The Bride's Prerogative (38 page)

Her father scowled. Any mention of the Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus put him in a foul mood. It was Isabel’s one rebellion, and she stuck to it with a bit of pluck that surprised her.

“I thought they met during school hours.”

“They do, but Trudy and the others agreed to meet at three now that the sun sets later. I appreciate their doing that for me.”

He said nothing but clapped his hat to his light brown hair. She thought him quite handsome with the touches of gray at his temples. Not for the first time, she wondered if he’d thought of remarrying. Of course, he had a built-in cook and housekeeper. Should she ever leave him, he had the means to hire someone to do for him, as he had hired the Thistles to run the boardinghouse and the cowboys to do the ranch work. Did he ever long for companionship beyond what he got from her and his male friends in town? Once she’d thought he’d eyed Libby Adams wistfully, but she didn’t know if he’d ever approached the beautiful storekeeper.

“I’ll be here for supper,” she said as he stepped toward the door. “You’ll be home to eat, won’t you?” It wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but she needed what information he was willing to give. The other would have to wait, perhaps forever. She would not dare ask.

“I’m not sure.”

She sighed as his footsteps echoed down the hall and the front door closed. Would he linger in town and visit the Nugget before he came home? She’d have to prepare supper and have it waiting in case he did show up to eat it.

The question she’d stifled several times during their conversation overcame all other thoughts and reared up, dark and threatening. In the darkness of the night, what had Papa buried behind the barn?

CHAPTER 4

E
than Chapman entered the jailhouse whistling. No prisoners, which meant he’d slept in his own bed and had a good breakfast with his two ranch hands, brothers Spin and Johnny McDade. The sun shone on Fergus, though a cool wind blew down from the mountain passes. The river ran high from snow melt on the summits. And Trudy was in her kitchen—he could smell her baking from next door. Gingerbread. With the wind out of the south, he was pretty sure he knew what he’d have for dessert at noontime.

The office, cell, and back room retained the same neat condition he’d left them in yesterday. Not much call to stick around this morning. When he wasn’t needed at the jailhouse, Ethan liked to walk about town to let himself be seen. His visits with the business owners reassured them that Fergus would remain peaceful. They hadn’t had a serious crime since last summer, when the Penny Man had kept them all on edge for a few weeks.

He turned northward first and strolled past the boardinghouse. Mr. Thistle, a one-armed Civil War veteran, worked at washing the windows fronting on Main Street.

“Morning, Sheriff.”

“Good morning, Mr. Thistle. How’s business?”

“Pretty good since the stage started running again. We expect some guests to come in today. Rilla’s fixing lamb stew for luncheon if you’re interested.”

“Thank you. We’ll see.” Ethan watched him adroitly wring out his rag with one hand, then ambled on past one of Cy Fennel’s vacant buildings left over from the town’s boom period and past the Nugget. The saloon was quiet now, but in twelve hours or so, things would heat up. Ethan would return then, with his damping influence on the party atmosphere. He could hear a rhythmic ringing from the smithy and crossed Main Street, since the Nugget was the last business on the west side of that end. As he stepped into the smithy, his friend Griffin Bane glanced up from his work and nodded.

“Ethan.”

“Howdy, Griff.”

The blacksmith hammered fussily at the edge of the hoe blade he was shaping, then plunged it into a tub of water. The sizzle and sharp-smelling cloud of steam comforted Ethan. Everything was right in Fergus.

“Livery busy these days?” he asked.

“Tolerable.” With his tongs, Griffin seized a new piece of bar stock and stuck it into the forge. “We’ve got two coach teams to switch out today.”

“So I’ve heard. That’s good.” When he went outside again, Ethan looked toward the livery stable, which Griffin also owned. The towering smith had bought it when the original owner moved on to a more prosperous town. For now, things looked quiet. The six-mule replacement teams for the stagecoaches were probably grazing out back.

Ethan wandered down the board sidewalk on the east side of Main. Beyond a vacant building was Charles Walker’s feed store. He stepped inside, hoping to see Walker, but an employee was there alone, counting bags of oats. Ethan said a quick ‘Good morning’ and went out again.

Next came the stagecoach line’s office. Cy Fennel was unlocking the door.

“Oh Sheriff, I was thinking of walking over to see you this morning.”

“You’re in town early, Mr. Fennel.”

