The Bride's Prerogative (46 page)

CHAPTER 16

I
sabel dragged her feet as she walked toward the ravine. She wasn’t sure she wanted to face the other women today. Usually a shooting club meeting buoyed her. They were all so nice. But she’d had a trying day at school, and her family situation wasn’t helping any. She felt more like going home, crawling into bed, and covering her head with Mama’s tumbling-blocks quilt. The boys in her class refused to learn their lines for the closing program. And Papa drove her insane some days, though she loved him. Ever since he’d dug that mysterious hole behind the barn in the middle of the night, their relationship had carried a strain, like barbed wired stretched tight between two posts and ready to shear off and hit someone. More than ever, she wanted to get away from him.

But what chance did she have of that?

She might be able to get a school in another township for next winter. But then she’d probably have to live with a strange family. She’d certainly have to get used to a new town, new students, and a new school board that might want things done differently than she’d done for the past decade in the little school at Fergus. Could she adapt so readily? She wasn’t sure.

The only other acceptable option was marriage, and that seemed unattainable. A plain spinster with a domineering father didn’t command a lot of attention from bachelors. And if a man did come forward by some miracle, marriage would demand even more changes than a new school would. Maybe it was best she didn’t have the opportunity.

The other women had already gathered, and the teams were forming up to shoot the first round when she joined them. Starr Tinen was Isabel’s group’s leader. As usual, she looked as pretty and wholesome as a ripe peach. Everyone liked her, with her friendliness and a dash of derring-do. But on days like this, surrounding herself with beautiful, clever women only dampened Isabel’s spirits. She sighed and rested her handbag on the tailgate of Annie’s wagon while she rummaged for her pistol and box of ammunition.

“Bad day?” Starr came to stand beside her, smiling sympathetically.

“Sort of. The children are eager for school to let out for the summer break. I’m not sure Will Ingram and Paul Storrey will last another two weeks.”

“That’s rough. Are you ready to practice? We have new targets.”

Isabel looked toward their shooting range. “Ah. Those are clever.”

“Aren’t they? I adore them.” Starr giggled. “Trudy told me that they’ll keep her from sinning.”

“Oh?” The idea startled Isabel. “How so?”

“She says she usually pretends she’s shooting at someone she doesn’t like, and that’s how she aims so well.”

Isabel caught her breath, a bit startled. “Really?” Trudy was such a pleasant, friendly young woman.

Starr’s shoulders quaked. “Not seriously. I expect her idea of someone unlikable is John Wilkes Booth or the porcupine that gnawed into her grain bin.”

“Of course.”

“Well, Trudy’s got other things to think about right now, anyway.”

“Oh?”

Starr nodded. “The big thing is her sister-in-law. That Rose Caplinger appears to have set her cap at Hiram, and Trudy says he wants none of it. She’s cooking up a scheme to save her brother.”

“What sort of scheme?” Isabel managed a sketchy smile, but she didn’t feel the spirit of the plan or quite see the humor of it.

“She’s going to try to match Rose up with the blacksmith. Get her out of Hiram’s hair.”

Isabel’s mouth went dry. She could see her second nonoption evaporating into thin air over the distant peak of War Eagle Mountain.

Starr grinned. “Come on, let’s get you set up to shoot.”

Isabel supposed she could pretend the pronghorn painted on her target was Rose Caplinger. The very thought shocked her, and she quickly offered a silent prayer of repentance. She fired her rounds and squinted through the haze to see if she’d aimed well. The acrid smoke of the pistol she’d bought against Papa’s wishes left a bitter taste that lingered on her tongue.

When she left the practice an hour later, Isabel couldn’t stop thinking about what Starr Tinen had told her. The women of the shooting club, whom she had actually begun to think of as friends, planned to do their utmost to marry off the man she loved to Hiram Dooley’s shrewish sister-in-law. She couldn’t bear it. For years she had carried a secret adoration of the big, brawny smith. Griffin Bane was all that she imagined in a good husband. Unlike her father, he was forthright and plainspoken. No devious schemes for Griffin. He lived a simple life, open for all to read. Honest, hardworking, not to mention handsome. And he’d proved faithful in church, too, since they’d begun having church.

She marched home and straight to her bedroom. Papa wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours, provided he didn’t stop at the Nugget first. In that case, who knew?

She sat down on the edge of her bed. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. Had she made a fatal mistake in never revealing her feelings for Griffin? No one knew except her mother, and she’d taken the secret to her grave. Isabel had dreaded anyone finding out. If Griffin learned of her love and rejected her, she wouldn’t be able to stand the sorrow. It was better that he didn’t suspect. Yet she’d said nothing all this time, and now she stood a good chance of losing him forever. If she didn’t act swiftly, Starr and Trudy would throw Rose Caplinger at him. But if she let the facts be known?

The very idea terrified her.

She’d nearly told Libby a week ago when they’d talked about her father. If she had, would Libby have put a stop to this wild plan?

