The Bride's Prerogative (6 page)

Libby stared at her for a moment then swallowed. “I see.” She leaned over so she could read the case clock near the front door. “Florence, I’m going to get the cash box out and run over to Gert Dooley’s for a minute. You go ahead and get the ledgers out, and if Mrs. Harper brings eggs and milk around, pay her the usual rate.”

She went to the storage room, opened the safe, and took the cash box out. She carefully put back most of the money, leaving only five dollars in change to start off the day. After closing the safe door on the rest, she carried the cash box out into the store and set it on the shelf beneath the counter. Florence had laid out the ledgers containing the regular customers’ accounts and was now dusting the selection of housewares with a feather duster.

“I shan’t be long.” Libby tied on her bonnet and grabbed her gray shawl. She dashed out the back door and around to the alley between the emporium and the stagecoach office. A wagon rattled down the street, and a couple of people ambled along the boardwalk. She ran across and down to the Dooleys’ house, set back from the street. Gert would be up and about her morning work. Libby hurried to the back door.

Gert answered her knock almost at once. She’d tied her pale hair back in a careless knot, and several strands had escaped and fluttered about her face. If Gert would just tend to herself a little more, she could be quite pretty, but she never seemed to care about the impression made by a crooked apron or untidy hair.

“Why, Libby Adams, what are you doing here so early?”

“I’m sorry, Gert. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. Can you take a cup of tea? Hiram’s gone with Ethan Chapman and Zachary Harper to inventory Bert Thalen’s belongings.”

“No, really I can’t. I’m glad to hear they’re looking after Bert’s things. I just came to see if you’d heard the … well, I guess it’s a rumor.”

Gert folded her arms across the front of her apron. “A rumor?”

“Well, yes. That Bert was murdered.”

Gert shook her head regretfully. “It’s no rumor. That there is the honest truth.”

Libby raised her hand to her lips. “Oh dear. I was afraid of that.”

“My brother was at the jail yesterday when Ethan found what they’re calling evidence. Someone cracked Bert across the skull with a stick of fir from his wood box.”

Libby’s stomach went a little twitchy, as though she’d drunk a glass of sour milk. “Are they sure?”

“Oh yes, they’re certain.”

“Well, I … I don’t know what to say. Are we safe in this town?”

“Now, that’s the question, isn’t it? Ethan’s got no idea who did it, which means it could be anyone.”

“Anyone?” Libby licked her dry lips.

“Anyone at all.” Gert nodded firmly, and another strand of hair slipped from her coif.

Libby raised her chin. “If I bring Isaac’s pistol over here after closing time someday, can you show me how to shoot it?”

Gert arched her eyebrows. “Sure, I could. What have you got?”

“It’s his old Colt.”

Gert nodded slowly. “Oh yes. A Peacemaker, isn’t it? Hiram made a new walnut grip for that gun four or five years back.”

“Did he? I don’t remember. I never paid much mind to it when Isaac was alive.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t sold it by now.” Gert eyed her with speculation in her gray blue eyes. “You might feel safer with something like that behind the counter.”

“I sleep with it under my pillow.” Libby flushed as soon as the words were out. Would Gert think her a ninny?

“Not loaded, I hope? If you don’t know how to handle it, I mean.”

“I had Cyrus Fennel check it for me after Isaac passed, to be sure it was empty. He offered to buy it, but I told him I thought I’d hang onto it for sentimental reasons.”

Gert nodded. “Come by tonight if you want. We can shoot out back. Or we can ride out of town a ways if you want more privacy.”

“Thank you, Gert. I appreciate that.”

Libby bustled back across the street. Cyrus was opening the door of the stagecoach office and tipped his hat to her. Libby ducked down the alley and around the back of the emporium. Folks saw her as self-sufficient. Now she was one small step closer to being safe.

CHAPTER 7

T
here now, hold it steady with both hands, and this time, don’t jerk. Just squeeze gently.” Gert gave Libby an encouraging smile and a nod.

“What?” Libby cocked her head toward her shoulder. “You had me put wool in my ears, and now I can’t hear you.”

Gert leaned closer and spoke with exaggerated enunciation. “Gently. Take it slow and easy.”

Libby nodded and turned to focus on the target. Gert had hung a hank of knotted dried grass from a fir tree branch fifty feet away. She liked a bright piece of cloth or a slip of white paper for a target, but last year’s crop of grass stood up free for the taking. The dry stalks were pale enough to stand out against a dark background of woods or a black rock.

