The Sheriff’s Surrender © 2009 by Susan Page Davis
The Gunsmith’s Gallantry © 2010 by Susan Page Davis
The Blacksmith’s Bravery © 2010 by Susan Page Davis
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-471-0
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-568-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-569-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
For more information about Susan Page Davis, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.susanpagedavis.com
Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
The Sheriff’s Surrender
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Discussion Questions
The Gunsmith’s Gallantry
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Discussion Questions
The Blacksmith’s Bravery
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Discussion Questions
About the Author
THE SHERIFF’S SURRENDER
DEDICATION:
To my first son-in-law, Tyler.
Thank you for taking such good care of our daughter and grandchildren, and for building great memories with us in Idaho.
CHAPTER 1
Fergus, Idaho
May 1885
Gert Dooley aimed at the scrap of red calico and squeezed the trigger. The Spencer rifle she held cracked, and the red cloth fifty yards away shivered.
“I’d say your shooting piece is in fine order.” She lowered the rifle and passed it to the owner, Cyrus Fennel. She didn’t particularly like Fennel, but he always paid her brother, the only gunsmith in Fergus, with hard money.
He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Dooley.” He shoved his hand into his pocket.
Gert knew he was fishing out a coin. This was the part her brother hated most—taking payment for his work. She turned away. Hiram would be embarrassed enough without her watching. She picked up the shawl she had let fall to the grass a few minutes earlier.
“That’s mighty fine shooting, Gert,” said Hiram’s friend, rancher Ethan Chapman. He’d come by earlier to see if Hiram would help him string a fence the next day. When Cyrus Fennel had arrived to pick up his repaired rifle, Ethan had sat down on the chopping block to watch Gert demonstrate the gun.
“Thank you kindly.” Gert accepted praise for shooting as a matter of course. Now, if Ethan had remarked that she looked fine today or some such pretty thing, she’d have been flustered. But he would never say anything like that. And shooting was just work.
Fennel levered the rifle’s action open and peered at the firing pin. “Looks good as new. I should be able to pick off those rats that are getting in my grain bins.”
“That’s quite a cannon for shooting rats,” Gert said.
Ethan stood and rested one foot on the chopping block, leaning forward with one arm on his knee. “You ought to hire Gert to shoot them for you.”
Gert scowled. “Why’d I want to do that? He can shoot his own rats.”
Hiram, who had pocketed his pay as quickly as possible, moved the straw he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. He never talked much. Men brought him their firearms to fix. Hiram listened to them tell him what the trouble was while eyeing the piece keenly. Then he’d look at Gert. She would tell them, “Come back next week.” Hiram would nod, and that was the extent of the conversation. Since his wife, Violet, had died eight years ago, the only person Hiram seemed to talk to much was Ethan.
Fennel turned toward her with a condescending smile. “Folks say you’re the best shot in Fergus, Miss Dooley.”
Gert shrugged. It wasn’t worth debating. She had sharp eyes, and she’d fired so many guns for Hiram to make sure they were in working order that she’d gotten good at it, that was all.
Ethan’s features, however, sprang to life. “Ain’t it the truth? Why, Gert can shoot the tail feathers off a jay at a hundred yards with a gun like that. Mighty fine rifle.” He nodded at Fennel’s Spencer, wincing as though he r
egretted not having a gun as fine.
“Well, now, I’m a fair shot myself,” Fennel said. “I could maybe hit that rag, too.”
“Let’s see you do it,” Ethan said.
Fennel jacked a cartridge into the Spencer, smiling as he did. The rag still hung limp from a notched stick and was silhouetted against the distant dirt bank across the field. He put his left foot forward and swung the butt of the stock up to his shoulder, paused motionless for a second, and pulled the trigger.
Gert watched the cloth, not the shooter. The stick shattered just at the bottom of the rag. She frowned. She’d have to find another stick next time. At least when she tested a gun, she clipped the edge of the cloth so her stand could be used again.
Hiram took the straw out of his mouth and threw it on the ground. Without a word, he strode to where the tattered red cloth lay a couple of yards from the splintered stick and brought the scrap back. He stooped for a piece of firewood from the pile he’d made before Fennel showed up. The stick he chose had split raggedly, and Hiram slid the bit of cloth into a crack.
