box out, the committee will carry it back to the stage and open it in front of everybody.”
Watching her pretty face, Ryan noticed her smile fading and a scowl taking the place of her earlier elation. Her hold tightened. She glanced at him, clearly troubled.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” he asked.
Julie was acting as if she was in shock. Flashes from cameras blinded everyone.
The TV crew had surged forward and one of them was shoving a microphone on a boom at the dignitaries. Someone was counting backward, “Three, two, one…” preparing to broadcast live.
“We’re here in Jasper Gulch for the unearthing of their time capsule and the mayor has just opened the vault!” a female reporter shouted into her microphone as the crowd began to rumble with an undercurrent of disbelief and astonishment. “Get a shot of that hole,” the woman yelled aside to her camera crew before returning to her broadcast. “They’ve just opened the sealed vault, ladies and gentlemen. It’s empty!”
Julie saw the reporter gesturing as the spectators pushed in around the site.
She held out her hands to Ryan and he helped her safely step down from the stump.
“What could you see?” he asked.
“It’s gone,” Julie told him in a hoarse whisper. “The vault is empty. The capsule’s been stolen!”
Chapter Three
Julie lagged behind with Ryan as the crowd dispersed, following her father and the rest of the centennial committee around to the front of the bandstand. She wanted to look at the empty concrete vault herself, as if needing proof that the time capsule was really missing.
“There’s no way anybody could find clues here now,” Ryan observed. “This dirt has been trampled by too many boots.” He was crouching next to the open hole while curious onlookers slowly passed by, whispering, pointing and conjecturing.
“I know.” Julie was more than disappointed. She was crushed. “What a shame. Opening the capsule was one of our main events. I can’t imagine who would have bothered it.”
Dusting off his hands, Ryan straightened. “One thing you might want to ask yourself is if it was taken recently or pilfered a long time ago.”
“I’d never thought of wondering why the dirt looked freshly disturbed. I just assumed it was loose because somebody had prepared the site for easier digging when the TV cameras were rolling.”
“That’s possible,” he replied with an arch of his dark eyebrows. “It seems likely that the theft occurred after everybody was reminded that the box existed. The old-timers who buried it in the first place knew what was inside. Folks today probably didn’t, unless that rickety old guy I saw you with earlier today was alive back then.”
His lazy smile warmed her and temporarily alleviated some of the tension. Julie began to smile again. “Rusty Zidek. He’s a fixture around Jasper Gulch. I’ll do you a favor and not tell him you just said he was rickety. He’s proud of being in his nineties.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Ryan replied. “If I were his age and still that spry, I’d brag about it, too.”
She grew pensive. “You know, even if the original records of the burial of that box have been lost, it’s possible Rusty remembers rumors from when he was a boy. It might be worth asking him. I’ll suggest it to Dad in case he hasn’t already thought of it.”
“Okay.” Ryan checked his watch. “I hate to miss any of this excitement, but time’s getting short. I’d better head over to the arena and see to my bareback riggin’.”
“Where do you fall in the schedule?” Julie asked, fully intending to watch him ride every chance she got, as promised.
“I’m fourth up in the bareback lineup, near the last in saddle bronc and the same in bull riding.” He grinned. “Guess the officials are saving the best for last.”
“Good to see a humble cowboy for a change,” Julie quipped.
“Hey, confidence is necessary if I intend to win,” Ryan countered. “You can’t be unsure of yourself and expect to stick eight seconds on a bucker, especially if it’s an eighteen-hundred-pound bull.”
She allowed herself to assess him for a few seconds, then said, “The bigger ones are probably a better fit for a guy as tall as you are. I imagine those small bulls are a lot harder to ride.”
“Especially if they’re slab sided,” Ryan explained. “It’s like being a contestant in mutton busting when you’re a kid.”
“That reminds me,” Julie said. “I have to see to the sheep I brought to town for that event. The children always look forward to pretending they’re big ol’ tough cowboys. It’s adorable to watch. I just hope my sheep don’t have nervous breakdowns.”
“What little I know about sheep, it wouldn’t take much. They aren’t the most intelligent critters in the barn.”
She huffed and planted her fists on her hips. “Well, they’re smart enough to stay away from wild horses and angry, bucking bulls.”
Laughing, he touched the brim of his Stetson. “You’ve got a point there, ma’am.” As he backed away, he gave her a parting grin that made her toes tingle inside her boots.
“I’ll pray for you. Okay?” she said.
“Whatever.” Turning on his heel, he left her without further comment.
As Julie watched him go, she pondered their previous conversations. Most riders she knew were pretty reliant on the good Lord to watch over them, and many could cite instances when they’d felt God’s protection, even if they’d been injured.
Apparently Ryan Travers was a long way from embracing her kind of faith. Julie sighed, disheartened by that conclusion. It was not her habit to try to change folks when they were happy being whoever they’d decided they were, but in Ryan’s case she’d make an exception. Denying God’s loving kindness and infinite power was bad enough. Doing so when you regularly risked your life was much, much worse.
Julie nodded and smiled at the accurate assessment. And he thought sheep were clueless.
* * *
For the first time in longer than Ryan could recall, he was having trouble keeping his mind on his work. He couldn’t have cared less about the missing time capsule; it was pretty Julie Shaw who occupied his thoughts.
“That’s not good,” he muttered as he stood on a metal rung of the narrow bucking chute and tightened the cinch on the surcingle that was the main part of his bareback rigging. This rangy pinto mare wasn’t called Widowmaker for nothing. He knew she followed a pattern around the ring that was not only erratic, she tended to change her tactics if the rider on her back got the least little bit off center.
Off center was exactly what he was, too, Ryan concluded, except his problem was mental. He could not only picture Julie Shaw as if she were standing right there next to the chute gates, he could imagine her light, uplifting laughter.
Actually,
