The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  Ethan started to put his misshapen felt hat back on, but Mayor Walker said, “Cyrus, would you lead us in prayer?”

  Cy Fennel cleared his throat, and all the men dropped their hands back to their sides, holding their hats ready. Hopefully, Cyrus would have the sense to make it quick.

  “Dear Lord, we ask You to take Bert into Your house and let him live in bliss forever among the angels. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Ethan said firmly, though he wasn’t sure they’d be rubbing elbows with the angels when they passed over.

  As he at last pulled his hat low over his ears, the mayor spoke again.

  “The ladies have laid out refreshments in the schoolhouse, but before we partake, there’s a bit of town business we need to tend to. We’ll try to keep it brief, but we need you all there. And I’m told we’ve got beans, corn cake, and dried apple pie, with sundry other delectables for when we’re done. So get on over to the schoolhouse.”

  The crowd broke ranks, turning their backs swiftly on the open grave. Hiram and Griffin circled the mound of dirt at the foot end of the hole, where they’d stashed a couple of spades that morning. Gert Dooley stayed nearby, watching the people leave in an arrow-straight line for the schoolhouse.

  “I can help.” Ethan stepped up beside Hiram. “You two did all the digging this morning.”

  Hiram shrugged and dug the blade of his spade into the pile of loose earth.

  “Thanks, Ethan. We’ll be fine.” Griffin hefted his spade.

  “I don’t mind,” Ethan said. “Hiram, why don’t you take your sister over to the schoolhouse? It’s chilly out here. Gert would probably appreciate getting inside.”

  Hiram paused and looked uncertainly from Gert to Ethan and back. “You go on,” he said at last.

  Ethan shook his head and reached for the spade handle. Gert was a nice young woman, but he’d rather stay out in the cold a little longer than let the whole town think he was walking out with her. He’d decided long ago not to go down the courtship road.

  Hiram eyed him for a long moment then handed him the spade and brushed off his hands. He turned and crooked his elbow for his sister, and they followed the others. Gert held her back as straight as a poker. A belated thought crossed Ethan’s mind that he may have insulted her without meaning to.

  He plied the spade vigorously, hoping the work would warm him up. May 5 ought to be warmer than this, but the distant mountains still held their snowcaps. Griffin labored silently with him. They had nearly leveled the pile when Gert came puffing back to the graveside.

  “Ethan!” She pulled up, panting. “You’re needed at the schoolhouse.”

  “What for?” He straightened and stared at her.

  “Just come. Quick. Folks are getting impatient to eat.” She turned away and walked back the way she’d come.

  Now why had she asked for him and not Griffin? Ethan looked over at him, but the blacksmith merely shrugged.

  “I never knew people in Fergus to keep the food back waiting for anyone,” Ethan said.

  “Mm. Like one pig waits for another.” Griffin stuck his spade in the dirt. “Come on, we might as well see what the fuss is about.”

  They trudged together toward the rough log building on the edge of town. Fergus had a scanty school roll these days—seemed most of the children had grown up or families with young’uns had moved away. Isabel Fennel, Cyrus’s daughter, kept school for fewer than a dozen pupils.

  As they stepped into the schoolhouse and removed their hats, the warmth and smell of many people close together hit Ethan, but subtle food scents softened it. Griffin followed him through the small cloakroom into the back of the classroom.

  “Here he is,” boomed Augie Moore.

  “Yeah, Ethan.”

  He looked toward the voice but couldn’t pick out the speaker. From the front of the room by Isabel’s desk, Mayor Walker spoke. “Ethan, come on up here, please.”

  Ethan arched his eyebrows and put one hand to his chest as if to say, “Who, me?”

  The mayor nodded. “That’s right, son, come right up here.”

  Slowly, Ethan walked the aisle, feeling at least fifty pairs of eyes boring into him. People packed all the benches, and at least a dozen men stood along the walls. He stopped a yard from the mayor and stood still with his hat in his dirty hands. “Yes, sir?”

  “Ethan, I’m appointing you as interim sheriff of Fergus until we have a chance to organize a proper election.”

  Ethan’s jaw dropped, and immediately he snapped it shut. No use looking like a fool, even though he felt like one.

