The Bride's Prerogative (7 page)

On Monday afternoon Libby took off her apron and hung it behind the counter. Finally the air held the warmth of May and the promise of summer. She wouldn’t need a wrap today. She’d chosen a large needlepoint handbag in which to carry her pistol and a supply of ammunition. She reached for a crisp green calico poke bonnet that would be perfect headgear for a spring day.

“Florence, I’ll be back by three o’clock.” Traffic in the emporium was always light after noontime, and her clerk could handle it without her.

“Yes, ma’am.” Florence’s hazel eyes held a hint of solemnity as she looked about the store.

Libby went out the back. She didn’t like people to see her leave by the front door. The mayor’s wife might try to go over and talk Florence down on prices, thinking she could get a bargain from the inexperienced girl. Libby smiled at the thought. For the first month of Florence’s employment, Libby had made her repeat over and over before opening each morning, “Only Mrs. Adams makes deals with customers.”

She lurked in the alley between the emporium and the stagecoach office until she was sure no one paid any mind to the foot traffic on her part of the street. As she dashed across the way, she noted smoke puffing from the jail’s chimney. Ethan must be in his new office. He’d been sheriff less than a week, but he seemed to take the position and its responsibilities to heart. Already she’d heard complaints. When Ted Hire came in wanting some lamp oil, he’d mentioned how the sheriff had come into the Nugget three times on Saturday night and told the boys to keep the noise down. It put a damper on the usual hilarity, to hear Ted tell it.

At the Dooleys’ house, she cut straight around to the back. Gert had already saddled the two horses she and her brother maintained. Hiram Dooley’s Sharps rifle protruded from a leather scabbard on the saddle of Gert’s dun mare, Crinkles. The other horse, Hiram’s docile bay gelding he called Hoss, stood with his head drooping, eyes closed, and tail swishing now and then. His reins hung down from the bit, the only restraint Gert had used on him. That was about all the excitement Libby liked in a horse.

“Howdy,” Gert called with a smile.

“Good afternoon. Am I late?”

Gert glanced up at the sky. “Not on my account.”

“Are you sure Hiram won’t mind if I take his horse?”

“No, he’s got the mayor’s rifle in. He’ll be working on it all afternoon, I dare say.”

Gert unhitched Crinkles and swung the mare’s head around. “Need a boost?”

“Well …” Libby gathered Hoss’s reins and moved him to an uneven spot in the ground, where she could stand a few inches uphill from him. She was able to lift her left foot to the stirrup from there. “I’ll be fine,” she called, but Gert led Crinkles over anyway.

“Forgot to put the stirrups up. Go ahead and mount. I’ll run ‘em up the leathers once you’re on.”

Libby swung up and threw her leg over, struggling to arrange her skirt and keep her bag from bumping Hoss’s side.

“You ought to alter one of your skirts,” Gert said. “It’d be easier to ride in.”

“Oh, I know.” Libby had ridden sidesaddle before she’d come west to marry Isaac Adams, but out here, the practice was out of fashion. She doubted the town of Fergus boasted a single sidesaddle.

Hiram’s legs were a good deal longer than hers, and her toes slid out of the stirrups. In seconds, Gert had adjusted the straps. “All set?”

“Feels just right.” Libby bounced on her toes, and Hoss swung his head around, fixing her with a reproachful gaze. “Sorry, Hoss.”

Gert hopped easily onto Crinkles’s back. Her divided skirt settled with modesty about her. Libby decided she would look at the pattern book when she got back to the emporium. Maybe it was time she had the practical Western version of a riding habit. Gert gathered her reins and clucked. Crinkles set out at a swift walk. Libby squeezed Hoss. When he didn’t move, she kicked him lightly, and he shuffled off in the mare’s wake.

They ambled behind the row of houses and businesses that faced Main Street and soon were beyond the edge of town. Gert urged her mare into a quick trot, and Libby, with some effort, persuaded Hoss to keep up. They rode to a stream that gushed down out of the mountains on its way to the river. This time of year, the streams around Fergus looked as though they meant business, but by the end of July, most would be bone dry.

Gert led her up the ravine to a secluded spot between the hills, where she halted and jumped to the ground.

“Are we on Ethan Chapman’s land?” Libby asked as she dismounted. She looked about for a place to tether her horse.

“Bert Thalen’s ranch, actually, but he won’t mind.” Gert didn’t seem to notice what she’d said about the dead man, or if she did, she hadn’t considered it disrespectful. Libby liked Gert, but sometimes she seemed a little indelicate.

Gert looked at her. “Did you know that Ethan heard back from Bert’s son?”

“No, what did he say?” Libby asked.

“He wants Ethan to sell off his livestock and keep an eye on the place until he decides what to do with it.”

“Oh my.”

“Griff Bane said he’ll buy Bert’s horse. Ethan thinks Micah Landry might buy the beef cattle.” Gert added, “Don’t worry about Hoss. He’ll ground tie.”

“Even when we start shooting?”

“Yes, he’s too dumb to run away.”

Libby let the reins fall and looked about. “It’s beautiful out here. I should get away from town more.”

“You can ride Hoss or Crinkles anytime,” Gert offered.

“Thank you. Isaac used to keep a team and wagon, but I sold them after he died. Too expensive. I just hire freighters to haul stuff for me.”

“It’s an extravagance for us,” Gert admitted. “Hiram and I like to be able to ramble around when the fancy strikes us, so we put up with these nags.”

Libby pulled some small pieces of bright flannel from her reticule. “You asked for some scraps of cloth.”

Gert’s eyes lit. “Thanks. Those are perfect.” She nodded toward a knoll a short distance away. “I’ll set up the targets over there, and we can shoot from beside the stream.”

Libby watched her easy gait as she went to prepare the mark. Gert walked like a boy, though she must be twenty-four or more. Libby could remember when she’d come all the way from Maine to help Hiram’s wife, Violet, with her new baby. Or such was Gert’s intention when she set out on the long journey. As soon as Violet Dooley had learned a baby was on the way, she’d sent a gushing letter, begging Hiram’s little sister to come stay with them and help her keep house when the child arrived. Gert had gladly answered the summons.

She was sixteen when she arrived, of that much Libby was certain. Tall, raw-boned, and gangly as a colt. No one considered her a beauty. Gert had plain, honest features and a temperament to match. She probably could have married in those first few years here in Fergus. But she’d arrived to find her brother in mourning, with Violet and their sweet baby buried out near the schoolhouse. Gert had made it plain to all that she’d come to help her brother. Any young men who’d fluttered about the gunsmith’s house soon learned she didn’t intend to cook and clean house for anyone but Hiram. And so, eight years later, she still lived in her brother’s home.

As she piled up a few stones and anchored a bright slip of cloth on top for them to aim at, Gert frowned in concentration. She wasn’t homely, Libby told herself again. Some might say so if they saw her gritting her teeth like that, with worry lines creasing her brow. But Gert had potential. Libby wished she could coax her into the emporium when a new shipment of fancy goods came in from St. Louis. But it was the bar girls who hurried over in search of ways to pretty themselves up, not plain, honest Gertrude.

Gert finished constructing three targets at varied distances and walked back toward her. Libby realized she didn’t have her gun out of the bag yet. She took her handbag down from the saddle and walked toward the stream. Gert went to Crinkles and drew Hiram’s rifle from the scabbard.

“Ready?” She walked over to Libby’s side with the Sharps resting on her shoulder.

“I haven’t loaded yet,” Libby confessed. “Go ahead and shoot a few rounds.”

Gert shrugged as though it was nothing to her.

“That’s a nice rifle.” Libby nodded at Gert’s weapon.

“Hi got it off a miner. He’d gone broke on his claim and needed enough cash to get out of the territory. Someone told him the gunsmith might buy it.” Gert shook her head. “Of course Hi gave him more than he should have.”

“Your brother’s got a soft heart.”

“No, he didn’t like the look of the fellow. I think he wanted to make sure he got far away from Fergus.”

Libby laughed. “I hope he didn’t give more than the gun was worth.”

“Did I say that? He could have got it for less though.” Gert swung the Sharps up to her shoulder.

Libby jumped at the sharp crack. To her, it seemed Gert fired as soon as the rifle reached a horizontal position.

“Sorry,” Gert said. “We didn’t plug our ears yet.”

Libby reached into the depths of her reticule once more for a wad of wool. Within a few minutes, they were taking turns firing their weapons. Gert aimed at the farther marks while Libby shot at the nearest.

After firing six rounds in succession, Libby lowered the Peacemaker and exhaled in disappointment. She looked over at Gert and said loudly, “I’m just no good at this.”

“I was watching. You’re getting closer. Remember what I told you last time—aim, steady, squeeze.”

“I thought I was doing that.”

Gert lowered the stock of the rifle to the ground. “Load up again, and I’ll pay closer attention, but I think you’re improving.”

Libby noticed a woman walking toward them from the direction of the road. “There’s Mrs. Landry.”

Gert swung around. “Sure enough.”

“Hello,” Emmaline Landry called.

“She lives out here, doesn’t she?” Libby asked.

Gert nodded toward the nearest hill. “Yonder. Her man’s ranch backs up against Bert and Ethan’s spreads.”

Emmaline trudged along holding her skirt up a few inches. She still wore her apron and had a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I misdoubt my eyes. What are you ladies doing out here? I heard shooting like a battle and thought I’d better investigate.”

Gert laughed. “No fighting, Mrs. Landry. We’re just having a little target practice.”

“Shooting? Whatever for?” The rancher’s wife looked at Libby. “Now, Gert I can understand. But you, Miz Adams?”

Libby smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve decided I no longer want to be helpless. Part of my husband’s legacy to me was this pistol. After what happened to Sheriff Thalen, I thought it was time I learned to use it.”

Emmaline’s eyes darkened. “The other day, one of our neighbors had a bucket of milk stolen—bucket and all. Can you believe it? But what’s that you’re saying about the sheriff? We was at the funeral, and all I heard was he’d fallen and hit his head.”

Libby looked at Gert, and Gert inhaled and pulled her shoulders back.

“Sheriff Thalen didn’t bump his head,” Gert said. “He was murdered, and that’s the honest truth.” Emmaline’s jaw dropped. “No.”

Libby nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Landry. We’ve no idea who did it, and so I asked Gert to teach me to shoot. If anyone comes creeping around the emporium at night, I want to be ready.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Are you planning to do this again?”

Gert looked inquiringly at Libby. “Maybe. If Libby wants to practice again.”

“Could—” Emmaline looked over her shoulder toward the road and back again. “Could I join you? Micah’s got a shotgun I think I could handle.”

“Sure,” Gert said.

Libby smiled. “You’d be welcome. How about Thursday afternoon?”

“Suits me.” Gert hoisted the Sharps onto her shoulder.

“I’ll be here.” Emmaline caught her breath and lifted her skirts. “I ‘most forgot. I left bread in the oven. Thursday!” She ran for the road with her shawl and bonnet strings fluttering behind her.

CHAPTER 8

C
yrus Fennel was nearly sober when he entered the Nugget on Saturday evening. He’d already visited the Spur & Saddle, where he’d shared a drink with Oscar Runnels. The Nugget wasn’t his usual haunt, but he wanted to speak to a couple of the men who worked for him on the stage line, and he had reason to believe he’d find them at Jamin Morrell’s establishment.

He pushed open the door and squinted in the thick smoke. At a corner table, he spotted Ned Harmon and Bill Stout, one of his shotgun messengers and the driver he’d ridden in with that afternoon. The two were deep in conversation with Griffin Bane, the owner of the livery stable. Cyrus strode over to the table.

“You boys going to be in shape to take the coach on to Silver City in the morning?”

“What? We don’t get our Sunday off?” Ned scowled up at him.

“Not this time. The Mountain Home coach broke down. Don’t know when they’ll get here. You’d best call it an early night and show up ready to roll at sunup.”

“Sure, Mr. Fennel.” Bill Stout looked up at him and hiccupped.

Cyrus turned and walked over to the bar.

Ted Hire smiled a welcome and shouted over the loud voices and off-key music from the piano. “Mr. Fennel. What can I get you, sir?”

“Whiskey. And don’t serve those two men any more tonight, you hear me? They’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir, I hear you loud and clear.” Ted set a glass on the bar and filled it.

A lull in the tinny music set off snatches of conversation.

“—twin calves, both bulls.”

“—told the mayor that was hogwash.”

“—ladies shootin’ up a storm, out the Mountain Road.”

Cyrus turned and homed in on the last speaker—a miner he’d seen before but couldn’t put a name to.

Ralph Storrey, who had a small spread at the south edge of town, said, “Oh, that’s likely Hiram Dooley’s sister. She can shoot the whiskers off a gnat at a hundred yards.”

“There was three of ‘em,” the miner said, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by a shaky rendition from the piano of “My Grandfather’s Clock.”

Someone jostled Cyrus’s elbow, and he spilled part of his drink. He whipped around. A young cowhand stepped back and yanked his hat off.

“Sorry, sir. Don’t pay me no nevermind.”

Cyrus gritted his teeth. No point in making a scene over it. When he turned around again, Ted had already wiped up the spill.

“Let me refill your drink, Mr. Fennel.”

When the girl finished the song, the card players were still discussing the female shooters.

“I say the women of this town don’t seem to know their place,” said a hardware salesman who had come in on the afternoon stage with Ned and Bill.

“That’s right,” Storrey grunted.

By now Cyrus had downed two and a half drinks, counting the one at the Spur & Saddle, and he thought the salesman showed a rare sense of propriety.

“I’ve got to agree with you, mister,” he called out. “I saw a couple of ladies out shooting last week. Said they wanted to be able to defend themselves.”

“Ha!” Ned yelled. “Ain’t that what you got a new sheriff for?”

“That’s right,” said one of Micah Landry’s cowpokes, who lounged at another table with the saloon girl now hanging over him. “Old sheriff died one day, and we got us a new sheriff the next.”

“Well, them ladies don’t seem to think much of the new lawman,” said the miner. “Iffen they did, they wouldn’t be out shootin’ when they’d oughta be tendin’ their young’uns.”

The salesman nodded. “They should be home keeping house.”

“My daughter Isabel would never go gallivanting around doing such things,” Cyrus said.

“Well, you never know,” drawled another cowhand. “She ain’t got no man to keep house for but her father.”

The saloon went as silent as a church.

Cyrus slammed his glass down on the bar. “What do mean by that, you jolt-headed lunk?”

The cowboy and three of his friends stood. Ted quickly scooped all bottles and glasses off the bar.

“What’d you call me?” the cowboy asked.

Cyrus squinted at him. This was no time to back down. “I said you’re a—”

“Easy, now,” Griffin Bane said, rising. All eyes swung his way. “You gents got no call to get riled up. If a few ladies feel safer knowin’ how to fire a rifle, where’s the harm?”

“I’ll tell you where’s the harm,” Cyrus said. “They’re like to blow somebody’s head off while they’re out blazing away at sticks and old bottles.”

“The sheriff oughta put a stop to it,” said Bill Stout. Cyrus wondered if he said it just to stay on his good side, but he nodded in Bill’s direction.

“If the
sheriff can do that,” Ralph Storrey said. “I’m not so sure the new sheriff could handle a pack of gun-totin’ ladies.”

The young cowboy who had slopped Cyrus’s drink laughed. “Yeah, he ain’t got a woman. Maybe he’s scared of petticoats.”

“The new sheriff happens to be a friend of mine.” Griffin’s heavy words again cut through the bluster.

“Yeah? Well, he’s s’posed to be a big Injun fighter, but I ain’t seen him do nothin’ since he come back to Fergus.” Landry’s cowhand glared at Griffin through the smoke.

Cyrus wondered, not for the first time, if pushing the mayor to appoint Chapman as sheriff was such a good idea. They wanted a man they could control, but Ethan was showing initiative, telegraphing the U.S. marshal on his own and patrolling the town regularly. If there was going to be real trouble … He reached for his whiskey glass, but Ted had moved it.

“Give me another drink,” he snarled. Ted produced the glass from beneath the bar and poured while darting glances toward the men and the door.

Bane still stood glaring at the young cowboy. “Take back what you said about the sheriff, you buffoon.”

“Make me.”

“As for keeping the law in town,” Cyrus began, reaching for his glass, “time will—”

“And speaking of the new sheriff,” Ted shouted in his ear.

Cyrus jerked his head toward the door. Great. The one time he nearly lost control of himself, and that annoying young man they’d pinned a badge on had to walk in. The fact that he’d seen him half an hour ago at the Spur & Saddle, when he’d only imbibed one drink, wouldn’t help now. He pulled in a deep breath. “Sheriff Chapman.”

Ethan nodded gravely. “Mr. Fennel. I see you’re making the rounds tonight.”

Cyrus clenched his fists. “Just came to remind a couple of my men that tomorrow’s a workday on the stagecoach line.”

Ned Harmon jumped to his feet, swayed a little, and sat down again.

Bill Stout shoved his chair back and stood more slowly. “That’s right, Mr. Fennel. We’re calling it a night; ain’t we, Ned?”

“Whatever you say.”

Bill latched on to Ned’s collar and pulled upward. “Come on. Let’s get over to the livery and get some shut-eye.”

“Hold it, boys,” Griffin said. He walked over and stood deliberately in front of Cyrus. “If your men are going to bed down in my stable all the time, I think it’s time we came to a financial understanding.”

Cyrus felt his jaw twitch. If he couldn’t see Ethan watching him with keen, dark eyes over Bane’s shoulder, he’d have hit him. His drivers had sacked out in Bane’s hayloft for years without any question of pay.

“It doesn’t cost you a cent to let them sleep there,” he said through his teeth.

“It’s still my barn.” Griffin’s solid form didn’t budge, and neither did his stare.

“I’m sure we can work this out, Griff.” Cyrus managed a smile. “You know we’ve got no boardinghouse in this town anymore. The boys have to sleep somewhere.”

“That’s right.” Ned raised one hand, as if what he said carried vast importance.

Griffin Bane still scowled at Cyrus. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you own the building that used to be the boardinghouse?”

“Yes, I do.” Cyrus didn’t like the quiet that bespoke the men’s attention. This run-in would be all over town by morning. He’d better come out looking good. “If someone wanted to rent the place and open up the business again, I’d be happy to discuss it.”

“Maybe you should put that daughter of yours to keeping a boardinghouse,” the salesman said, and all the men but Cyrus and Ethan laughed.

Cyrus’s eyes flashed. “My daughter is the town’s schoolmistress.”

“That right?” The salesman shrugged. “Beg pardon.”

One of the bar girls swaggered toward Cyrus. “I’d like to keep a boardin’house, Mr. Fennel. You could set me up to run it for you.”

Ted scowled at her. “Good thing Mr. Morrell ain’t around to hear you say that. You just be glad you’ve got a job here.”

“Where
is
Mr. Morrell tonight?” Ethan asked, looking around.

“He went to Mountain Home a coupla days ago. He ain’t back yet.” Ted shot a nervous glance at Cyrus. “I heard the stage broke down in Grand View. Likely he’s staying there tonight.”

“Yeah,” Ned Harmon said dolefully. “They got a boardinghouse in Grand View.”

“You insolent—” Cyrus drew back his hand but suddenly recalled that the person who had raised the topic was the sheriff. He lowered his hand and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be heading home. You boys get over to the livery and hit the hay.” He frowned at Griffin Bane. “Come by the stage office tomorrow and settle up with me. We’ll discuss how much it’s worth to let a squiffed messenger and a reckless driver sleep it off in your barn.”

Cyrus clapped his hat onto his head and strode out the door. As he passed the sheriff, Ethan said, “Have a good evening, Mr. Fennel.”

“Yeah,” called the hardware salesman, “and you might want to think about that boardinghouse. It’s mighty hard to get a room in this town.”

On Sunday afternoon Gert forced herself to attack her overflowing mending basket. She and Hiram always spent Sundays in quiet occupations—no shooting or splitting wood. Occasionally Gert experienced vague twinges of self-reproach, not so strong as guilt, telling her that sewing didn’t constitute a proper pastime for the Sabbath. But since they had no preacher to tell them so, the full weight of conviction eluded her, and she told herself that tranquil industry, performed away from the prying eyes of their neighbors, could not possibly cause one of weaker conscience to stumble.

Her brother sat near the window, patiently carving and smoothing a gunstock for one of the stagecoach line’s “shotgun messengers,” the men who kept watch on the Wells Fargo stagecoaches.

Gert groped the bottom of her basket for a darning egg, gasped when she found a needle instead, and jerked her hand out.

Hiram paused in wielding his sandpaper and cocked an eyebrow.

“Stuck myself.” She sucked the injured finger. She’d always categorized sewing as a necessary evil. A few minutes later when she was sure she wouldn’t bleed all over her project, she snatched one of Hiram’s shirts from the basket. Buttons first. The darning could wait until she’d worked her way down the layers in the basket and prospecting for the egg was no longer so hazardous.

A knock at the kitchen door annoyed her slightly, as she’d just gotten her needle threaded. People dropped in at all hours to seek Hiram’s services, but since he didn’t like to talk to anyone, Gert was the designated door opener and greeter. She laid her mending aside with a sigh and rose. Her brother watched with mournful eyes as she walked across the room, but he never paused in rhythmically sanding the piece of walnut.