The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “That gun’s the size of a cannon.” Gert snatched her apron from a hook and tied it on. “You ever seen it? She said it was her dead husband’s gun.”

  “Once. Big old Hawken.” Hiram nodded as if he could see the thick barrel and heavy stock.

  “That’s right. And Milzie has no idea what load it takes.”

  Hiram scratched his head. “That one can handle most any powder load. But you don’t want to turn her loose with it, do ya?”

  Gert had neared the cupboard, but her step faltered. She turned to face Hiram and brushed back a wisp of hair that had come loose and fluttered about her cheek. “I couldn’t send her away.”

  Libby nodded. “I know how you feel. She comes into the store, and other people don’t like it because she …” She stopped, feeling an unwelcome flush creep up her cheeks. Even though Milzie wasn’t present, Libby couldn’t bear to speak ill of her. “Well, she looks … unkempt.”

  “And she smells,” Gert added.

  “Well, yes.”

  Gert opened the cupboard and took out an empty pottery bowl. Her jaw dropped, and she stared at her brother. “Don’t tell me you ate all those cookies.”

  Hiram ducked his head. “Me ‘n’ Ethan.”

  “Oh. Well, that makes it all right then.” Gert slammed the bowl back onto the shelf and shook her head. “I’ll tell you, Libby, since Ethan Chapman took the sheriffing job, I don’t think he ever eats at home anymore.”

  Libby smiled as she watched Gert’s jerky movements about the kitchen. “Well, you’re so handy to the jailhouse.”

  Hiram’s eyes lit, and he nodded at her with a slight twitch to his lips. Libby nearly laughed aloud, but Gert kept up the injured air.

  “That man eats twice as much as my brother, and that’s the truth.”

  Libby started to speak but caught herself. Perhaps he needs a wife. That’s what she’d wanted to say. But something about Gert’s agitation told her this wasn’t the time to tease. If Gert had feelings for the sheriff, teasing might cut deep, especially if Ethan didn’t look at her in the same light.

  Ethan hadn’t showed an interest in ladies since he came home from the Indian wars. He’d seemed a normal, fun-loving young man before he went away, but now his face stayed frozen in serious lines. He kept to his ranch. Unlike a lot of former cavalrymen, he didn’t frequent the saloons. The single women had hoped he’d enter the limited social circle of Fergus, but he’d disappointed them. Even Florence had sighed over him for a while, but she’d given up, declaring Ethan immune to feminine charms. Libby wasn’t so sure. The fact that he and Hiram Dooley had drawn together made her think they understood their mutual sorrow. They could be friends without talking about Hiram’s dead wife and baby or the Bannock War, or whatever it was that kept Ethan bottled up.

  And Gert was in the middle of it. She probably saw Ethan more than any other woman in Fergus, and she saw him more often than she did any other man except her brother. Why shouldn’t she have feelings for him? But if Ethan didn’t wish to marry, Gert could expect nothing more than a broken heart. No, this wasn’t the time to tease her.

  Libby cleared her throat. “I’ve made a list of the women’s firearms, Hiram. When I get back to the store, I’ll inventory what I have for ammunition, but we go through a lot when we practice. The shipment I got last week is nearly gone already. I plan to order in a large supply. If you can give me a few guidelines, I’ll make sure no one has trouble getting the proper cartridges again.” She handed him a slip of paper.

  Gert lifted the lid on the teakettle sitting on the cookstove. “Say.” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “Where’s my kerchief?” She touched her hand to her neckline, feeling inside her collar.

  “You took it off out in the valley,” Libby said.

  “Yes. It was warm in the sun. I stuck it in the saddlebag. But when we put the horses up, I took everything out again, and I didn’t see it.”

  Hiram shrugged and bent over Libby’s list. His light hair spilled over his brow, and he pushed it back absently with almost the same gesture Gert used.

  “Get this for Milzie.” He pointed with his pencil to where he’d written the ball size and powder grains for the load. “The rest looks fine. But if you think some others might bring muzzle loaders, you may want to lay in some extra lead balls in a smaller size.” He scrawled another note. “You usually have plenty of powder.”