  Mayor Walker continued. “The people agree with me that you’re the best choice for the job, so I’ll just pin Bert Thalen’s star on your coat, there, and—”

  “Hold it.” Ethan stepped back and threw one hand up as the mayor leaned toward him with the business end of the star’s pin pointed at his chest. “I’m not sure I want that job, thank you.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve lived next to Bert for a long time, and you’ve helped him plenty. He even deputized you when he had to throw those ruffians off Cold Creek a couple of years back.”

  “That’s right, Ethan,” Cyrus said jovially from where he leaned against the log wall with his arms folded. “You’re just the man for this job. Young, healthy, strong, and always on the right side of the law.”

  Someone started clapping, and the crowd took it up.

  “Hey, Ethan! Speech!” voices called out.

  He turned to face the crowd and held up both hands, in one of which he still held his hat.

  “Folks, please.”

  “Let him speak!” The mayor couldn’t seem to talk loudly without going shrill. The shouts subsided.

  Suddenly all was as quiet as the moment after an owl screeches. Ethan swallowed hard.

  “Folks, I dunno where this notion came from, but the truth is, I don’t think I’m qualified. Besides, my ranch doesn’t leave me time to perform official duties. The sheriff has to spend a lot of nights in town. I just can’t do that.”

  “Hogwash!”

  Ethan felt the blood rush to his face. That would be one of the stagecoach drivers. He was only in Fergus two nights a week. Did he even qualify as a citizen?

  Cyrus Fennel again spoke up, and everyone looked toward him. “Now Ethan, it’s only until we have time to sort things out and find someone permanent. But you meet all the requirements for the job.”

  “I do?”

  “Well, sure.” Cyrus unfolded his arms. “Besides the things I mentioned before, you don’t have a family.”

  Ethan gulped. He surely didn’t want a job where they wanted you to have no wife or kiddies to notify when you got killed.

  “I—”

  “And you served in the army.”

  Ethan’s heart sank. The last thing he wanted aired in public was his part in the so-called Indian wars six and eight years ago.

  “You know how to shoot and how to act under pressure,” Cyrus went on. “And you’ve got good horses and guns. The town wouldn’t have to provide those.”

  Mayor Walker said quickly, “Of course, we’ll pay you with that in mind. Same as we paid Bert. All the business owners in town will kick in.”

  Ethan frowned. “I don’t want the people to have to scrape up money to pay me.”

  “You mean you’ll do it for free?” Augie yelled.

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  The room erupted in shouting and whistling.

  The mayor picked up the stick his daughter used as a pointer during classes and tapped it on the desk. “Here, now. Settle down. Of course we’ll pay the sheriff. It’s a dangerous job.”

  “That’s right,” Cyrus said as the people calmed down. “Can’t ask Ethan to leave off working his ranch anytime we need him without pay.”

  The mayor stepped closer and bent his neck back to look up at Ethan. “Truth is, I can’t think of anyone else who’s as well qualified as you are. Can’t you help us out for a few weeks?”

  E
than looked out over all the faces—the rawboned ranchers and weathered old-timers, the resolute women and the young men determined to make a go of it in Idaho Territory. Hiram stared at him with gray blue eyes, his mouth in a straight line, offering no persuasion, merely waiting to see what his friend would decide. Beside him, Gert gazed at him with the same solemn eyes and thatch of straw-colored hair, but her plain face held an eager sympathy that somehow made Ethan wish he wanted the job. Gert worked hard, and someone ought to do something nice for her now and then.

  He shifted his gaze. If he didn’t watch it, he’d find himself a lawman out of sympathy. Sure, the women of Fergus were unsettled by Bert’s death. He’d heard several asking this morning how the sheriff had died and if the town was safe. Did duty demand that he saddle himself with Bert’s job just to allay their anxiety?

  The faces of the women finally turned the corner for him. He wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away from here knowing Gert and Bitsy and Libby Adams and Mrs. Walker and all the ranch wives were afraid. Most of them had followed men here with at least an implied promise that civilization would prevail in Fergus. Ethan couldn’t let the whole town down.

  He cleared his throat and looked at Mayor Walker.

