The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Dooley.” Mrs. Benton took her hand and bowed her head.

  “H–hello.” Gert tried not to stare at the woman. Even with a layer of travel dust, the dark hair that framed her face looked thick and glossy, and her warm brown eyes radiated sincere satisfaction.

  Cyrus nodded toward Ethan. “This is Sheriff Chapman. Sheriff, may I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Benton?”

  Ethan bobbed his head and briefly shook hands with them. “Sir. Ma’am. Welcome.”

  “Are you a preacher?” Gert gulped as they all stared at her. Stupid thing to say. He’d told them he was a reverend.

  Mr. Benton’s laugh rang out and echoed off the facades of the empty buildings across the street, but his expression was not unkind. “Indeed I am, ma’am. That’s why we’ve come here from St. Louis. Could one of you please direct me to a Mr. Jamin Morrell?”

  “Morrell?” Cyrus’s jaw sagged. “You want to see Morrell, Reverend?”

  “Why, yes. I assume he’s chairman of the pulpit committee. He’s the one who invited us to come and minister here in Fergus.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Cyrus was never one to let flies settle on him. He turned to Ethan and smiled. “Sheriff, I believe the mayor ought to be notified of this happy event. Would you mind stepping over to his house and telling Mr. and Mrs. Walker that a man of the cloth has arrived in town?”

  In his attempt to carry out Cyrus’s idea swiftly, Ethan practically fell over the Bentons’ luggage. Within a couple of minutes, the mayor was pumping the reverend’s hand and beaming as though he’d personally issued the call to shepherd the wayward flock of Fergus. Orissa Walker, her color high and her hat slightly askew, also welcomed the couple and insisted they retire to her parlor for refreshment.

  “How kind of you,” Mrs. Benton said.

  “We should be delighted.” Her husband held his bowler hat to his chest and bowed as though Mrs. Walker had lifted a burden from his shoulders, which she probably had. No doubt the minister and his wife had wondered where they would have their next meal.

  Libby excused herself so she could get back to her store. As the Bentons bid the gracious widow good-bye, Cyrus heard Orissa whisper to Gert, “Can you run to Annie Harper’s for me? See if she and Myra can help prepare a company luncheon in my kitchen?”

  Gert nodded.

  “We’ll have the Bentons, the town council members, and of course the mayor and myself. If you’re able to help, I’d be most grateful.”

  Gert made no commitments but scooted away on the other side of the stagecoach. Cyrus told the shotgun rider to carry the Bentons’ luggage to the mayor’s house until further arrangements were made. Nick Telford, the driver, gathered the reins and started the team toward the livery.

  “Cyrus, you’ll accompany us home, won’t you?” the mayor asked.

  “Certainly. But I need to take care of one small item first.”

  As the Walkers herded the new clergyman and his wife toward their home, Cyrus strode quickly down the boardwalk to the telegraph office. A quarter of an hour later he had his reply—Phineas Benton’s credentials stood up. Such was modern-day America—pace for fifteen minutes, and someone in St. Louis considered your question and sent you an answer. He still wasn’t sure how saloon keeper Jamin Morrell had managed it, but the Reverend Phineas Benton was the genuine article.

  When Cyrus reached the Walkers’ home, Oscar Runnels had already heard the news and answered the summons. He sat in the parlor drinking tea and inquiring about the Bentons’ trip and whether they were related to the Bentons of Lewiston. The two other council members showed up soon after—Griffin Bane and Zachary Harper, whose wife presumably raced around the kitchen while her hostess sat languidly conversing with the Bentons. Someone was out there anyway. Pleasing smells emanated from the Walkers’ kitchen.

  After answering questions about their trip, Mr. Benton looked around at the assembly. “So, the church council is complete? I expected to see Mr. Morrell here.”

  The mayor shot Cyrus a panicky glance, and Cyrus cleared his throat. “Well, now, sir, that’s a funny thing. You see, we didn’t have a formal pulpit committee, or even a church committee or board of deacons. The men you see here make up the town council. We’ve hoped for several years to bring a minister to Fergus but were never able to do that. There is no congregation as such. That is, there will be, I’m sure, but you’ll have to start from scratch, so to speak. And Jamin Morrell is … Well, I doubt he’ll be one of the charter members.”

  “Oh?” The minister held his gaze with an innocent expression, and his wife also stared at him with raised brows. Cyrus wished he didn’t have to break the news, but someone had to explain.

  Mrs. Walker saved him the trouble.

  “Jamin Morrell is the owner of the vilest saloon in town. He’s a man of few morals, if any. Begging your pardon, Mr. Benton, but I cannot conceive of a reason why he invited you here.” Orissa’s wrinkled brow smoothed out again as she paused and dredged up a smile for the parson and his wife. “But we are all glad that you came.”

  The men chimed in with quick assents.

  “I … see.” Benton eyed his wife askance, and it was obvious that he didn’t really see. “But … why did Mr. Morrell undertake to contact us?”

  Cyrus set his teacup aside and leaned forward. “Mr. Morrell is a shrewd man, sir. He knew the ladies—that is, the people—of the town wanted a church and a minister. It’s my guess that he saw providing one as a way to gain respect in the town.”

  “You may be right,” Walker said. “He’s been trying ever since he moved here last year to get other folks to take him seriously as a businessman and a contributor to the community. He doesn’t like being looked down on because of his profession.”

  Mrs. Benton frowned and turned to Orissa. “Do you mean to say that he would use us as a means of persuading people to look on him and his … business more favorably?”

  “Why, I …” Orissa swiveled toward her husband. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Could be,” Griffin Bane said. “Morrell runs a rowdy place over at the Nugget. Some folks wish he’d never come to town. Of course, others frequent his establishment.” The blacksmith went red under his beard and glanced at Cyrus.

  Cyrus returned his gaze steadily. The men of this town would stick together—and if no one started naming patrons of the Nugget, they’d be fine. He did wonder how the preacher’s arrival would affect business in the saloons. Might keep the family men away for a few weeks. Bitsy would suffer more in that case than Jamin. But in the long run, people who were going to drink would drink.

  “I see,” Mr. Benton said again.

  “You won’t leave on account of Morrell being the one to ask you here, will you?” Zachary Harper asked. “You’ll break my wife’s heart if you pack up and go. She was all excited when she heard we had us a preacher at last.”

  Benton reached over and patted his wife’s hand. She smiled tremulously at him.

  “No, we won’t leave,” he said. “God works in mysterious ways, and we’re here to stay.”

  Luncheon pleased all the diners and proved remarkably palatable, considering the amount of time the cooks had had to prepare it. