The Bride's Prerogative (8 page)

Gert swung the door open to the mild May sunshine and stared in surprise at her visitor.

“I want to join your club,” Bitsy Shepard said.

“Club?” Gert tried not to be rude, but Bitsy’s idea of Sabbath wear was one garter short of shocking, which made staring almost mandatory. Her deep blue satin dress, shot through with threads of silver, had been caught up over one knee with a rosette of ribbons to reveal a frothy underskirt of vermilion net. Though Bitsy wore a dainty hat with two bright feathers curled down over her left eyebrow, it didn’t detract from the effect of her low-cut bodice. Gert cast a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure Bitsy was out of Hiram’s line of vision. “Did you say ‘club’?”

“Yes. I heard you have a shooting club for ladies.”

The question of whether Bitsy would qualify to join any association for ladies barely grazed Gert’s mind. It was the word
club
that seized her attention.

“Oh, it’s only me and one or two others. Mrs. Adams wanted to learn to handle her husband’s pistol after Sheriff Thalen was killed, and then a couple of ranchers’ wives joined us to practice loading and shooting, what with all the petty thievery that’s been going on lately. It’s not a club.”

“I don’t care what you call it. I want in.” Bitsy’s deep red lips quivered, and Gert realized two things. Bitsy was upset, and her lips matched her underskirt.

She glanced once more toward her brother’s chair. Hiram, bless his heart, must have overheard enough to realize who had come calling. He’d taken his gunstock and sandpaper and retreated to his bedchamber. Gert inhaled deeply and stepped back.

“Would you like to step in for a minute, Bitsy?”

For the first time, Gert admitted a saloon girl to her home. Of course Bitsy was more than a saloon girl, some might argue. As owner of the Spur & Saddle, she was a businesswoman, the same as Libby Adams. Even as she thought as much, Gert knew comparing Bitsy and Libby was inherently wrong.

“Do you have a weapon?” she asked.

Bitsy hiked her skirts up even farther and leaned over to disengage something from a loose pocket hanging between her petticoat and net underskirt. She straightened, tossing the dark hair back from her powdered brow, jeopardizing the stability of her hat. The feathers quivered next to her temple.

“I’ve had this since I was fourteen.” She held out a pistol not much larger than the palm of her hand.

Gert stared at it for a moment. “May I?”

“Sure.”

Bitsy surrendered it, and Gert walked over to the window to hold it up in the light. The beautiful little gun had a black walnut stock, smoothly curved into a bird’s-head shape. The round barrel, only about three inches long, was flattened along the top. Silver fittings on the stock bore engraved swirls and the gun maker’s name.

“I don’t know’s I’ve ever seen a genuine Deringer before.” Gert held it tenderly and gazed at the big hammer spur and the low sight on the end of the engraved barrel.

“Oh? I thought they were pretty common.” Bitsy stepped closer.

Gert looked up at her quickly. “Would you mind if I showed this to Hiram?”

“Well … no, I guess not. There’s nothing wrong with it though. I just don’t have any ammunition for it. Haven’t shot it in years. I figure it’s time I brushed up my shooting skills.”

“You’re not the only one who feels that way.”

“Well, with Bert being killed in broad daylight …” Bitsy choked a little, and Gert wondered just how close Bitsy and Bert had been.

“I think my brother would like to see this.” Gert crossed to Hiram’s bedroom door and tapped on the pine panel. “Hi? Can you come out and look at a pistol?”

A moment later, he opened the door a crack and peered out at her, eyebrows arched in skepticism.

“Miss Shepard’s got a gun for you to look at.”

Hiram opened the door a little farther and shuffled into the room, looking everywhere but at Bitsy. Gert stuck the pistol into his hand. He gave a curt nod in the general direction of their visitor without ever making eye contact and gave his attention to the gun.

Gert watched his face. She could tell by the way he inhaled slowly, his lips slightly parted, that he’d fallen in love. He cradled the weapon tenderly and examined it from both sides. He rubbed the cross-hatched lines carved into the butt and stroked the iron barrel—round at the front, octagonal where it fit precisely into the stock. He opened the lock and peered into the breach.

At last he looked up at Gert and smiled.

Gert touched his arm gently and turned to Bitsy.

“My brother says it’s the real thing, made by …” She glanced back at her brother. “What was his first name?”

“Henry,” said Hiram.

“That’s it. Henry Deringer Jr. of Philadelphia. Most of the ones you see nowadays weren’t really made by him, and they’re not nearly so nice.”

“Can I get bullets for it?” Bitsy asked.

Hiram nodded.

“It’s a percussion pistol,” Gert said, frowning. “Most of the newer ones they
call
derringers take cartridges. But I’m sure we can fix you up. If Libby Adams doesn’t have what you need at the emporium, you can ask her to order it. I know she has powder, caps, and patches. Or you can make your patches. But it looks like a large caliber to me.” She looked to Hiram.

He nodded. “Fifty-one.”

“Ouch,” Gert said with a smile. “You don’t have a mold that size, do you, Hi?”

Her brother shook his head.

“What does that mean?” Bitsy took a step toward them, and Hiram stood his ground but pulled his shoulders back a little. “It takes an odd-sized bullet,” Gert said. “Libby might have some lead balls that size, but I doubt it. Where’d you get fixin’s for it before?”

“A friend brought me some. But that was in St. Joe, years and years ago. Like I said, I haven’t used this since I came to the territory. I’ve … let Augie handle any roughnecks lately.”

Gert shrugged. “Well, one way or another, we should be able to fix you up.”

Bitsy eyed Hiram up and down, and this time he did step back. “Do you know anyone else in town with that size firearm?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“If anyone had one, he’d know it,” Gert said.

“Maybe I should buy another gun.” Bitsy raised a hand and brushed her hair off her brow, setting the feathers dancing.

Gert felt a soft touch on her sleeve. “What is it, Hi?”

He held the little pistol up and gazed meaningfully into her eyes.

Gert smiled and said to Bitsy, “My brother says, will you sell the Deringer? He’d like to buy it.”

Bitsy blinked her artificially long lashes and turned her gaze on Hiram. “He said all that?”

Hiram’s face flushed, and Gert suppressed her annoyance. Bitsy had lived in Fergus long enough to know Hiram rarely spoke the way other people did.

“Yes. If you’re interested, he’ll make you an offer. Maybe enough so you could buy a new revolver.”

Bitsy smiled. “Sorry. I’d keep it even if I couldn’t get the bullets for it. It was given to me by—” She stopped and shrugged. “Sentimental value, you might say.”

Hiram nodded and handed the Deringer to Gert, though Bitsy was only two feet away. He turned and oozed back into his room, closing the door quietly.

Bitsy stared after him. She opened her mouth as though to speak and then shook her head. “Well, then, I need some bullets.”

“Libby’s closed today for the Sabbath,” Gert said. “You can ask her tomorrow. If she doesn’t have them, she can order them from Boise.”

“All right, thanks. And may I shoot with you and your friends?”

Gert looked over Bitsy’s colorful costume and knew she had to make the decision at once and not back down. What would Libby say? That was easy. Gert wasn’t so sure about Emmaline Landry.

“Of course. We’re meeting here tomorrow afternoon at two. We’ve been riding out of town so’s people don’t complain about the noise.”

“Do I need a horse?”

Gert couldn’t imagine Bitsy riding astride in one of her flimsy outfits. “Maybe we can get a wagon from Griff Bane this time. If you want to come regular, we’ll work something out.” She passed the small pistol to Bitsy.

“Thanks.” Bitsy hiked up her skirt and stuck the Deringer in her pocket. “I should probably tell you, I’m not just doing this because I’m scared. I do have employees who can take care of me and my place if I need ‘em to. But I heard Cy Fennel and some of the other men have been grousing about you and your friends taking up shooting.”

Gert stared at her. “Mr. Fennel? What does he care?”

“He thinks it’s not ladylike. And he’s not just been saying it. He’s been saying it over at the Nugget.”

“Ah.” Gert began to see the light. The saloon that comprised Bitsy’s competition had begun harboring men who complained about independent women. She’d never considered Bitsy a friend, but in that moment, she felt a streak of sisterhood toward her. Anyone who disliked Cy Fennel must have other good points as well. “You’re welcome to come shoot with us anytime. Anytime at all.”

CHAPTER 9

E
than took a quick ride around his pastures Monday morning. His herd of Hereford-cross cattle seemed to be doing all right, though he’d paid them little attention for the past week. He’d have to plant his garden soon and brand his spring calves. Then it would be time to cut hay, and his barn roof needed some work. His whole place would go to ruin if he didn’t give it some care.

He looked around and with a sigh turned Scout toward the road to Fergus. He hated to head in to town again, but his conscience wouldn’t let him stay at the ranch and feel comfortable. Someone in the town always seemed to want the sheriff’s attention. Saturday nights had taken the starch right out of him, having to haunt the two saloons. And what about finding out who had killed Bert Thalen? He’d thought about it many times but seemed no closer to learning the truth.

At least they’d completed the inventory of everything of value in the house, woodshed, and barn, and gotten that in the mail to Bert’s son. Ethan and Hiram had cleaned the food out of Bert’s house, boarded up the windows, and put a lock on the front door to keep vandals out. So many details to consider. And the marshal in Boise was no help as far as the murder went. He’d sent word to carry on. What did that mean?

Ethan wondered what Mayor Walker would say if he told him he didn’t want to be sheriff any longer. Maybe he should up and quit.

At midmorning he tied the paint gelding to the hitching rail in front of the jail. His gaze swept the main street. He was surprised to see Gert and Bitsy enter the emporium together. He’d never known Gert to socialize with the saloonkeeper. Not that Bitsy was a bad sort; she just wasn’t …

The blood rushed to his cheeks. Bitsy was the type of woman his mother had taught him to stay away from. Gert, on the other hand, while neither wealthy nor elegant, was nevertheless a lady. What would bring those two together?

His curiosity got the better of him, and he crossed the street and edged through the door to the Paragon Emporium. Libby Adams stood behind the counter, showing something to Gert and Bitsy. Both seemed riveted by whatever it was she displayed.

Mrs. Adams’s shop girl, Florence, kept busy at the far end of the store, arranging items on the shelves. Three or four other customers browsed, and Ethan decided he could imitate them and hear the ladies’ conversation. He spotted a harness hanging on the front wall and hastened to stand near it, with his back to the counter.

“Yes, I can get a supply of lead balls for you,” Libby said. “Are you sure you don’t want to get one of the new cartridge pistols?”

Bitsy said, “Hiram Dooley seemed to think this was a wellmade gun and would work fine.”

“That’s right,” Gert put in. “And when you get the ammunition, we can test fire it for you if you like, just to make sure.”

“All right. Let’s order some lead then.”

Bitsy’s cocky laugh carried throughout the store, and a man who’d been reading labels on packets of garden seeds looked toward the counter. Ethan forced himself to study the tooled leather headstall on a bridle. That would look fine on old Scout.

“You know,” Gert said, “you might want to lay in a few small pistols, Libby.”

Ethan could hardly believe she’d said that. Since when did Gert tell a merchant what to order? He strained to hear her quiet tones.

“A gun like that isn’t as accurate as something bigger would be,” Gert went on, “but it sure would slip nicely into a lady’s reticule. And if a ruffian gets too close, it’ll blow a big hole in him.”

Ethan caught his breath and forced himself to keep still, though he’d never in his life heard women calmly discuss blowing holes in ruffians.

“And it’s the ones who get too close that you have to worry about,” Bitsy said. “Ladies in this town are having to think about their safety.”