“Yes, well, things are picking up now, and I have some book-work to go over. But I wanted to ask you something. Step in for a minute, won’t you?”

Ethan followed him into the small office where Cyrus sold stagecoach tickets. He avoided looking at the discoloration on the board floor near the stove, which marked the spot where a corpse had once lain. He didn’t like remembering that.

Cyrus sat down behind his desk and laid his keys and a ledger on the surface.

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

“I wondered if you know who owns the Peart place now.” Ethan raised his eyebrows, which made his hat ride up a little. “Frank and Milzie Peart’s land?”

“That’s right. Who’s the owner?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know.”

“Didn’t you have to contact the heirs when Milzie died?”

Ethan shook his head. “I reported it to the marshal and took an inventory, but I’m no lawyer.”

Cyrus stroked his chin. “Maybe I’ll take a look next time I’m in Boise. There must be an heir.”

“My understanding is that they had no will and no surviving children. When I went through Mrs. Peart’s belongings, I didn’t find any evidence that she had living relatives. No letters or anything like that.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Well, now that we’ve got us a preacher and a doctor, maybe we should try to entice a lawyer to come to Fergus.”

The idea startled Ethan. His pa had always said lawyers were more trouble than they were worth. And he wasn’t sure he wanted Cyrus poking into the Peart estate. Cyrus had already bought up more property in and around town than any one man ought to own. He cleared his throat. “I guess I could look into it a little more. Write some letters, maybe.”

Cyrus stood and hung up his hat. “Good. Let me know if you find out anything, Sheriff.”

Ethan was dismissed, no question. He turned and went out, but his complacency had wilted. Cyrus had that effect on people. And he usually got them to do what he wanted.

Across the street, smoke rose from the Dooleys’ chimney, reminding him of the gingerbread. Of course. Trudy. She and her friends would rise to the challenge. He would invite the Ladies’ Shooting Club to help him discover Milzie Peart’s heir.

CHAPTER 5

H
iram removed his hat as he entered the emporium with his sister shortly before noon. The smells of cinnamon, soap, leather, and vinegar hit his nostrils with a not unpleasant mix. Libby Adams kept the store tidy, and people tended to gravitate there to have a chat with neighbors and get the latest news.

Hiram hung back as Trudy approached the counter. His stomach rumbled because they’d put off lunch until after Rose’s arrival on the stagecoach, and he wouldn’t want the lovely Mrs. Adams to hear such an embarrassing sound. But he could watch with appreciation as she measured out a pound of coffee for Bertha Runnels. When Mrs. Runnels had paid for her purchase and turned away, Libby greeted Trudy with a broad smile, and Hiram inhaled carefully. Seeing Libby smile was as good as watching the sun rise from the top of War Eagle Mountain.

After a moment, he looked away and found some hardware to study, lest people notice him watching Mrs. Adams for an inordinate length of time. Couldn’t have folks drawing unwarranted conclusions, and Hiram was not one to go about staring at women.

“How may I help you today?” Libby asked his sister.

After Mrs. Runnels was out the door, Hiram sneaked another glance. Libby’s rose-colored dress set off her golden hair and blue eyes. She had to be at least his age, maybe a year or two older, but she was still the beauty of Fergus. Looking at her gave him the same lightheaded appreciation as when he’d first handled a .44-caliber six-shooter.

“I need some extra ammunition for this afternoon,” Trudy told her. “Don’t forget we’re meeting an hour later than usual so Isabel can join us after school lets out.”

“Of course. I’ll remind any of the ladies who come in this morning.” Libby took a small box from beneath the counter and set it down. “Anything else for you or Hiram?” Her gaze beamed across the room and caught him looking. Hiram gave a quick nod and turned to examine the hammers and pry bars on the display behind him.

“I’m sure there’s something I should be getting,” Trudy said. “Hi’s sister-in-law is coming in on the Boise stagecoach, and there’s bound to be something we’ll need during her visit.”

“Oh? You didn’t mention that you expected a visitor.”

Trudy gave a dry chuckle. “That’s because we didn’t know. She sent a telegram yesterday afternoon from Boise.”

“Oh my.”

“Yes.” Hiram looked over his shoulder in time to see his sister grimace. “I expect we’ll get by. Let’s see…. Maybe I’ll take some tea and extra sugar. Rose might not like to drink coffee.”