  Libby nodded and took the paper. “Thank you. I’ve decided to go to Boise on the stagecoach and see about the order. When I send it by mail, they don’t always ship exactly what I want.”

  “When are you going?” Gert asked.

  “Maybe Wednesday, if Florence thinks she can handle the store all day. And now I’d better get back over there. Florence went ahead to the store alone, but she may need me.”

  As she turned to leave, she noted that Gert had set out a large mixing bowl, a crock of rolled oats, and another of brown sugar. She grabbed a small jar of cinnamon off the shelf. Unless Libby was mistaken, Hiram and Ethan would soon have a new supply of cookies.

  CHAPTER 14

  Would you mind stepping over to the stagecoach office with me?” Libby asked the next morning.

  Gert had come to the emporium for more brown sugar, but if Libby needed a favor, she allowed she had time. “If you like.”

  “I do.”

  Libby turned to Florence. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She reached for a smart blue bonnet that matched her store-bought woolen dress. Gert walked with her to the door as Libby tied the wide ribbons under her chin.

  Once outside, Libby leaned close to Gert. “I don’t like going over to Mr. Fennel’s office alone.”

  Gert raised her eyebrows and pulled Libby to a stop near the wall of the store. “Does he … bother you?”

  Libby smiled sheepishly. “Not really. Sometimes he comes out of his office and looks at me when I’m outside washing the front window or helping someone carry out their bundles. He stands on the boardwalk down there and … just watches. That’s all.”

  “Think he’s sweet on you?” Gert looked down the sidewalk toward Fennel’s place of business. “He’s been widowed nigh on three years now.”

  Libby grimaced. “To be honest, he came around once and asked me to take Sunday dinner with him at the Spur & Saddle. It was only a month after Isaac died, and I didn’t want to. It seemed in poor taste for him to ask me so soon.”

  “Some folks remarry mighty quick out here.”

  “Yes, but … I don’t need a husband. Isaac left me with a good business and a tidy sum of savings. Not that I’d say that to just anyone, you understand.”

  Gert nodded soberly. “That’s one reason I stayed on with Hiram. So’s he wouldn’t think he needed to go looking for a wife to replace Violet.”

  “Poor man,” Libby murmured. “He cared deeply for Violet.”

  “Yes, he did. And if he’d gone to baching it after she died, the women in this town would have inundated him with kindnesses he didn’t want.”

  “Perhaps so. But … supposing someday he decides he wants to marry?”

  “Then I’ll move out. I could find employment, I expect. Or I could go back to Maine.”

  “Are your folks still living?” Libby asked.

  “Yes. Our pa builds boats. That’s where Hiram learned to use tools, in Papa’s shop.”

  “That’s interesting. But now he’s out here where there’s no call for boats.”

  “He likes guns. He likes anything mechanical, really. And if I ever thought he’d formed an attachment for a lady, I wouldn’t stand in his way. I’d like to see Hi happy again.”

  Libby nodded. “I expect he feels the same way about you. If you decided to take a husband, I mean.”

  Gert huffed out a breath. “No chance of that.”

  “I don’t know why you say that.”

  “Look at me. I’m just … just Gertrude Dooley, spinster. The gunsmith’s sister, homely and drab.”

  “You’re not homely, and you
don’t need to be drab.” Libby could tell her words made no impression. She took Gert’s arm. “If you ever need a job, come and see me. Come on, now. Let’s get this done.”

  They walked the short distance to Cyrus’s office. The sign WELLS FARGO Co. swung over the boardwalk. Fennel sat at the desk inside but jumped up when they entered.

  “Ladies, welcome! How delightful to have you here. How may I be of service today?”

  Libby stepped forward. “I’d like a ticket to Boise on tomorrow’s stage, please.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Cyrus turned to a set of shelves beside his desk and took out a ticket book. “Business or pleasure, if I may ask?”

  “Business,” Libby said.

  “Ah. Scouting new merchandise for the Paragon Emporium?”

  “You might say that.”

  Cyrus looked at Gert. “And are you riding along as well, Miss Dooley?”

  “Nope.”

  He nodded and made out Libby’s ticket. “That will be three dollars and thirty cents, please.”

