The Bride's Prerogative (72 page)

Libby, too, hovered over the bride, brushing a bit of dust off Trudy’s powder blue dress. “All set?” she asked.

“Yes.” Trudy’s smile was more eager than anxious, and Hiram’s own butterflies settled down a little.

Libby held on to her own bonnet and ducked under the edge of Trudy’s astonishingly wide-brimmed hat to kiss her cheek. Wearing the same pretty pink gown she’d worn to her first dinner with Hiram, Libby made a perfect companion for Trudy. The two of them ought to sit for portraits.

“I’ll see you inside,” Libby said softly.

Trudy squeezed her hand and nodded.

Hiram realized the music had changed to a slow, solemn tune he didn’t recognize. Libby smiled at him and headed for the door. It closed behind her, and he exhaled. Wait thirty seconds—those were their orders.

Trudy adjusted her bouquet of wildflowers.

“Trudy?”

“Hmm?”

He sucked in a deep breath. What would Pa say now if he were here, not back in Maine at the boatyard? “I … love you.”

Her blue gray eyes glittered, mostly blue from the reflection of the dress’s fabric, but a watery blue. “Don’t make me all weepy now. I love you, too.”

He nodded and crooked his arm. She grasped it firmly, and he patted her hand. “Guess it’s time.”

They walked down the aisle slowly. Goldie laid on the trills and arpeggios. Ethan stood at the front of the room waiting for them with Pastor Benton. On both sides of the aisle, the people of Fergus stood and stared at them, grinning. Some of the ladies already had their handkerchiefs out. Libby had reached her position opposite Ethan and watched them with her chin high and her cheeks flushed. The thought that she was the most beautiful woman in the room caused Hiram a pang of guilt—but Trudy wasn’t far behind. His little sister had never looked better.

They stopped before the pulpit. Hiram stood between Ethan and Trudy as Pastor Benton puffed out his chest and began the “Dearly Beloveds.” Not looking over at Libby took all Hiram’s concentration.

When it came to the question, “Who giveth this woman in matrimony?” Hiram caught his breath. That was his cue. He gazed down at his little sister. Her eyes gleamed. He nodded and spoke up.

“Her parents and I do.”

Over Trudy’s head, Libby smiled at him. Hiram stepped back, placing Trudy’s hand in Ethan’s, and stood on the other side of his friend to act as Ethan’s best man.

As the pastor recited the vows, Trudy and Ethan responded as they should. Hiram couldn’t help imagining another wedding—one that would take place in the new church. And after that, a new life with Libby at the ranch …

Suddenly Ethan was kissing Trudy, and everyone clapped.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pastor intoned, “I now present to you Mr. and Mrs. Ethan Chapman.”

Hiram grinned as the couple walked down the aisle. Time for the reception over at Bitsy and Augie’s, with the Ladies’ Shooting Club serving cake and punch. He moved over and crooked his elbow for Libby. She smiled up at him as she took his arm.

“Well Mr. Dooley,” she murmured.

Hiram winked at her with his right eye—the one no one but the pastor could see, if he were looking—and straightened his shoulders. He and Libby strode smartly down the aisle and out the door together. Ethan was kissing Trudy again, right there in the street.

Hiram looked down at Libby. Well, why not, he thought. He bent toward her and kissed her, and a jolt of fire shot through him. But by the time the haberdashery door opened, they stood discreetly next to the bride and groom, ready to accept good wishes with them.

D
ISCUSSION
Q
UESTIONS

1. Given the constraints of their culture, were the women of Fergus right to insist on shooting against the men at the box social? In what other ways do the women show their independence in this story?
   
2. Was it unwise to allow the single young women to put their lunches in an auction attended by all sorts of men, some of whom were known ruffians? Should the organizers have taken steps to make the picnic safer and more pleasant for the women? Would the women have let them?
   
3. Hiram Dooley is a quiet man who believes it’s better to be silent than to put your foot in your mouth. Are there times when Hiram should have spoken up, but didn’t?
   
4. Gossip plays an important and harmful role in this story. How are Trudy and Isabel hurt by gossip? How can the Ladies’ Shooting Club enjoy their fellowship without letting their tongues harm others?
   
5. Ethan bides his time in courting Trudy—to the point of exasperating Hiram, who is also a slow mover. How does his delay hurt Trudy? Is there a right time to act? What can you do if you feel you’ve missed the ideal moment to strike in a sensitive situation?
   
