by Sharon Sala
That’s what she wanted—a family of her own, including the pups. She looked back at the saloon. If she followed through on this impulsive stunt, she might be putting every dream she ever had in jeopardy. Then she sighed. Therein lay the problem. If something didn’t change, they would forever be dreams, and not the reality she so desperately desired.
Firming her resolve, she took a deep breath, patted the handful of coins in her pocket, stepped off the sidewalk, and headed toward Grigg’s Saloon.
Myron Griggs had been born in Philadelphia. The fourth son of a well-to-do cotton broker, he’d been expected to go into the family business as his three older brothers had done. But Myron had looked into the future, seen himself as a middle-aged man still living under his father’s thumb and rebelled. That very day he’d packed a suitcase, taken all of his money out of the bank, and headed west. He’d had no definite destination in mind, and even considered going all the way across country to California until the stagecoach stopped at a way station on the western edge of the Kansas territories. The sun had been about to set and the sky was a vivid wash of orange, red and yellows. He’d taken a look at the sky, then at the vast, seemingly endless horizon, and knew he was home. He talked the station manager into letting him stay on until he could get a place built of his own and just like that, his decision was made.
It was somewhat ironic that a way station and a saloon were the first two businesses to be built. But not nearly as ironic as the fact that they’d named the place Dripping Springs, when there was nothing but a dry creek bed to be seen for miles. The only time there was any standing water to be had was when it rained, at which time the dry creek bed would flood and take whoever, or whatever, was in or around it to glory. To date, a pair of Stanfield Smith’s pigs, an old mule, and one stranger, had gotten caught in flash floods and drowned.
Josiah Merriwether, the town blacksmith, had suffered a close call when he’d fallen into the creek bed one night while chasing a runaway horse during an approaching storm. The fall had knocked him out and it was only because the stupid horse came back to see what had happened to Josiah and wakened him by nibbling on his ear that he hadn’t suffered the same fate as Stanfield Smith’s pigs. Still, despite the perpetuity of rare and intermittent rain, Dripping Springs survived and flourished.
Only now and then did Myron wonder what his life might have been like had he stayed in his father’s business. Most of the time, he considered himself a fortunate man, if a bit lonely. Peace of mind and being his own boss usually overruled any regrets he might have had, and today was no exception.
He was standing behind the bar pouring a drink for a cowboy who’d stopped in asking about work in the area. Three men were playing cards at the back table while Dewey, his hired help, was sweeping up the floor. The sun was shining. The wind was brisk. It was promising to be a fine day. He heard the squeak of the swinging doors, which indicated a new customer.
Then he looked up and froze. Fannie Smithson was standing in the doorway. The first thought in his head was that she was looking for her fiancé, Harley Charles. Thank goodness Harley wasn’t in here yet. It would have been insulting to Miss Smithson if she were to see her intended with another woman in his lap. It wasn’t until she took a step inward that he came to himself and bolted around the bar.
Fannie’s heart was pounding so hard she thought she might faint. It was the first time she’d seen the inside of a men’s sporting establishment. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
The room was large and rather dim. It smelled of stale air and smoke, although it had to be said that the place appeared cleaner than she’d imagined. The large mirror at the back of the bar was cracked from one side to the other in three places, the obvious victim of its locale. There was a steep and narrow stairway at the back of the room, the only way up or down to the rooms above. She knew for a fact that at least three women worked in this place and slept above it during the day. She knew because she’d seen them near sundown, out on the balcony in their scanty garments calling down to the men in the streets below.
There was a scraping of boots against flooring. Startled, she suddenly realized she was the center of attention. The cowboy at the bar, and the three men at the table in the back of the room, were all staring at her. Not only that, but Myron Griggs was coming toward her with a startled expression on his face. At that point, she realized that what she’d been considering was not only foolish, but impossible. She clutched her hands against her middle and willed herself not to cry as the bartender spoke.
“Miss Smithson… please… you shouldn’t be, I mean… is there someone you… uh, are you looking for your father? Is something wrong?”
Fannie cleared her throat. Even though she’d gotten herself in here, it appeared it was going to be more difficult to get out. Her fingers were trembling and her voice was two octaves too high and weak, as if someone was choking off her airway even as she spoke.
“I, uh… I mean, I was going to…”
She shrugged. No need embarrassing herself any further by admitting the truth. The least she could do was lie and save what was left of her reputation.
“My, father… I was trying to find—”
Immediately assuming that something dire had transpired to force Fannie Smithson into his bar, Myron took her by the elbow and escorted her outside to the bench beneath the windows. Once he’d settled her onto the seat, he sat down beside her.
“Has something happened? Your father is not here, but I’d be happy to go look for him.”
It was the sympathy in his voice that was Fannie’s undoing.
“I lied. I wasn’t really looking for my father,” she said, and then tears started to roll.
For lack of anything else to do, Myron took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Please don’t cry, Miss Smithson.”
