The Bride's Prerogative (36 page)

“No,” Mary wailed. “He’s punishing me. Cyrus wanted a child of his own, but it’s never to be. God won’t let me give him that.”

Shocked into silence, Libby had listened to her weeping for hours. She had never told anyone of Mary’s words, but many times she had pondered them. Her own barrenness had brought on deep sorrow and feelings of inadequacy from which she’d never recovered. But Mary … something odd lay behind those words. Though she and Mary visited many more times, Libby had sealed her lips and never brought it up again.

Now Cyrus had come to her door and invited her to dinner—offering much more than that. She shivered. If God had another husband for her, she would consider it. But not Cyrus. Never would she tie herself to that unhappy family.

CHAPTER 2

I
sabel Fennel brushed back a wisp of light brown hair that clung to her damp forehead. A cloud of steam engulfed her as she drained the water off the pan of green beans she’d cooked for supper.

The spring term of school was drawing to a close, and she looked forward to the coming break. She found teaching exhilarating—except when Willie Ingram started cutting up. But coming home to her sullen father’s dark moods and having to prepare supper for the two of them tired her out. She found it nearly as exhausting as running the boardinghouse on Main Street, as she had for a few weeks last summer between school terms.

She set the bowl of beans on the table and opened the oven to spear the baked potatoes. When everything was on the table, she went to the hallway that ran the length of the ranch house. Her father had come in twenty minutes before and settled in the parlor to read.

“Papa?”

“Here!” His muffled voice and the rattle of newspaper reached her from the front of the house.

“Supper.”

She heard his chair creak as he rose. She’d begun to turn back to the kitchen when a peremptory knock sounded on the front door. Likely one of the ranch hands, though they usually came around back. She glanced at the kitchen table, laden with steaming dishes, and hoped whoever it was wouldn’t keep Papa talking long. A sudden reminder that most of the ranch hands were off on spring roundup sent her to the doorway to peer down the hall.

Her father shuffled out of the front room, glanced her way, then went to the door and opened it. “Yes?”

She couldn’t see past her tall father’s form, but she heard a deep male voice say, “Cyrus? Is that you? My, you’ve aged, h’aint you?”

She frowned and cocked her head so she could hear her father’s reply better.

“I … do I …?”

“It’s me,” the other man crowed. “Kenton.”

“No! Kenton? It can’t be.”

Isabel shook her head, thinking,
Well Papa, obviously it
can
be, whoever Kenton is
. She racked her brain for the name and came up dry.

“Come in.” Her father ushered the man inside and steered him into the front room. Isabel barely caught a glimpse of him, but she had the impression of a limping man about her father’s age or older. Cyrus Fennel was in his midfifties. This visitor must be someone he’d known many years ago, perhaps from his gold-mining days.

She heard their muffled voices but could no longer make out their words. Wondering what to do, she lingered. After a couple of minutes, with no one advising her and the voices still rumbling in the far room, she scurried about to cover the hot dishes with linen towels, hoping to save a little of their warmth. At least she’d baked a couple of extra potatoes, thinking she’d use them in a hash for tomorrow’s breakfast.

If she was expected to put on a company meal, some drop biscuits might be a good addition to the menu. She quickly stirred them up and popped a pan in the oven, hoping it was still hot enough to brown them. The kitchen was so warm, she didn’t want to add more fuel to the cook fire.

Ten minutes later, she decided the biscuits were as done as they’d ever be and was placing them in a basket when her father entered the kitchen with a grizzled man limping behind him.

“Isabel, I’d like to introduce you to your uncle Kenton.”

Isabel nearly dropped the biscuits. “My uncle?” She stared at the man. His wrinkled face and small, dark eyes held nothing familiar and showed no resemblance that she could see to either side of her family. His dark hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, and his spotty beard reminded her of the old coyote’s pelt one of their ranch hands had nailed to the bunkhouse door last winter. His shirt, none too clean, sported frayed cuffs and collar, and his scuffed boots had seen better days.

“Yes dear. This is your mother’s brother, Kenton Smith. He’s come all the way from back East, and he wanted to meet you.”

Isabel felt her face flush. If her mother had a brother named Kenton, she certainly had never heard about him. The whole scene made little sense to her, but she hastened to untie her apron and fling it over the back of her chair. Hesitantly, she approached the man and held out her hand.

“Mr. Smith.”

“Oh please, just call me Uncle Kenton.” He grinned, exposing a row of crooked teeth and a gap where one should have been on the bottom left side.

“U–uncle Kenton,” Isabel managed.

“My, what a fine young lady Mary’s little girl grew to be.”

His overly enthusiastic smile sickened Isabel, and she turned away. Snatching her apron from the chair, she crossed to her peg rack and hung it up.

“I’ve invited Kenton to take supper with us,” her father said jovially, but his mirth didn’t make it as far as his steely eyes.

Isabel walked to her cupboard and took down an extra plate, cup, and saucer.

“There you go, sir.” She turned to fetch his silverware, but he held up one finger.

“Uh-uh-uh. Uncle Kenton.” Again the sugary smile showed his neglected teeth.

“Uh, yes.” She threw him a fleeting smile and scurried to the chest of drawers near the door, where she kept linens. She took her time choosing a napkin for him and sliding it through a pewter ring. When she turned back to the table, Kenton and her father were waiting beside their chairs. She handed Kenton the napkin.

“Thank you, niece.”

Her father pulled out her chair, something he almost never did. Was he trying to impress her uncle?

She sat down and looked to her father expectantly. He bowed his head, and so did she. Though she didn’t peek to see if Uncle Kenton imitated them, she had the feeling he did not. Instead, she had the distinct impression that his gaze bored into her all during her father’s brief blessing.