Ethan stood beside Gert as they watched Hiram walk across the field, all the way to the dirt bank, and set the piece of firewood on end.
“Hmm.” Fennel cleared his throat and loaded several cartridges into the magazine. When Hiram was back beside them, he raised the gun again, held for a second, and fired. The stick with the bit of red stood unwavering.
“Let Gert try,” Ethan said.
“No need,” she said, looking down at her worn shoe tips peeping out beneath the hem of her skirt.
“Oh, come on.” Ethan’s coaxing smile tempted her.
Fennel held the rifle out. “Be my guest.”
Gert looked to her brother. Hiram gave the slightest nod then looked up at the sky, tracking the late afternoon sun as it slipped behind a cloud. She could do it, of course. She’d been firing guns for Hiram for years—since she came to Fergus and found him grieving the loss of his wife and baby. Folks had brought him more work than he could handle. They felt sorry for him, she supposed, and wanted to give him a distraction. Gert had begun test firing the guns as fast as he could fix them. She found it satisfying, and she’d kept doing it ever since. Thousands upon thousands of rounds she’d fired, from every type of small firearm, unintentionally building herself a reputation of sorts.
She didn’t usually make a show of her shooting prowess, but Fennel rubbed her the wrong way. She knew he wasn’t Hiram’s favorite patron either. He ran the Wells Fargo office now, but back when he ran the assay office, he’d bought up a lot of failed mines and grassland cheap. He owned a great deal of land around Fergus, including the spread Hiram had hoped to buy when he first came to Idaho. Distracted by his wife’s illness, Hiram hadn’t moved quickly enough to file claim on the land and had missed out. Instead of the ranch he’d wanted, he lived on his small lot in town and got by on his sporadic pay as a gunsmith.
Gert let her shawl slip from her fingers to the grass once more and took the rifle. As she focused on the distant stick of firewood, she thought, That hunk of wood is you, Mr. Rich Land Stealer. And that little piece of cloth is one of your rats.
She squeezed gently. The rifle recoiled against her shoulder, and the far stick of firewood jumped into the air then fell to earth, minus the red cloth.
“Well, I’ll be.” Fennel stared at her. “Are you always this accurate?”
“You ain’t seen nothing,” Ethan assured him.
Hiram actually cracked a smile, and Gert felt the blood rush to her cheeks even though Ethan hadn’t directly complimented her. She loved to see Hiram smile, something he seldom did.
“Mind sharing your secret, Miss Dooley?” Fennel asked.
Ethan chuckled. “I’ll tell you what it is. Every time she shoots, she pretends she’s aiming at something she really hates.”
“Aha.” Fennel smiled, too. “Might I ask what you were thinking of that time, ma’am?”
Gert’s mouth went dry. Never had she been so sorely tempted to tell a lie.
“Likely it was that coyote that kilt her rooster last month,” Hiram said.
Gert stared at him. He’d actually spoken. She knew when their eyes met that her brother had known exactly what she’d been thinking.
Ethan and Fennel both chuckled.
Of course I wouldn’t really think of killing him, Gert thought, even though he stole the land right out from under my grieving brother. The Good Book says don’t kill and don’t hate. Determined to heap coals of fire on her adversary’s head, she handed the Spencer back to him. “You’re not too bad a shot yourself, Mr. Fennel.”
His posture relaxed, and he opened his mouth all smiley, like he might say something pleasant back, but suddenly he stiffened. His eyes focused beyond Gert, toward the dirt street. “Who is that?”
Gert swung around to look as Ethan answered. “That’s Millicent Peart.”
“Don’t think I’ve seen her since last fall.” Fennel shook his head. “She sure is showing her age.”
“I don’t think Milzie came into town much over the winter,” Gert said.
For a moment, they watched the stooped figure hobble along the dirt street toward the emporium. Engulfed in a shapeless old coat, Milzie Peart leaned on a stick with each step. Her mouth worked as though she were talking to someone, but no one accompanied her.
“How long since her man passed on?” Ethan asked.
“Long time,” Gert said. “Ten years, maybe. She still lives at their cabin out Mountain Road.”
Fennel grimaced as the next house hid the retreating figure from view. “Pitiful.”