  The older man’s eyes widened. “Well? What do you say?”

  Ethan reached his hand out slowly, and the whole town exhaled as he took the metal star.

  CHAPTER 5

  All semblance of order disappeared after the mayor declared it was time to eat. Gert squeezed between people to get to the front of the room where the tables of food were set up. She found her apron and joined several other women to help dish up beans and stews.

  People in Fergus had practical funeral customs. Women took food and aprons. Men took tin plates and cups and their appetites. After the deceased was laid to rest, an hour of good food and conversation followed, as sure as the corpse stayed in the grave.

  Libby smiled wanly at Gert as she tied her apron strings behind her back. “Afternoon, Gert. What did you bring?”

  “Four pies.”

  “Good for you. I hope there’s some left for us.” They didn’t converse much as they served the long line of townsfolk, at least three-quarters of whom were men. Some of the ranchers made cheeky comments to the women serving the food. Gert noticed that they teased Florence, the young clerk from Libby’s store, the most. A few made comments to Gert. A couple of men stared outright at Libby. Though most folks knew she wasn’t looking to remarry, a few diehards continued trying to impress her.

  “Well, Miz Adams,” one cowpoke from Micah Landry’s ranch said with a grin as Libby plopped a large square of corn bread on his plate. “You look purty as a peach orchard today.”

  “Thank you, Parnell. I’ve never seen a peach orchard, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It’s a mighty purty sight, ma’am.”

  Libby chuckled. “Thank you. Next.”

  “Oh, wait,” Parnell cried. “I was gonna ask if I could call on you, ma’am.”

  “No, thank you,” Libby said. “Next.”

  Gert marveled that Libby could brush off a suitor so serenely.

  Parnell huffed out a breath. “But—”

  “Just move along, Parnell,” said the next man in line.

  Gert straightened her spine and dipped her spoon into the bean pot without meeting the man’s gaze. Jamin Morell ran the Nugget, the new saloon in town. Gert held him personally responsible for the noise on the Nugget’s end of the street on Saturday nights.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” After he’d stepped over in front of Libby for corn bread, Gert sneaked a disapproving glance at him. His suit must have come from back East. The material was finer than what Libby stocked at the Paragon Emporium, and anyway, Gert doubted any woman in Fergus could tailor that well. His swirly-patterned silk waistcoat would be something to stare at if she didn’t have to worry about him staring back.

  Jamin beamed a toothy smile at Libby. “Good day, ma’am. That looks delicious.”

  Gert turned to serve the next man in line.

  “Howdy, Gert.”

  Ethan’s strained smile melted her heart. She could tell he’d hated to take the sheriff’s position, but when he saw the need, he’d stepped up and accepted the duty. Ethan Chapman had to be the finest man in Fergus. After Hiram, of course, though her brother had slacked off on taking part in civic activities since Violet died. Before that, Hiram used to talk and even laugh with his customers. He’d squired Violet around town when she needed to shop, and he’d offered to help ranchers who were laid up. All that politeness and neighborliness had ended when Violet drew her last breath.

  Well, no sense thinking about that. Right now the town’s new sheriff was smiling at her.

  “Congratulations, Ethan,” she said softly. “I think the mayor chose the right man for the job.” Of course, Cy Fennel did the actual choosing, and Mayor Walker had carried out his wishes, as always, but she would never say that to Ethan. It was fitting that he’d been chosen, no matter who orchestrated it.

  He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know about that, but it seemed someone needed to do it, and we wouldn’t get any food until they did.”

  Ethan could always make her laugh. She loved it when he spent time with Hiram and coaxed a smile or two out of him as well.

  “You’ll do a good job.” She ladled a generous serving of beans onto his plate.

  “This your mess?” He nodded toward the bean pot.

  “No, Annie Harper brought ‘em. I brought pies.”

  He glanced down the tables toward where the desserts waited. “I’ll be sure and get some. I know they’ll be good.”

  Gert was still smiling when she turned to the next in line—sour-faced Orissa Walker.

  An hour later, she and the other women scraped out the pans and retrieved the biscuits and pie they’d hidden away to be sure they got something.

  “I should get back and open the emporium,” Libby said as she sank onto a bench.