“Might be a good idea to order some,” Libby conceded. “I hate to order anything I can’t sell, but I’ve had two women in here in the last few days asking me about firearms. I don’t usually order new guns, but now and again someone will bring in an old rifle to trade for supplies.”

“If you do decide to stock handguns,” Gert said, “make sure you get ones with common-sized bullets. You don’t want to have to order special ammunition for everyone in town.”

“Sorry to put you out,” Bitsy muttered.

“It’s no problem,” Libby said. “But I’d have some cash tied up in the stock if I started ordering new pistols. I’ll think about it.”

The man pondering the seeds had edged over next to Ethan, who recognized him. Zachary Harper farmed and ran a few beef on the south edge of town.

“Howdy,” Ethan said.

Harper jerked his head toward the counter. “You hear that, Sheriff? Women talking about buying guns and bullets. You gonna let them do that?”

“Can’t see why not,” Ethan said.

Harper pulled back and scowled. “Why, if my missus wanted a gun, I’d take the back of my hand to her.” He turned his stony gaze toward the cluster of females at the counter. “Those ladies don’t have enough to do, that’s what. And not a husband among ‘em.”

Ethan felt the blood rushing to his face, though he wasn’t quite sure why. “Settle down, Mr. Harper. They’ve got a right to own firearms if they want, same as we do.”

Florence finished her task and approached the counter, carrying an empty crate. The door opened, and Mrs. Walker entered.

“Gettin’ a little crowded in here,” Harper mumbled.

“Hello, Mrs. Walker,” Libby called, and then, “Well, hello,

Sheriff Chapman. Didn’t see you come in. May I help you with something?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” Ethan touched his hat brim and hastily followed Harper outside.

Harper shuffled off toward his farm wagon. He’d climbed onto the seat before Ethan thought of what he
should
have said inside the emporium. Yes, he ought to have said that if those three ladies had husbands, they might not be so worried about their safety. Too late to say it now though. Harper had already turned his team toward home. Guess he’d decided to come back another time for his seed.

Ethan ambled across the street, still thinking about Gert and Bitsy egging Mrs. Adams on to buy weapons suitable for ladies. He paused to stroke Scout’s flank and looked back across the street.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Oscar Runnels called as he strolled toward the stagecoach line’s office.

Ethan waved, still lost in thought. Instead of going to the jail, he took the path around the Dooleys’ house, into the backyard.

Hiram sat on the rear stoop, meticulously spreading varnish on a gunstock. He looked up at Ethan with those innocent gray blue eyes.

“Hello, Hiram.” Ethan stuck his thumbs into his belt. “Did you know your sister’s over to the emporium with Bitsy Shepard?”

Hiram quirked an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Know what they’re doing?” Ethan asked.

“Nope.”

“They’re telling Miz Adams what to order for guns and ammunition.”

Hiram pulled an actual smile, as though he was proud of his sister.

Ethan eyed him cautiously. “I didn’t know Gert was friends with the likes of Bitsy.”

Hiram carefully set the gunstock on end, leaning it against one of the railing’s slats where it wouldn’t get knocked over, and stood. “She come over here yestiddy.” He sighed and shook his head, a dreamy look on his face. “Purtiest little thing I ever seen.”

Ethan stared at him in disbelief. “Bitsy Shepard? No, Hiram!”

His friend blinked at him and frowned. “No, not her.” Hiram stooped and picked up the can of varnish and his paintbrush. “Miz Shepard’s got a genuine Deringer.”

“Whew.” Ethan wagged a finger at him. “For a minute there, you had me worried. So what’s this business about ordering guns for women?”

Hiram shrugged.

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” Ethan agreed. “Harper didn’t like it though. He was in the store, and he heard ‘em talking. He’ll tell Cy Fennel, too.”

Hiram leaned over the railing and spit in the grass.

“Yeah,” said Ethan. “But Harper will do anything Fennel tells him to. I expect that’s why he’s on the town council.”

Hiram said nothing, but his eyes had a way of speaking.

