley were friendly and patient with each other, but everybody has their limit.
Bill Avery had reached his limit, definitely. He preferred to look cool and unruffled, but after the fourth day of temperatures way above what seemed reasonable for Western Canada he found himself glancing at the gun cabinet whenever anyone came in to his office with a question, complaint or-God forbid-into the jailhouse wearing handcuffs and being shoved into a cell by Nathan Grant, who had forgone wearing hot red serge for a short-sleeved shirt and a sour expression.
The issue currently vexing Bill the most was that someone was pilfering stuff from the livery. Small items, mainly-curry combs and brushes, a shovel, a feedbag, a bridle, a can of black hoof oil, a saddle blanket and last night, an English saddle. Henry, finding the nighttime raids somewhat annoying, had commented that the thief only needed to lift a horse and he'd have a complete set.
Not that Bill was going to endure that. Small items purloined from the livery was one thing, but horse theft was still (at least on the books) punishable by hanging, and he didn't want things to get to that point. He hadn't looked at that section of the book in some time, but he was sure it was still there. He had already gotten into a small but pointed exchange of words with Henry about how there was still a weird law on the local books about how singing to a mule or mules after dark was punishable by ten days in the clink. Why Henry hadn't struck the law off the books back when he had been mayor of Hope Valley was a mystery, and Bill hadn't liked Henry's reasoning that mules already suffered enough.
Hot weather, short tempers, an increasingly irritable constable and stolen horse-grooming equipment were getting on Bill's nerves. He waited until evening before walking out to the livery, and he wasn't surprised to see Henry mucking out a stall. He frowned and waited for the man to finish and step out into aisle. He was sweaty and worn-looking, and not for the first time did Bill think the man should just retire and enjoy doing nothing from now on. But he also knew Henry was not a man who liked sitting around doing nothing.
"Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around lately?" he asked.
Henry rolled his eyes. "No, but I think a guy walking around carrying cans of black hoof oil and an English saddle might stand out, even to the RCMP." He put the shovel away.
"But do you have any theories?" Bill pressed, ignoring Henry's barb at Canada's law enforcement body. It wasn't as if his own dealings with them had always been particularly pleasant.
"Nary a one." Henry led a horse into the newly cleaned stall. "Young raggamuffins around here would be more likely to steal cars, and there's only, what, ten or so cars in town. A very limited pool there, and no horses are missing from the livery." He closed the stall door and carefully slid the bolt into place. "This one likes to escape and wander about sometimes. I found him at the hot springs once, eating flowers off some lady's hat." He scratched the horse's ears. "Knucklehead."
Bill frowned at the horse, then at Henry, and finally at the slowly fading light outside. The sky was turning purple between the horizon and the clouds, and the moon was but a tiny sliver. "All right. So... I think we'll set a booby trap."
Henry rolled his eyes. "All right. Whatever. But some boobies can be dangerous." He wiped sweat from his forehead. "I'm going home."
"Where exactly is home, by the way?" Bill asked. He still wasn't entirely clear on where Henry lived. Sometimes he was found asleep in the hayloft or in the little shed by the community garden.
"The hotel, obviously. I used to need a big house. Now... a small room, a bed, a table and a chair suits me fine. Who needs all that other stuff? Excess baggage." Henry grabbed his pork-pie hat and left, limping more than usual, which meant he was wiped out. Bill stared at the horse in the stall, then shrugged and went back to the jailhouse to collect items needed for his trap. All he needed was some rope.
An owl hooted, low and spooky, making a cold shiver go down Bill's spine. Which was pretty welcome, actually, since it was still so exhaustingly hot. He waited, watching and listening, cattywampus from the corner of the livery. There were no horses in the corrals, and the barn cats had finally stopped arguing over territory and had settled in for the night. A chicken clucked. The owl hooted again.
Bill tensed when he heard movement from inside the stables. He moved forward slowly, doing his best to make as little noise as possible. He crept through the slightly open doors prepared to turn on his flashlight when he heard a wooshing sound to his left. Yelping in surprise, he stepped back, ready to throw a punch at whatever was there, and it was too late when he realized he had stepped into his booby trap. Before he knew what had happened, he was dangling from the rafters, the rope around his left ankle, about six feet off the ground.