  Gert winced at the amount, but Libby opened a small purse and counted out the money.

  “I’ll have a crate or two on the way back,” Libby said. “Will that be all right?”

  “So long as we don’t have a coach full of passengers who have a lot of luggage.” Cyrus stood and handed her the pasteboard ticket. “Will it be heavy freight?”

  Gert laughed. “Not unless you call lead heavy.”

  “Lead?” Cyrus frowned at her.

  “Well, I was thinking of picking up some braid and yarn, too,” Libby said. “They’re not heavy.”

  “Oh no, not at all. But … lead? Are we talking about bullets?”

  Libby nodded. “I need to get some special sizes of ammunition. Some of my customers have found it hard to obtain bullets to fit their firearms.”

  Cyrus’s face went stony. “For the shooting ladies?”

  “Well … some of it,” Libby admitted.

  “I’m not sure I can let you do that.”

  “What?” Libby’s face froze with her mouth open and her eyebrows lost up under the brim of her fetching bonnet.

  “It might not be safe for other passengers for you to carry a quantity of ammunition over these mountain roads.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Libby said. “People carry guns and bullets on the stagecoach all the time. It’s expected of your shotgun messengers.”

  “Ah, but not cases of live cartridges. We don’t carry kegs of gunpowder either. Too volatile. The stagecoach line has the right to refuse dangerous cargo.”

  Libby turned to stare at Gert, her mouth open and her lovely eyes wide. Gert had the distinct feeling she needed to help her friend out of this mess, especially since she was the one who’d mentioned lead.

  “You’ve already sold her the ticket.”

  Cyrus glared at her. “That was before I knew what she was planning to carry on our coach.”

  Gert threw her shoulders back. “So you’ll refuse to let her board the stagecoach?”

  “She can ride to Boise anytime. She just can’t bring back a large quantity of ammunition.”

  Libby held out one hand toward Cyrus. “Maybe I’ll hire the freighter to haul it in. Though some of my customers won’t be happy with the delay.”

  “Hogwash!” Gert stepped between Libby and Cyrus. “You’re only doing this because you don’t like us women out there learning to protect ourselves. You’re one of those pigheaded men who thinks women should be home knitting and baking biscuits all day.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Gert, dear, please don’t overset yourself.” Libby tugged gently on Gert’s sleeve. “Please, we’ll find another way to deal with this. Now, Mr. Fennel, if you’d kindly refund the price of my ticket—”

  “We don’t generally do refunds,” Cyrus said.

  “Of all the nerve!” Gert shoved Libby aside. “I’ve never seen anything so rude and stingy in my life. You’re the one who won’t let her bring her merchandise on the coach, and it hasn’t been three minutes since you took her money. That is the meanest, nastiest thing I’ve ever—!”

  “Morning, folks. Is there a problem?” A shadow darkened the door as the deep voice cut her off. Gert whirled and looked into Ethan’s face. His brown eyes kept the gentle, coon-dog cast they always held, but his jaw tightened as he took in the scene.

  “Sheriff, you’re just the person we need.” Gert grasped his arm and pulled him into the office. “Mr. Fennel says Libby can’t carry a stock of ammunition on the stagecoach, and now he refuses to give her back the price of her ticket.”

  “Gert, really. It’s nothing.” Libby’s face went scarlet. “It’s only three dollars and thirty cents.”

  “But you bought that ticket in good faith not five minutes ago.”

  Ethan stepped forward with both hands raised. “Ladies, please.” He stopped only a pace distant from Cyrus and looked him in the eye. “Mr. Fennel, what’s the problem here?”

  Cyrus’s mouth drooped, and he reached for his pen. “I suppose I can make an exception this once and refund your money, Mrs. Adams. But I’ll not have you transporting dangerous cargo on the stage.”

  Gert opened her mouth again, but Ethan caught her eye, and she divined from his expression that this would be a good time to keep silence. “I’ll be outside,” she muttered to Libby.

  The bright sunshine nearly blinded her, and she wished she’d remembered to wear a bonnet. She’d thought she could get by without it on a quick run across the street to the emporium. Now, if she had a bonnet that matched her eyes, like Libby had … no, that wouldn’t work. Gert’s would be a lackluster gray blue, not at all attractive.