“What?” Ethan asked sharply. “You think I’m under Cy Fennel’s thumb, too? Now you’re making me mad.”

Soft footfalls and the swish of a skirt caught his ear, and Ethan turned toward the path. Gert was rounding the corner of the house. She pulled up short and looked at Ethan, then Hiram, then back at Ethan again.

“What are you mad about?”

“I’ll tell you. I’m thinking of turning in this badge, that’s what.”

“Why would you do that?” Gert breezed past him. Hiram stepped aside so she could enter the kitchen. When her brother started to follow, she glanced at the can of varnish. “Uh-uh. That goes in the barn.”

Hiram ducked his head and went down the steps. As he headed for the stable, Ethan wasn’t sure whether to follow him or not.

“You eating lunch here?” Gert asked from the doorway. She was already tying on her apron.

Ethan cleared his throat. “Well, I dunno. I ain’t been asked. And your brother thinks I’m letting Cy Fennel tell me what to do.”

Gert’s pale eyebrows drew together. “Did he say that?”

“He said plenty.”

She smiled. “I’ll just bet. You’d best go do your sheriffing business and come back in an hour. We’ll talk over lunch.”

Ethan looked down at his scuffed boots and nodded slowly. “Thanks, Gert.”

“Anytime.”

He turned to the path and plodded next door to the jail. It stood as empty as it had all week. What was the sheriff supposed to do all day, anyhow? Maybe he should have stayed out at the ranch, after all. Not for the first time, he wished someone would give him a job description. Yesterday Mrs. Storrey had sent her boy to fetch him because her neighbor’s boar got loose and had rooted up her yard. The day before, Clem Higgins allowed Ethan should make his brother, Nealy, patch up all the windows he’d shot out of their cabin when he was drunk. Ethan wasn’t sure he could force a man to fix up his own property, but he encouraged Nealy Higgins to do the right thing. Nealy, being a reasonable man when he was sober, had agreed to do it if Clem bought the panes. But really, was this how Bert had spent his days?

Ethan headed out into the street. The Mountain Home stagecoach rolled up before the Wells Fargo office. Jamin Morrell got out. The messenger hopped down and carried a wooden chest into Fennel’s office. The payroll for the stagecoach line, no doubt. The town needed a bank. Fennel, Morrell, Bitsy Shepard, and Libby Adams all had safes in their places of business. Other people probably did what Ethan did and stashed their money in a cracker tin or under the mattress.

He strolled along the street, greeting people he met. Most replied cordially, and the crotchety mood Hiram had inspired began to dissipate. By the time he reached the Spur & Saddle at the south end of Main Street, Ethan felt much better. Augie Moore was heading into the saloon carrying an armload of firewood.

“Mornin’, Sheriff.”

“Mornin’, Augie.”

The street petered out into a trail across the prairie. Ethan crossed it and ambled down the other side. Maybe tomorrow he’d stay out at the ranch. If anything serious came up, everyone knew where he lived.

He passed the mayor’s house, the feed store owned by Mayor Walker, and two vacant buildings. The post office was next.

“Oh, Sheriff!”

He stopped and turned his head. Peter Nash, the postmaster, hurried out of his tiny office, the closed-in porch of his weathered house.

“This mail came for Sheriff Thalen, so I guess you should have it.”

Nash shoved a rolled-up sheaf of papers into his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Nash.” Ethan broke the string that held the bundle together and unrolled it. Wanted posters. He stared at the first one, his mind racing. Maybe a known desperado had come to Fergus and murdered Bert Thalen. If nothing else, he should study these posters so that he’d recognize any of the criminals depicted on them if they rode into town.

He hurried back to the jail, where he spread the posters out on Bert’s desk. Three train robbers and a horse thief. It seemed unlikely any train robbers would come to a town without a railroad. Unless they wanted a place to hide out. Ethan scowled and shuffled the papers. The horse thief looked awfully like the picture he’d seen of President Cleveland in the Boise paper.