"Dammit... " he growled. He was spinning now, slowly, and when he finally stopped moving he was face to face with the blaze-faced horse Henry had told him about. The one who liked to escape from his stall and wander off. "Carbine!" he hissed at the animal, which squealed, ears pinned back. Obviously he had never encountered an upside down person before and so he stood, staring at him, utterly transfixed.
He was holding a curry comb in his mouth.
Carbine dropped the curry comb, but didn't look terribly guilty. In fact, at that moment, Bill understood where the term 'horse laugh' came from. The horse nickered and nodded his head up and down, clearly very pleased with himself. Bill wasn't the type to strike animals, but at that moment, he wouldn't have felt a twinge of guilt at giving a horse a black eye. But Carbine was too far away from him. All Bill could do was spin around again, very slowly, and sputter in outrage.
The livery door opened. Bill closed his eyes. Whoever was there wasn't the problem. It was the explanation that would be required that made Bill wish he had let Carbine go on burglarizing the livery as much as he liked. Bill wiggled a little so that he could turn in the direction of the door, ready to face the music.
It was Henry.
"All right," Bill said, mustering as much dignity as he could. "Go ahead."
Henry wasn't known for laughing, but Bill wasn't sure if loud cackling would have been better than such silent mirth. Henry was shaking, head down, one hand covering his face while using his other to brace against the wall. Finally, after several moments and recovering as much as possible, the older man finally worked his face into something resembling calm.
"Just hangin' around the livery, huh?"
"Get me down, Henry!" Bill commanded.
Henry shook his head, succumbing to laughter again. "This is too funny. I gotta go get a camera."
"No you don't! Come back here or I swear, I'll have you arrested!" Bill shouted. Carbine retreated into his stall, offended, and Henry-still laughing silently-made sure the padlock was firmly locked. He scratched the horse's nose, muttering at him in some language only horsemen knew, and finally nodded at Bill.
"I'll be back in a minute. Keep an eye on him, Carbine. The blood rushing to his head might make him faint, and that look of mayhem on his face could make him dangerous."
"Henry Gowen! Come back here! Don't you... dare... leave... oh, well... ugh... " Bill sighed, out of steam now that Henry was gone. He glared at the horse, who retreated into the murky depths of his stall. Bill crossed his arms, trying to look as calm and unruffled as possible for his rescuer (who he knew would be equally amused). He was hanging there, scowling at the upside-down world around him, when Nathan finally appeared. After a few moments, he pulled Bill down and undid the counterbalance carefully before untying the rope around his ankle. Bill dusted himself off and walked to the mayor's office to ruminate. Nathan said nothing whatsoever and returned to the jailhouse.
The owl hooted again. A horse whinnied from somewhere in the stables, and a pair of cats got into another dispute. Clouds covered the meager light from the moon, and Hope Valley slept fitfully through the rest of the night.
Nathan saw Henry sitting at the Queen of Hearts bar, reading, and ambled slowly over. The older man was always reading something, when he wasn't working in the community garden or at the livery or with Lucas. Frankly, he looked much more relaxed when not in a business suit, and was thus far more approachable. Nathan had never known exactly how to talk to Gowen. However, last night's turn of events might be a good icebreaker.
"Is the paper out yet?" Henry asked.
"I believe it'll be a little late this morning," Nathan nodded.
"I really wished I had a camera." Henry put the book down, dog-earing the page. Ivanhoe. Nathan grinned.
"I'm glad I did."
"Did you take a picture?"
"What do I look like, an idiot? I haven't seen Rosemary laugh so much. I thought she'd bust a gut."
"She's not the only one," Henry said, grinning and eating the last bite of his sausage. Nathan ordered breakfast as well and sat down next to the older man, and they chatted companionably. When the paper arrived, they read the front page story.
Rosemary had given it all due diligence and dignity, describing the events leading up to the incident with proper seriousness and straightforward facts. Judge/Sheriff Avery's comment on the matter was succinct: "The RCMP is pleased to say that the culprit in the recent petty thefts from the livery-a fine English Thoroughbred named Carbine-was apprehended quickly, with proper means of preventing future misbehavior applied, and the matter is now closed." The horse's owner, former mayor Henry Gowen, was quoted as well: "He's the best horse I ever owned. Fast, and smart as a whip."
The photo on the front page, with Bill's upside-down face as grave as though he were presiding over a murder trial, was much commented on throughout Hope Valley. Tempers cooled with laughter, and as night fell the clouds opened and rain began falling at last.