6. Rose feels that Hiram and Trudy have grieved too long. They are uncomfortable when she decides to appropriate Violet’s clothing. How have you handled disposing of a dead loved one’s belongings? Would you keep quiet, as the Dooleys did, and let Violet’s sister have her things?
   
7. How does Libby’s secret grief over her childlessness color her memories of Mary Fennel? Should she have told Isabel what her mother said to her in the past?
   
8. The five friends, Hiram, Libby, Trudy, Ethan, and Griffin, agree never to reveal Isabel’s past to her. Are they right in doing this? If not, at what point should they tell her?
   
9. Though Hiram and Libby have been acquainted about twelve years, there is much they still don’t know about each other. What issues should they discuss before they enter marriage?
   
10. Ethan berates himself for handling the siege at the Martin Ranch badly. What could he have done differently? If you were sheriff, how would you have approached the situation?
    

For all the women who dream big—
and for those who wish they dared.

CHAPTER 1

Fergus, Idaho
October 1887

G
riffin Bane picked up the big bay’s foot. He stretched the gelding’s hind leg back and rested the hoof on his leather-aproned knee. Reaching with his long arm, he pulled a rasp from his toolbox. The horse had chipped its hoof so badly that the nails had come loose. As he filed away at the remaining clinches on the nails, a shadow blocked his light.

“Morning, Griff.”

“Ethan.” Griffin didn’t have to look up to recognize the sheriff’s voice.

“Scout lost a shoe. I wondered if you could tend to him.”

“Did you find the shoe?”

“Yeah, got it right here.”

Griffin glanced up at the worn shoe Ethan held. Bent nails dangled from the half-dozen holes on each side. “Front foot,” Griffin noted.

“Yep. There’s some bad footing out Silver City way. I rode up there yesterday.”

Griffin grunted, placed the rasp in his toolbox, and pulled out the shoe pullers. “Reckon I can do it after this one.” As he fitted the pincher ends under the edge of the horseshoe he was removing, he added, “Got to do the coach horses first.”

“That’s all right. I plan to stay in town this morning.”

“Is his foot all right?”

“I think so. He’s not limping.”

Hurried footsteps echoed on the boardwalk that ran up the street from the feed store. They pattered softly on the ground after they reached the spot where the walkway ended. Griffin looked up. The dark-haired girl from the Spur & Saddle—Vashti—scurried toward them.

“Morning, Mr. Bane. Morning, Sheriff.” She stopped a couple of yards away.

“Miss Edwards,” said Ethan, tipping his hat. Griffin grunted. Odd green eyes she had, almost like aspen leaves. “Miss Bitsy wanted me to buy her a ticket to Boise. She’s got business there and wants to take the afternoon stage, but you weren’t at the office.”

Griffin clenched his teeth and twisted the pullers, prying the remaining nails out of the bay’s hoof. The shoe came off, and he tossed it on the ground near Vashti’s feet. He reached for the hoof nippers and began clipping off the ragged horn around the edge of the hoof. “Tell her I’ll be up to the office in a couple of hours. I’ve got two horses to shoe, but I’ll be there in plenty of time before the stage leaves.”

“All right.” Vashti didn’t move.

Griffin clipped all the way around the hoof and exchanged the nippers for a rasp so he could smooth the surface of the hoof wall before he put a new shoe on. “You want something else?” he growled.

“No, sir. I’ll tell her.” Vashti turned away and hurried back up the street.

“Pretty thing,” Ethan said.

“I’m surprised at you, Sheriff, you being married and all.” Ethan grinned. “I said that on your behalf.”

“Ha.” Griffin finished smoothing the horse’s hoof and set it down. He straightened and tossed the rasp into the toolbox, then pressed both hands to the small of his back.

“You getting the rheumatiz, Griff? A young fella like you?” Griffin grunted. At thirty-five, he didn’t think he ought to be having old folks’ ailments. “Reckon it’s all the hours I spend bent over.”

Around the corner of the smithy from the livery stable came Marty Hoffstead, who had lately been working for Griffin, though he never had much to show for the hours he claimed he put in.

“Kin you come look at the brown wheel horse? I think he’s favoring his off forefoot.”

Griffin sighed. “I hope you’re wrong, because I don’t have a replacement for him today for the stagecoach team. I’ll come look when I finish this job, but then I’ve got to reset the shoes on the sheriff’s paint.”

Marty nodded. “Oh, and Ned came over from the boardinghouse. Says Bill’s got the heaves and he’s shaking all over. Doesn’t know if he can make the run to Boise this afternoon.”

“Wonderful.” Griffin lifted his eyes skyward and shook his head. “I’ll probably end up driving myself. Again.” He frowned at Marty. “You tell Bill if he’s not dead, he’d better be on the box of that coach at two o’clock.”

“I’ll tell him, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Marty walked away. “Looks like you could use more help around here,” Ethan noted.

“You’re telling me. Ever since I took over the stage line, I’ve been running nonstop. Can’t get anyone to work the forge, and I can’t get enough help running the livery. And keeping good drivers? Let’s not even get started on that.”

“Maybe you should advertise for help.”

“Maybe so.” Griffin scooped up the horseshoe he’d just removed from the coach horse and stalked into the smithy.

At half past eleven, Vashti scurried about the dining room of the Spur & Saddle with a wet dishrag, making sure all the tables were clean. Already a few folks had come in for lunch and seated themselves. Bitsy Moore, who owned the establishment with her husband, sauntered over to the table where Mayor Peter Nash and his wife, Ellie, sat.

“Good morning, folks. What’ll it be?”

Bitsy could charm anyone with her sunny smile. Though Vashti reckoned Bitsy was twice her own age—approaching fifty—she still showed signs of the pretty woman she’d been. Her reddish hair had faded, but she no longer dyed it. She wore one of the satin gowns she’d purchased back when the Spur & Saddle was a saloon, but she’d recently added a creamy lace insert across the top of the bodice. Bitsy had gone more modest since she got religion, and she insisted the hired help adjust their fashions, too. She kept her bright lip color and rouge and her flamboyant jewelry. Bitsy did enjoy decking herself out.

“What’s Augie cooking today?” Ellie asked. “Thought I smelled fried chicken.” Peter smiled hopefully at Bitsy.

“Oh yeah, he’s got fried chicken. Venison stew, too. Biscuits and sourdough bread. And we’ve got us some carrots and Hubbard squash.”

“I fancy the squash, myself.” Ellie smiled across at her husband. “Of course, Peter never cared for winter squash.”

“Bring me the fried chicken. You got potatoes with that?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor.”

“Good. And the carrots.”

Vashti scurried behind the serving counter that had been made out of the old bar. She poured two glasses of water. Bitsy paused beside her on her way into the kitchen to give Augie the Nashes’ order.

“Before it gets busy, could you run across and see if Griffin’s got the ticket office open yet? I don’t want to get there at the last minute and not have my ticket.”

“Yes’m.” Vashti delivered the water glasses with a smile to the Nashes and ducked out the door and across the street.

She hiked up her skirt and ran past the emporium and across the alley to the stagecoach office. The big blacksmith had shed his apron and was tacking a notice to the wall beside the door.

“Mr. Bane, Miss Bitsy sent me for her ticket to Boise.” Vashti halted beside him, panting.

He looked up. “Oh sure. Just a second.” He hammered a final tack into the poster and went inside. “You got the money?”

“Yes.” Vashti stared at the notice he’d posted:

H
ELP
W
ANTED
S
TAGECOACH DRIVERS
B
LACKSMITH
L
IVERY STABLE HANDS
I
NQUIRE WITHIN

She pulled in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside. Griffin sat at the desk, fumbling at the ticket book with his big hands.

“You said she’s going through to Boise?”

“That’s right. On business. Taking the two o’clock.”

Griffin wrote in the book and tore out the ticket. “Three dollars and six bits.”

Vashti handed over the money Bitsy had given her that morning. “I noticed that poster you put up.”

“Uh-huh.” Griffin gave her the ticket. He put the ticket book in a drawer and, in the process, knocked his pen off the desk. He bent to retrieve it.

“It says you’re hiring.”

He sat up and squinted at her. “That’s right. I need some more manpower.”

She ignored the
man
part and plunged on. “Mr. Bane, I’d love the chance to drive. I learned how when I was a kid, and I’ve always been good with horses. I know I could do the job.”

His jaw dropped.

“If you’ll give me a chance, I can take the stage through. I know I can, easy as pie.”

Griffin stood and stared down at her with such a thunderous expression that Vashti faltered to a stop and waited.

“You want to
drive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stagecoaches?”

“Yes, sir.”

He threw back his head and laughed.