Ethan shrugged. “She’s kinda crazy, but I reckon she likes living on their homestead.”
Gert wondered how Milzie got by. It must be lonesome to have no one, not even a nearly silent brother, to talk to out there in the foothills.
“Supper in half an hour.” She turned away from the men and headed for the back porch of the little house she shared with Hiram. She hoped Fennel would take the hint and leave. And she hoped Ethan would stay for supper, but of course she would never say so.
CHAPTER 2
From across the street, Milzie Peart watched two women enter the Paragon Emporium. She would make that her last stop before heading home. Libby Adams always let her warm up by the stove, and sometimes she let Milzie have a broken packing crate. Once the store owner had even given her a cracked egg.
She turned away, wishing she had enough money to buy something to eat. Her scant supplies at the cabin always ran low this time of year, but this spring had turned out worse than other years. Bitsy Shepard, who owned the Spur & Saddle Saloon, had given her a biscuit earlier and shooed her off, but it wasn’t enough to fill her belly.
As Milzie pulled her woolen coat closer around her thin frame, a button popped off—the last of the metal, army-issue buttons. In the dusk, she saw it roll across the packed earth and under the weathered boardwalk that led to the Fergus jail. She went to her knees, heedless of the dirt grinding into her already filthy skirt, and stuck her hand beneath the edge of the walk. “Now where are you hidin’?”
A door opened, and she jerked her head up to see who was leaving the sheriff’s office. A man hurried down the steps ten yards away, leaving the door wide open. Not Sheriff Thalen. Milzie couldn’t make out his face in the dusk, but this man moved quicker than Bert Thalen. Not so broad through the shoulders either.
She expected him to come down the walkway, but instead he glanced her way, then slipped around the side of the building. She couldn’t say she recognized him. He wore a dark coat and felt hat, like all the men hereabouts.
She shivered. Her joints creaked as she hauled herself to her feet. She would have to improvise a way to keep her late husband’s old army coat closed—unless she could get the sheriff to lift the planks and retrieve that button for her.
She looked toward his office. The door still stood open to the chilly May evening. Bert ought to shut it. For the last fifteen years, Thalen
had presided over the town’s only jail cell. His office also held a desk and a woodstove. Smoke poured out the chimney. Milzie wasn’t sure she wanted to ask his help, but she wouldn’t mind warming her hands at his stove. Though the snow had been gone several weeks, the nights still dipped to near-freezing temperatures.
She shuffled to the jailhouse and winced as she slowly mounted the two steps. A whiff of cooking food tickled her nose. Baked beans. She peered inside. No one stood on ceremony with the sheriff of Fergus. You wanted something, you just walked in. Still, she hesitated, squinting into the dim interior. The outer room appeared to be empty, but she heard the fire sputtering in the box stove. Its heat felt good, and she eased inside, leaving the door open so she could see by the fading light that entered with her.
No one was in the cell—the barred door stood open. The sheriff must be in the back room. Or maybe he’d gone out and his visitor had missed him.
The tiny back room was smaller than the cell, with a bunk in it. The sheriff slept there if he had a prisoner, Milzie knew. He’d stayed there when he had her husband, Franklin, locked up for disorderly conduct years ago.
She edged closer to the stove. The warmth of the fire lured her, step by step.
“There now.” She held out her chilled hands. Her knuckles ached as the delicious heat spread through her.
At the back of the stove, a pan of beans simmered. The smell nigh made her ribs rub together. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the wooden spoon that rested against the edge of the pan and raised it to her lips. The sweet, hearty flavor filled her mouth and nostrils. Beans cooked with onions and salt pork, mustard and molasses.
She looked over her shoulder. Bert Thalen could walk in at any moment. Reluctantly, she set the spoon back in the pan and limped toward the doorway to the back room. If he was here, maybe he’d find her button and give her a plate of those savory beans.
A stick of split firewood lay on the floor near the doorway. She grabbed the doorjamb to brace against and stooped to pick it up. Her hip ached, and she straightened, panting. She caught her breath, trudged slowly to the wood box, and dropped the stick in. Sheriff ought to take better care of things.
Again, she limped to the doorway. If he was in there, he was sure being quiet.
The Bride's Prerogative Page 1