Libby fetched the items. “Do you have plenty of cream?”

Trudy frowned. “I’ll have to ask Annie Harper to send some with the milk tomorrow morning. Unless you have some …”

“I have a can in the icebox.” Once again Libby obliged and poured a pint into a glass bottle.

“I guess that’s all.” Trudy turned and beckoned to her brother. “Can you carry these things for me, Hi? I didn’t bring a basket.”

“Take one of mine,” Libby said. “You can return it later.”

Before either of the Dooleys could speak, she had placed Trudy’s purchases in a light carrying basket woven of willow sprouts.

“Thank you. That’s a lot like my market basket,” Trudy said. “Well, it was Violet’s, but I’ve used it ever since I came.”

The mention of his deceased wife reminded Hiram of Rose’s imminent arrival, and he glanced toward the front window. No sign of the stagecoach yet.

Trudy picked up on his anxiety. “We’d best get over to the stage stop. Thank you, Libby.”

“Will you bring your guest to the shooting club?” Libby asked.

Trudy’s eyes darkened. “I’m not sure yet. Though what we’ll do with her if she doesn’t care to go, I’m sure I can’t imagine.”

Libby’s gentle smile eased Hiram’s own misgivings on that very topic. He didn’t like the idea of sitting home with Rose while Trudy had fun with the club members. Unfortunately, gentlemen were not welcome at the club meetings.

“I’m sure things will work out.”

Trudy nodded. “I expect so. I’ve been praying ever since Hi brought that telegram home.”

Another customer came to the counter and stood behind them. Hiram glanced her way and nodded. Mrs. Storrey, her arms full of yard goods and notions, nodded back. Hiram reached for the basket.

“I’ll see you this afternoon,” Trudy said to Libby, and Hiram followed her out the door. He put his hat on as they gained the boardwalk and strolled beside Trudy toward the Wells Fargo office with the basket dangling from his hand.

Cyrus Fennel stood just outside his office door, looking anxiously northward, past the Nugget and the smithy, toward Boise.

“Good day, Dooleys.” Cyrus barely looked at them as he eyed the road and then his pocket watch. To Hiram’s amusement, he pulled out a second watch and compared it with the first.

“Stagecoach late?” Trudy asked.

“Not yet.” Cyrus’s lips thinned to a grim line. “That Bill Stout had better get the coach here in one piece. Folks have been waiting months for regular service to Boise to resume.”

“Still snow in the passes.” Hiram gazed off toward Boise, too, but he couldn’t see farther than the mountains beyond the end of Main Street.

“They got through on Tuesday.”

The only traffic on the north end of the street consisted of Ted Hire walking from the smithy to the Nugget, where he worked. Hiram set down the basket.

Cyrus eyed them with sudden interest. “Do you folks expect someone coming in today?”

“Yes sir,” said Trudy. “We look for Mrs. Caplinger of the state of Maine.”

Cyrus whistled. “She’s had a long trip. Relative of yours?”

Trudy glanced at Hiram, and he shrugged. It would get around town soon enough, anyway. They’d already told Libby, who was not a gossip but definitely a link in the Fergus news chain.

“Our sister-in-law,” Trudy said.

Cyrus’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh? That would be the late Mrs. Dooley’s sister?”

“Yes.” Trudy’s face brightened. “Oh look. Here comes the sheriff.”

Hiram exhaled, feeling extra friendship for Ethan for arriving in time to curb an awkward conversation. The sheriff emerged from Gold Lane, the dusty little side street that sprouted westward between the jail and the boardinghouse. He caught sight of them and smiled, veering across Main Street to join them. Hiram wondered if he’d planned to go to their back door and beg some lunch. A glint of sun caught Ethan’s badge on the front of his jacket. The tall, broad-shouldered young man did make an impressive figure of a lawman, and it was no wonder Trudy admired him so—though Trudy had lost her heart to Ethan long before he began wearing the star.

“Howdy,” Ethan said, mainly in Trudy’s direction, but swinging his head enough to include the men. A wagon rolled up the street, and rancher Arthur Tinen Jr. and his wife, Starr, stopped in front of the emporium.

“Hello,” Starr called, waving as her husband reached to help her down from the wagon. Trudy, Ethan, and Hiram waved back, and the Tinens entered the store.