“Amen,” she said on the heels of her father’s. She shook out her napkin and spread it in her lap. “So, Mr.—Uncle Kenton, why is it that I’ve never met you before or even known of your existence?”

Her father cleared his throat, but Kenton gave a low chuckle.

“I expect I can explain that. Your parents left the area where I lived before you were born, and I’ve never come to Idaho before. I did try to keep up a correspondence with my … sister, but I’m afraid we let it lapse over the years. My fault, really. I never was much of a one to write letters.”

“Mary did speak of you now and then, I think,” Cyrus said vaguely as he served himself some meat and handed the dish to Kenton.

“Oh, this looks mighty fine.” Kenton took a large slice of beef and passed the platter to Isabel. “Have you been keeping house for your pa since your mama died?”

“Yes, she has,” Cyrus said.

“I also teach school,” Isabel put in, aggravated that her father had neglected to mention it.

“You don’t mean it!” Uncle Kenton seemed tickled beyond expectation. “Little Isabel, a teacher. Now ain’t that something?” He accepted the dish of green beans from Pa and heaped most of its contents on his plate.

Throughout the meal, Isabel watched the man. Something didn’t add up. Her mother had been dead three years, but Isabel had enjoyed her company for nearly thirty, and certainly she would recall if Mama had ever mentioned a brother. Instead, Isabel was certain that Mary Smith Fennel had told her on several occasions that she had no brothers whatsoever, not even a half brother or a stepbrother. She had mentioned an older sister many times. The sister had died of diphtheria at the age of fifteen, when Mary was but nine, and she grieved over dear Leola all her life. But brothers? Nary a one.

“So you lived with Mama and her parents on the farm back in Waterville?” she asked as she cleared their plates and brought the coffeepot.

“Waterford, my dear,” her father said quickly, spoiling her attempt to trip up the guest. She’d thought it a clever ploy, but not with Papa there to catch it before the alleged uncle had time to open his mouth.

“Oh yes, of course.” Isabel turned a smile on the stranger. “You’ll have to forgive me, sir. I was born after my parents came west, so I don’t remember that place at all.”

“Think nothing of it.” Uncle Kenton picked up his cup and sipped his coffee, giving no indication that he intended to answer the question.

“Er … so you were Mama’s older brother?”

“By a few years.”

“Oh.” Isabel was certain that her mother would have extolled a brother who fell between her and Leola in age—as certain as she was that the Ladies’ Shooting Club met on Monday and Thursday afternoons. Possibly more so, since the club occasionally adjusted their schedule to accommodate funerals, butchering days, and the club president’s recent catarrh.

While the guest continued to sip his coffee, Papa scowled at her, his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle of his brow to form a miniature windbreak. His hard, gray eyes sent such a chilly look her way that Isabel shivered. She turned quickly away and set the coffeepot on the stove. After taking a moment to collect herself, she returned to the table, bearing half a mince pie.

“Would you gentlemen like dessert?”

“Oh, now that looks fine. Pert’ near scrumptious.” Kenton’s lips spread in a wolflike grin. “Yes, thank you,” said Papa.

She cut generous slices for them both but none for herself. She sat down again and stirred her coffee, which didn’t need it, and pondered the situation. When the men’s cups reached half empty, she jumped up and refilled them.

“Well!” Papa wiped his mouth with his napkin and threaded it through his napkin ring again. “Kenton, what do you say we go into my office and talk things over? Bring your coffee along.”

“Certainly.” Uncle Kenton rose, nodded to Isabel, and followed her father into the hall.

Isabel sat still at the table, her mind and heart racing. The men walked down the hallway to the small room Papa called his office, and the door closed. Of course, Papa had a larger office in town, where he used to have his assay business and where he now sold tickets for the Wells Fargo line. But he kept a room at the ranch house for himself—a place where he could smoke a cigar, or read, or go over the accounts for the ranch or for one of his businesses in town.

What was the man doing here? Had he truly come to meet his niece? Then why closet himself with Papa? And why had he evaded her questions?

She rose and put away the leftover food, washed and dried the dishes, swept the floor, and filled the water reservoir on the cookstove, but the two men did not emerge from the office.

At a gentle tapping sound, she hurried to the back door. One of the ranch hands stood there with an armload of kindling and stove wood. Five of their six hired men had ridden out that morning for the roundup, leaving only Brady behind to tend to chores at the ranch house.

“Come in, Brady. Thank you.” Isabel swung the door wide. Brady had been with them since before Mama died. Older than most of the other hands, he usually hauled firewood and water for Isabel each evening, as he had for her mother. She appreciated that.

Brady walked to the wood box and dumped his load of sticks. “Saw a horse out front. Your pa got company?”

“Yes.”

Brady lingered, and she knew he expected more. He wasn’t being nosy, exactly. After all, the ranch’s business was his business. Isabel wondered if he wished he was out on the roundup with the others, or if the middle-aged man was glad he didn’t have to sleep on the cold ground tonight. Regardless, she could see that he wanted an explanation.

“My uncle is visiting. They’re … they’re talking in Papa’s office.”

“That right?” Brady frowned but said no more about it. “Thought I’d butcher a couple of hens tomorrow, since we’re about out of fresh meat.”

Isabel trusted Brady’s judgment on such things. Judah, the cook, was off with the other hands to prepare their meals on the roundup, and he usually supervised the butchering. But with the warmer spring weather upon them, they’d used all the frozen meat and all the smoked hams and fish. Only a side or two of bacon remained in the smokehouse. But Brady would keep her in small lots of meat until the other men came home and Judah butchered again.

“Fine. I’ll be at school all day, but you can leave them in the lean-to. I’ll cook them when I come home.”

Brady would hang the chickens where no dogs or other critters could get at them. He nodded and picked up the empty water pail from beside the stove. “I’ll get you some more water and coal, Miss Isabel.”