Gert placed her hands on her hips and waited. Libby took aim, wavered, straightened her shoulders, and looked down the big pistol’s barrel again.

“You’re taking too long,” Gert said.

“What?”

Gert sighed, leaned in close, and yelled, “The longer you wait, the shakier you’ll get.”

Libby raised her eyebrows and nodded, her lips parted as she considered the instructions.

“Put it down to your side,” Gert yelled, pantomiming the action.

Libby lowered the pistol. It nearly vanished among the folds of her dark blue skirt.

“Now, when you bring it up, do it all at once, and shoot when you first focus on the target.”

Libby nodded, but her eyebrows drew together and she looked far from confident.

“Like this,” Gert shouted. She turned to face the target, drew up her pretend gun, raising her left hand at the same time to meet and steady her right. “Pow!”

She looked over at Libby.

“Did you hit it?” Libby asked.

Gert laughed and gestured for her to proceed. Her pupil was far too pretty and proper to be toting a Colt Peacemaker.

Libby inhaled deeply, held her breath, swung the pistol up, and pulled the trigger.

Mildly surprised that she’d carried through, Gert looked barely in time to see a fir twig flutter down. Libby hadn’t hit the target, but she’d clipped the branch just below it.

“Good job.” They both laughed.

Libby dug the wool out of one ear. “I’ve only got three more bullets.”

“You shoulda brought more.”

“That’s all I had.”

Gert frowned. “Don’t you have more in the store?”

“No. I guess I should order more.”

“Yes, you should. Don’t you stock ammunition regularly in the emporium?”

“I wasn’t sure what to order for this gun. Isaac used to do all that. Lately I just reorder what people are buying.”

Gert grinned at her. “You’re just too dainty to be true, Libby. The bullets for a Remington rifle same as Ethan uses will fit that pistol, right as rain.”

A muffled shout drew Gert’s attention toward the dirt track she and Libby had followed out from Fergus after supper. Cyrus Fennel, on his big roan, had pulled up at the edge of the road and hailed them.

Gert and Libby both stuck their fingers in their ears to ream out the wool.

“Did you say something?” Gert called to Fennel.

“I most certainly did. I asked what you ladies were up to.”

“Just shootin’,” Gert said.

“I see that. You usually shoot behind your brother’s house, Miss Dooley.”

“It’s my fault, Mr. Fennel.” Libby advanced toward him, holding the Peacemaker at her side between the folds of her skirt. “I asked Gert to give me a shooting lesson off where the whole town couldn’t see. I guess we were close enough for you to hear us though.”

“I was on my way home for supper and heard a few shots. Thought I’d check to make sure everything was all right.”

“We’re fine,” Gert said.

Cyrus kept the rein short, and the gelding pawed the ground. The big man shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you ladies to be out here shooting. What if I’d ridden up on that side of you?”

“You’da been foolish if you had,” Gert said.

Cyrus glared at her. “Someone could get hurt. Miss Dooley, I know you’re quite the marksman—or should I say markswoman? But still, you don’t know who might be on the other side of those trees.”

Gert puffed out a breath. Where to start? Anyone could see they fired only in the direction of a steep dirt bank that would catch all their lead. Yet he insinuated that he wasn’t safe riding down the road behind them. Of all the nerve.

Before she could speak, Libby took two more steps, bringing her to within a few yards of the horse. “It’s my fault. I heard Bert Thalen was murdered, and I wanted to be able to defend myself if need be, so I got out Isaac’s pistol and determined to learn to use it.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t do for nervous females to keep loaded guns. You could injure an innocent person. Why don’t you let the sheriff worry about the killer, Mrs. Adams?”

Gert scowled. “What if the killer strikes again before the sheriff can stop him?”

Libby glanced at her and nodded.

“Oh, ladies.” Cyrus sighed. “Let the men of Fergus worry about public safety. I’m sure Sheriff Chapman will find out what really happened to Bert. If he
was
murdered, it was likely by some miscreant he tried to arrest. That person won’t hang around town waiting to be caught.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Libby said. “I do feel better knowing men like you are looking out for our well-being.”

Cyrus tipped his hat. “Good day, ladies.” He turned his roan and cantered toward home.

Gert looked at Libby. After a long moment, Libby’s mouth skewed into a grimace. “Nervous females, my foot.”

Gert smiled. “You’ve still got three bullets. And you’ve got more .44 cartridges back at the store, right?”

“I sure do.”

“Then let’s see if you can shoot that bunch of straw down, and then we’ll go home.”

That evening, Ethan slowly approached the Nugget. His palms sweated and his throat was a little dry, though it was chilly. He walked steadfastly, giving his sidearm a quick pat. His first visit to the Nugget had better not be on a rowdy Saturday night. Tonight would be bad enough. Best to show his face and let Jamin Morrell know he’d keep an eye on things regularly.

He hesitated before pushing the saloon door open. A sour rendition of “Camptown Races” plinked from the piano inside, and the fumes of tobacco smoke and liquor made him brace himself. Could his mama see him from up in heaven? He hoped not. Although his purpose in entering the den of iniquity was innocent, Mama most certainly wouldn’t approve.

He shoved the door open a little harder than was necessary, sending it flying back to bump the wall with a thud. Everyone in the Nugget swiveled and stared at him. The girl at the piano in the corner stopped playing and sat with her hands still poised over the keyboard.

Morrell had been leaning on the bar, conversing with a customer, but he straightened when he saw Ethan and smiled at him.

“Well, Sheriff. Welcome to the humble establishment.”

Ethan cleared his throat. “Evening, Mr. Morrell.”

“It’s a quiet night tonight.” Jamin looked over at the bartender, Ted Hire, who was wiping up a spill on the polished surface of the bar. “Ted, set up a glass for the sheriff.” He turned back to Ethan. “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”

Ethan stepped forward. “No, thanks.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Jamin slapped his temple as if he were the most forgetful old codger in Idaho Territory. “You’re on official business.”

Ethan didn’t contradict him, but they both knew he’d never darkened the door of the Nugget since it opened last summer. Jamin probably knew he never drank liquor. Morrell was sharp. Ethan figured he knew which men in town imbibed and which didn’t, and which ladies liked a nip now and then as well.

“Just stopping in to tell you to call on me if you need any help keeping the peace,” Ethan said. His right eye tried to twitch. He stared hard at Morrell, determined not to blink.

“That’s kind of you, Sheriff.” Morrell pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket, consulted it, and put it away. “You’re welcome here anytime. Mr. Tibbetts and I were just discussing how badly this town needs a doctor. Isn’t that right, sir?” He looked to the dust-covered rancher leaning on the bar for confirmation.

“We sure do.” Tibbetts upended his glass and drained it. When he set it down, the bartender refilled it without asking.

Ethan nodded. “Can’t argue with you there.” If they’d had a doctor when Bert was killed, the doctor could have looked at the dead man’s wound and maybe known right away poor Bert had been murdered.

“A physician would be a fine addition to the community.” Morrell settled again with one elbow resting on the bar.

“Need a bank, too,” called a man who sat at a small, square table holding a half dozen playing cards in one hand. Ethan recognized him as one of Cy Fennel’s stage drivers.

“Yes, indeed,” Morrell said. “That’s another thing that would help this town grow.”

“How about a preacher while you’re at it?” Tibbetts blinked at Jamin. “That’s what my missus is always sayin’. We need us a preacher.”

Jamin started to laugh then sobered. He flexed his shoulders. “Your missus may be right, Jim.” His eyes narrowed.

Ethan wondered what the saloon keeper was thinking. When a town got a church and a minister, it usually forced restraint on its houses of entertainment. Surely Morrell didn’t favor that.

Ethan glanced around. Besides Tibbetts and the poker players, only two other customers and the girl at the piano kept Morrell and the bartender company. The night was young, of course, but it gave him satisfaction to think Bitsy Shepard had kept the greater part of the saloon traffic despite the new competition.

Thoughts like that always muddled Ethan, since he knew deep down that any saloon was bad. As a nondrinking citizen, he’d avoided both and ignored their existence. But as sheriff, he’d need to make his presence felt and even cooperate with the owners to keep things from getting out of hand. Saloons being legal, he had to live with the facts.

But that didn’t mean he had to linger.

“Have a nice evening.” He nodded to Morrell.

“Come again, Sheriff.”

Oh, I will
, Ethan thought as he strode toward the door.
I surely will
.

As the door swung shut behind him, he heard someone say, “I dunno if the new sheriff’s man enough for the job.”

He stood still for a moment on the steps, fighting the urge to charge back in there. But he wouldn’t know who the speaker was, and besides, that wasn’t the way to prove him wrong. Only time and diligence would do that. He walked on toward the jail.