  “I could open for you, Miz Adams,” Florence said. She sat down, balancing her plate and a tin cup of cider.

  “We’ll both go,” Libby replied. “As soon as we finish eating and cleaning up.”

  “You’ve done enough,” Gert said. “We’ve got plenty of women to clean up. If folks will remember to take their dishes, there won’t be much to do anyway. Hiram will put all the benches back.”

  The crowd continued to thin. Bitsy Shepard and Goldie, one of her saloon girls, collected the four large pans in which Bitsy’s contribution for the meal had arrived—sliced roast beef, a mess of succotash, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a deep-dish dried pumpkin pie big enough to feed two dozen people.

  “Thanks for sending all that food, Bitsy,” Gert called.

  Bitsy’s gaze lit on her, and she smiled. “‘Tweren’t nothing.”

  “Sure it was,” Libby said. “Most folks hereabouts don’t eat that well unless they go to the Spur & Saddle for Sunday dinner.”

  Bitsy flushed, which Gert thought a remarkable feat for a saloon owner of twenty years’ standing. “I do thank you.” She and Goldie hustled toward the door, their satin skirts rustling. Gert wondered if they’d chosen their least flamboyant dresses for the funeral. Bitsy’s was a deep wine red, and Goldie’s too-short green overskirt showed a ruffle of gold beneath and a scandalous hint of dark stockings.

  Gert turned back to Libby and Florence. “Bitsy always thought a lot of Bert.”

  “Yes,” Libby agreed, “but she’d have done the same for anyone in this town.”

  Libby took the prize for genuine sweetness, Gert decided. Some of the town’s women wouldn’t give Bitsy the time of day. But Libby always had a kind word for anyone—a ranch hand, a saloon girl, or the mayor’s prim wife. She was more than passably pretty, too, with her golden hair and vivid blue eyes—the way Gert had always wished her own had turned out, instead of this scraggly hair the color of dishwater and eyes li
ke the smoke coming out of the chimney when Hiram burned greasewood. No wonder all the men in town hankered after the lovely widow. But Libby gently discouraged all who came courting.

  Gert lifted her last forkful of roast to her mouth. Bitsy surely could cook, no denying that. Or maybe the rumors were true and Augie Moore did a lot of the cooking for her during the day, putting on his bartender’s apron when the men began to gather after supper.

  Libby stood. “If you’re sure you don’t need me …”

  Gert shook her head and waved a hand at the nearly empty food tables. “Git. There’s barely a thing left.”

  Her friend hesitated and looked around the hall. She leaned close to Gert’s ear. “Have you heard anyone say for sure how Bert died?”

  “Just what Ethan said yesterday. He hit his head.”

  “I can’t help thinking about it and wondering.”

  Gert studied Libby’s face. “You mean … maybe someone hit it for him? Nobody’s said as much.”

  “Good. I probably worry too much.” Libby turned toward the door. “Come on, Florence. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss some business.”

  As the two left the schoolroom, Gert’s gaze drifted again to Ethan. He stood near the stove with the mayor and Cyrus. She wondered what Mayor Walker was saying so earnestly. To one side, Jamin Morrell sat sipping from a tin cup. He almost seemed to be listening to the men’s conversation. Gert had no use for Morrell. He’d come to Fergus a year past and opened the Nugget Saloon on the opposite end of Main Street from Bitsy’s establishment. Not that Gert approved of Bitsy’s business, but compared to the Nugget, the Spur & Saddle was practically genteel. Morrell took a long pull from his cup, and suddenly Gert wondered if he’d sneaked a bottle of spirits into the schoolhouse.

  After a moment, the two older men clapped Ethan on the back and left him. Cyrus went out the door, and Mayor Walker joined his wife and a couple who owned a ranch east of town.

  Gert busied herself setting the few remaining pans closer together so she and Mrs. Landry could clear off one table. No sense letting folks see her making calf eyes at her brother’s friend—the new sheriff, that is. She smiled to herself. Ethan might not be overly comfortable with his new position, but she couldn’t think of a better candidate for the job. Not another man in Fergus could be as impartial and honest as Ethan Chapman.