“You got the time, Chapman?” Cyrus asked.

“Nope, ‘fraid not.”

Hiram looked up at the sun, where it hovered on the edge of a noncommittal cloud. Cyrus wouldn’t bother to ask him if he had a watch.

“They’re late.” Cyrus snapped the case of one watch shut and stuffed it into his vest pocket. “If Ned Harmon and Bill Stout were out drinking last night, I’ll fire them both.”

Trudy gritted her teeth, her eyes smoky gray. Cyrus chafed Hiram’s sensibilities, too. He arched his eyebrows at his sister in a silent signal. Someday he might do battle with the mighty Fennel, but today’s snappishness wasn’t worth fussing over.

Ethan stepped closer to Trudy. “Say, would the ladies of the club be willing to help me out? Mr. Fennel was asking me this morning about the Peart place. I may need to write several letters to get information. Do you think the ladies would be interested?”

“I know they would,” Trudy said.

She and Bitsy Shepard, owner of the Spur & Saddle saloon, which rivaled the Nugget, had served as temporary sheriff’s deputies for a brief time last summer, and the ladies took their duty to the town seriously. Ethan’s expression cleared at her ready acceptance, and he shot a satisfied glance at Fennel. Sometimes Cyrus wanted more than folks could give him, and Hiram knew some of the wrangling Ethan had gone through with the stubborn man. But if the shooting club helped, Ethan could rest easy. A heap of work would be accomplished, whether the ladies got the information he wanted or not.

But the fact that Fennel wanted someone to investigate the ownership of poor old Milzie Peart’s land troubled Hiram. He caught Ethan’s eye. Ethan nodded unhappily, but by unspoken agreement, they said no more in front of Cyrus.

Trudy pushed back a strand of her light hair. “I’m sure we can help if it’s a letter-writing campaign you need. I’ll mention it at this afternoon’s meeting.”

“Thank you kindly,” Ethan said.

A drumming of hoofbeats and a rattle of wheels pulled their attention to the north end of the street once more. Hiram exhaled. The stagecoach. He squared his shoulders and drew Trudy back from the edge of the boardwalk. She was apt to be so busy casting sweet glances at Ethan that she wouldn’t think to corral her skirts and get out of the way.

The coach had advanced up the street at a good clip and was nearly upon them. Cyrus stepped forward, still holding one watch open and glaring at the driver.

“Whoa!” Bill Stout pulled the horses up so that the coach door sat even with his boss. The leather straps creaked, and the coach swayed. The horses panted and shook their heads.

“You’re ten minutes late.” Cyrus’s harsh tone cut through the cool air.

Bill sighed and shook his head. “It’s heavy going through the passes, Mr. Fennel. I told you that day before yesterday.”

“I expect you to maintain the schedule.”

“When humanly possible,” Bill said evenly. “I hope we’ve got mules for the next leg.”

By this time, Ned, the shotgun messenger, had stowed his weapon and leaped down from the box to open the door for the passengers.

The first person to fill the doorway, in a flurry of lavender skirts, pleats, soutache braid, and covered buttons, was Rose Caplinger. The woman’s dark hair was swept up beneath a large hat, and her snapping brown eyes critically surveyed what she could see of Main Street. Cyrus stepped forward quickly, but Ned already had extended a hand to her.

“Watch your step, ma’am,” Ned said.

When Rose’s dainty feet in patent leather shoes hit the boardwalk, Cyrus edged Ned aside.

“Welcome to Fergus. I’m Cyrus Fennel. I trust you had a pleasant journey with the Wells Fargo line?”

“Pleasant?” Rose blinked up at him. “Not unless your idea of
pleasant
is bouncing over every rock in Idaho Territory at high speed and being jostled by a drummer and a herdsman stinking of sheep, while a quartet of Chinese miners stares at you from across the coach.”

Said drummer and shepherd were staggering out of the coach while the miners hung back; whether out of courtesy or intimidation, Hiram couldn’t tell. But the time had come when he must step up and rescue Rose from Cyrus’s arrogance—or perhaps rescue Cyrus from Rose’s ill temper. At any rate, he forced one leg forward, then the other, until he stood next to Cyrus.

Rose’s gaze lit on him, and the sour cast fled from her face. Her eyes softened. Her lips trembled.

“Hiram Dooley!” With only this brief warning, she flung herself at him.