She swiped at her tears with his handkerchief then delicately blew her nose before crumpling it into a wad between her fingers.
“I’m not crying,” she muttered.
Myron looked at the tears in her eyes and sighed. It had been years since he’d kept company with a decent woman, and wasn’t sure what to do next. However, he was convinced that arguing with Fannie Smithson wasn’t smart, even if he could still see the tears.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She took a deep breath and then sighed. There was no use taking her hurt feelings out on Myron Griggs.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly and began fussing with the front of her dress, smoothing down the bodice as if it was the most important thing on her mind. “I wasn’t looking for my father. I was coming in to talk to you about a job.”
Myron’s mouth dropped. “A job? Oh no, Miss Smithson. A saloon is no place for a lady like you.” Then he added. “As for that, why on earth would you feel the need to work? Surely your fiancé would not want—”
Fannie slapped the flat of her hand on her knee.
“My fiancé… my father… everyone seems to know what’s best for me without consulting my own feelings.” She drew a shuddering breath, unaware that it revealed her vulnerability even more. “You see, Mr. Griggs, I’m a realist. I know I’m not pretty but—”
Before he thought, Myron took her hand.
“But Miss Smithson, that’s just not true.”
Fannie frowned. “I’m sorry?”
Myron let go of her hand. “No, it’s me who is sorry. I didn’t mean to be forward. Please forgive me. Will you let me escort you to your father’s barber shop?”
Fannie stood abruptly. “No, but thank you for your concern. He’s already dismissed me for the day, so I hardly think my arrival at his place of business would endear me to him even further. As for my fiancé, he could care less about my feelings. He doesn’t care for anything but my dowry.” Then she laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “It’s called a dowry, you know, but it’s really pay-off money.”
Myron frowned. “Miss Fannie, you really s
houldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what? Care that I will grow old without ever being loved? Care that I’m nothing but a thorn in my father’s side?” She shrugged as tears welled. “Maybe you’re right.” She stuffed the handkerchief back in Myron’s hand. “I’ll just be going now.”
Myron felt as if he’d just failed a huge test, although for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what he could have done or said differently.
“Miss Fannie?”
She paused, and turned around.
“You are a very handsome woman.”
Fannie frowned. “I do not like to be made fun of.”
Now it was Myron’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about?”
“I am not blind, nor am I fanciful. I am not a handsome woman and I don’t appreciate your factitiousness on my behalf.”
Myron’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I can assure you I was not making jest of you. I think you’re a fine, upstanding woman, as well as a handsome one. And just for the record, I think Harley Charles is an ass, and your father, a fool. Now, if you’re certain I cannot help you further, I will be getting back to my work.”
Fannie’s mouth was open. She knew because there was just the faintest taste of grit on her tongue from the dust in the air. However, she couldn’t find the good sense to respond to what he’d just said.
Frustrated and embarrassed by what he’d just said, Myron headed back to the saloon. His hands were on the swinging doors when he suddenly stopped and turned around.
“Miss Fannie?”
“Hmm?”
“Exactly what kind of a job did you expect to get here?”
Unconsciously, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“I’m quite adept at cards. I was hoping you would allow me to play poker in your saloon.”
“Poker?”
She nodded. “I am proficient in several styles of the game.”
“Poker.”
A slight frown creased Fannie’s brow. “Yes, Mr. Griggs. Poker. Are you hard of hearing?”
He grinned. Not only was Fannie Smithson a handsome woman, but it would seem she had her fair share of grit.
“No, ma’am, my hearing is just fine.”
“Well then,” she said, and started to walk away, only this time it was Myron who spoke up.
“Miss Smithson… Fannie?”
“Yes?”
“How would you feel if I was to call on you this evening?”
Now it was Fannie’s turn to be stunned.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, may I call upon you this evening?”
“Call on me?”
He nodded.
“This evening?”
He nodded again.
Fannie blushed. “I’m spoken for.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger.”
Unconsciously, Fannie touched the third finger on her left hand. It wasn’t the first time that the thought had occurred to her, either. Harley had asked for her hand in marriage, but he’d never given her an engagement ring, and after the preacher’s demise, he’d quit speaking of their impending marriage at all.
“I don’t have one,” she muttered.
“Then what do you say?” he asked.
“About what?”
He sighed. “Now who’s hearing is defective?”
She glanced toward the upper floor of the saloon, imagining the sleeping trollops in their beds of sin, and tried to imagine what he expected of her.
Myron could tell she’d been taken aback, but she couldn’t be more surprised than he was when he’d asked to come calling.
“So, Fannie Smithson, what do you say?”
She pointed to the second story of the saloon.
“I am not as those women are,” she stated.
He frowned. “Of course, you’re not. I would never have assumed you to be so.”
“Then sir, I must ask, what are your intentions?”
Myron looked at her dark eyes and the sturdy cut of her chin and shoulders and grinned.
“It’s like this Miss Fannie, it’s just occurred to me that I have been wasting a lot of years by not seeing your charms before this and… well… I reckon I intend to send Harley Charles begging.”
Her eyes widened and then she stifled a smile.
“Is that so?” She hoped that the heat she was feeling did not show on her face. “If you would care to have supper with us, I expect it will be done around six.”
He tried to imagine who he would get to tend bar and then knew it didn’t matter.
“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.”
Fannie smiled.
“Until six,” she said, and started backtracking toward home as fast as her feet would take her. She had a kitchen to clean and a house to put to rights. She didn’t know what her father was going to say about the owner of the saloon eating a meal in their home, but for once she didn’t care. Myron Griggs had shown her more interest and kindness in the last thirty minutes, than her father or Harley had ever done. She paused once as she reached the corner of the sidewalk and looked back. To her surprise, Myron Griggs was standing in the doorway to the saloon, still watching her go.
He waved.
She hesitated briefly, then lifted her hand and waved back.
Then stunned by what she’d just done, she turned around and ran the rest of the way home.
Hours later, Orville Smithson came home, found Fannie in the kitchen taking a dried apple cobbler out of the oven and with chicken frying on the stove. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the meal.
“This looks like a fine meal, daughter. What’s the occasion?”
“Company is coming to supper,” Fannie said, and turned the chicken in the frying pan before adding a small stick of wood to the stove. “Would you mind opening the window a bit, Father? It’s getting hot in here.”
“Certainly,” Orville said, and opened the windows beside their dining table. A tired breeze stirred the curtains just enough to let them know it was there. “What time is Harley coming?”
Fannie stopped. “Oh, it isn’t Harley. I haven’t seen him in days. Have you?”
Orville was so taken aback by the news that it wasn’t Harley they would be entertaining that, for a moment, he forgot to ask who was coming.
“No, I haven’t seen Harley, but I’m sure he—”
“He’s been keeping regular company with the whores at Myron Griggs’ saloon.”
Orville gasped. Not only was he shocked that she’d used the word whores, but that she knew of Harley’s indiscretions.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”
Fannie turned and faced her father, then pointed at him with the carving knife she was holding.
“Harley Charles doesn’t care for my feelings because he doesn’t care for me. He asked to marry me because he wants your money.”
Orville didn’t know what stunned him most—the fact that Fannie was pointing a knife at him, or that she’d figured Harley out. What she didn’t know, and what he hoped to God she never discovered, was that Orville was the one who’d promised Harley money if he’d take Fannie off his hands.
“Even so, you have to—”
Fannie’s chin jutted as she pointed the knife in Orville’s face.
“I don’t have to do anything,” Fannie said.
Orville suddenly remembered he was the boss in this house and raised his voice into a stern shout.
“You will lay down that knife and remember your place,” he said. “You are my daughter, and as long as you stay under this roof, you will do as I say.”
Fannie blinked back tears, determined not to let her father’s anger stop her.
“That’s just it, Father. I am doing what you say. If it wasn’t for you, Harley and I would have already married. You’re the one who called off the wedding. You’re the one who wouldn’t let that judge marry us. So if you don’t like what’s happening, you’re the one to bl
ame. Now stop shouting at me. I have to finish cooking this chicken, and then change into fresh garments before my company arrives.”
Orville’s frown deepened. “Your company? Exactly who is it who’s coming to supper?”
“Myron Griggs. Shall I set a place at the table for you, or are you going back to Henrietta’s again?”
Orville stared. “Griggs? Myron Griggs who owns the saloon?”
Fannie pretended to study the question, when she already knew the answer.
“Why yes… I believe he does own his own business which makes him quite the entrepreneur. I do so admire a man who shows initiative in this respect, don’t you, Father?”
“Yes… no… I won’t have it,” Orville sputtered.
Fannie stared at the chicken, pretending to misunderstand his remarks.
“I’m sorry, Father. Did Henrietta fix you chicken for dinner at noon? If I’d known, I would have chosen another course for us. As it is, it’s too late to fix another meat.”
In frustration, Orville grabbed a pot holder and threw it across the kitchen.
“I was not referring to the chicken. It looks fine.”
Fannie beamed. “Good. It’s almost done. You might want to wash up. Mr. Griggs will be here at six.”
“No. I won’t have it.”
Fannie shrugged. “Sorry. It’s chicken or nothing. Of course you could revisit Henrietta again. Maybe she’s serving up something besides what you had at noon.”
Orville blushed before he thought. Henrietta had served something different up at noon all right, but it had nothing to do with food. Then he remembered the point he’d been trying to make.
“I was not talking about chicken,” he shouted.
“Good,” Fannie said, and then gasped when there was a knock at the door. “That must be Mr. Griggs now.”
She handed Orville the knife and dashed out of the room before he could stop her. She knew her father well enough to know that he was basically a coward, and once Myron Griggs was inside their house, manners would forbid any sort of bad behavior.