  The fact that Cyrus had backed down when the sheriff appeared didn’t appease her anger. Fennel wasn’t the only man in this town who seemed to think women couldn’t handle their own affairs and needed a man to tend to business for them. Men who thought that way found her and the ladies’ shooting group offensive. Gert wondered if it didn’t threaten their pride. The men of Fergus somehow felt less heroic and manly if their women carried weapons. Well, in her book, the men of Fergus needed to show some evidence that they were capable of protecting their women and children. When they proved up, the ladies would be happy to back off and let them do all the defending and strutting they wanted.

  Libby and Ethan came out of the office.

  “You got your feathers smoothed down now?” Ethan eyed her doubtfully.

  “Not hardly.”

  He shook his head. “You said some fighting words in there.”

  “He was being downright churlish to Libby.”

  “Well, now, that may be, but it’s your opinion. The man’s got company policies to deal with, but he made an exception.”

  “Exception!” Gert kicked at the bench outside the office and wished she hadn’t. Her big toe smarted. “He’s still mad at her because she wouldn’t—” At that moment, Gert glanced Libby’s way and took note of her stricken face. The widow had revealed Cyrus’s advances to her in confidence. Gert’s chest hurt as she realized how close she’d come to blabbing her friend’s secret on the main street of town, in a place where Cyrus could probably hear every word she said through his flimsy office walls. She ducked her head. “Forget it.”

  “Yes, that would be best.” Ethan’s eyelids stayed halfway closed as he looked at her. Probably he meant for her to see he wasn’t happy with her performance, but all Gert could think was how the sunlight threw elongated shadows of his lashes onto his cheek. Odd that she’d never noticed his eyelashes before.

  She turned away swiftly and nearly bumped into Libby.

  “Come on, Libby; let’s go over to my house. I’ll bet Hiram would make a run to Boise for you to fetch that ammunition. Let’s give him the list.”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, it can’t. We have practice again Thursday afternoon, and you’ve got three women with no bullets. How can they learn to shoot if they haven’t got bullets?” />
  “Here comes the stage,” Ethan said, and Gert raised her chin, looking down the street. Cyrus came to the door of the office, holding his gold pocket watch, and the three of them stepped aside in unison to allow him plenty of room on the boardwalk.

  “Right on time.”

  As the stagecoach drew up in a whirlwind of dust, Ethan drew Gert back a step. Cyrus was now between them and the direct path to the emporium. If they wanted to go there immediately, they’d have to go out into the street, around the coach and team, or else elbow through the people now descending from the vehicle.

  “Look,” Libby hissed, and Gert stared toward the open door of the stagecoach.

  Cyrus was helping a woman of about thirty-five climb down, and her gaze swept the street. Her crisp black traveling dress held the inevitable wrinkles and dust of the road through the valley, but her pleasant expression gave Gert a jolt of anticipation. The woman’s hem nearly touched the boards underfoot, which bespoke an Easterner, but her dress was well cut from a serviceable fabric meant to withstand the rigors of the journey.

  Behind her, a man disembarked. His bowler hat and worsted suit also pegged him as an outlander. He met the woman’s gaze with a tired smile.

  “Well, Apphia, we’ve made it at last.”

  “Welcome to Fergus.” Cyrus extended his hand to the man. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  Instead of the usual complaints about the rough roads and jolting coach, the man grinned. “Indeed we did, sir. I’m Phineas Benton—the Reverend Phineas Benton. This is Mrs. Benton. We hope to make Fergus our new home.”

  Gert gasped. Mrs. Benton looked her way and smiled again.

  “Hello.”

  Libby leaped toward the woman, and Mrs. Benton held out her gloved hand. “I’m glad to see some civilized ladies live in town.”

  “My dear madam, you have no idea how happy we are to see you. I’m Elizabeth Adams, and I own the Paragon Emporium, behind you.”

  Mrs. Benton looked over her shoulder. “An impressive establishment, Mrs. Adams.”

  Libby turned and yanked Gert forward. “This is my friend, Gertrude Dooley. Her brother is a gunsmith, and Miss Dooley makes her home with him.”