Tears streamed down Isabel’s cheeks. When she reached for a handkerchief, her hands shook. She gave in to her sorrow and buried her face in her pillow. She’d never really thought Griffin would come courting. But the notion that he couldn’t—ever—if Trudy Dooley’s plan went forward, opened a black chasm inside her. She sobbed with abandon. The knowledge that no one would hear her only magnified her loneliness. She cried harder.

Twenty minutes later, she sat up and dried her eyes. If Papa discovered she’d cried over a man who barely knew she existed, he’d tell her she was foolish, and perhaps he’d be right.

“Are you just going to let this happen?” she asked aloud.

Continuing to live unloved and unacknowledged suddenly loomed a larger danger than the humiliation she might suffer if she took action.

Before she could change her mind, she washed her face and grabbed her shawl and bonnet. She walked quickly the half mile to town, hoping the cool breeze would even out her blotchy complexion and repair the mottling her weeping session had caused. Instead of dissipating with the exercise, her indignation grew. When the livery stable came into view, she headed straight for it, not allowing herself to think about whether anyone else saw her. The townsfolk would assume she went on business for her father, anyway. No one would ever imagine her walking into a man’s place of business on a personal errand.

Smoke poured from the stovepipe on top of the smithy next to the stable, and she veered toward it. The sun would set soon, and Griffin would stop his work. She was glad she’d caught him before he left for the evening. The ringing of steel on steel beckoned her.

When she shoved the door open, he looked up from his anvil, where he was shaping a horseshoe. Despite the chilly May air outside, the smithy was warm, and Griffin stood near the forge wearing his denim trousers, leather apron, and one of the men’s cotton loomed undervests that Libby sold in the ready-mades section at the emporium. His suspenders hung in loops from his belt, and perspiration glistened on his noble brow. Isabel’s knees wobbled suddenly. She grasped the doorjamb and hauled in a deep breath to stave off a swoon.

“Miss Fennel. What can I do for you?” Her sudden appearance in the doorway of the smithy startled Griffin.

“What can you do for me?” Isabel’s voice shook.

“Does your father need something?” Cyrus had already been over here twice today to grouse about the quality of the new team Bill Stout had brought in for tomorrow’s stage run. Griffin had stood the man’s griping only so long. Then he’d told Cyrus it wasn’t his fault if someone had bought inferior livestock for the stage line, and maybe the division agent—Cyrus himself—ought to take over the task of buying the replacement horses. Then Griffin had politely but firmly asked him to clear out so
some
people could get their work done. And now Cyrus was sending his daughter over to bother him? He lowered the hot horseshoe into the tub of water by the forge.

The steam plumed up between them. Isabel stared at him with her pale eyes. She seemed colorless, standing there in her dress the hue of dust. Any tints her clothing caught came from the glowing coals in his forge.

“Mr. Bane …”

She swallowed hard, and his heart tripped. Was she bringing bad news? Her visit was unprecedented, and she wore an expression that bespoke resignation. Maybe someone had died. He almost turned to look at his friend, who sat in the shadowy corner to her left, but she began speaking again.

“I’ll tell you what you can do for me.” She squared her shoulders. “At the very least, you can notice I’m alive.”

Griff straightened with the three-pound rounding hammer in his hands and cocked his head to one side. “I beg your pardon?”

“Griffin Bane, we’ve been acquainted more than ten years, and I don’t think you’ve ever once noticed me.”

He tried to get out an answer to that, but no sound was capable of passing his constricted windpipe.

Isabel balled her hands into fists. “I’m a good cook and a woman of faith. Do I need to remind you that I’m also intelligent, or that my father owns a great deal of property? When he passes on, I shall inherit it all. Every acre. I may not be the handsomest woman in Fergus, but I daresay I’m among the most eligible.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes ma’am, I expect so.”

“Do you? Well then, do something about it. Or do you prefer to be sacrificed to
that woman
, so that Hiram Dooley doesn’t have to think about getting married?”

A sudden movement in the corner drew a startled gasp from her. Hiram leaped from his perch as Isabel whirled and stared at him. She lifted one thin hand to her lips and sobbed. Lifting her skirt, she turned and ran.

Hiram raised one hand as though to stop her, but she was gone. He looked around at Griffin. For a long moment they stared at each other. Hiram shrugged.

The quiet gunsmith’s bewilderment reflected his own, and Griffin began to shake. A huge laugh worked its way up from his belly to his chest. Unable to stop, he let it out in a whoop. Hiram’s eyes flared, but he soon chortled sheepishly. Griffin laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and sputtered on the coals in the forge.

At last he pulled his bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his eyes. “I ask you, what on earth was that all about?”

Hiram gulped. “I have no idea. But her eyes were kinda wild and scary looking.”

Griffin rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his eyebrows. “I don’t know what got into her. It was like … like a mare that’s been in the loco weed.”

Hiram looked toward the doorway and shook his head. “Don’t think she even knew I was here, at first.”

“Me neither,” Griffin said. “But what do you suppose she meant, me being sacrificed at your weddin’?”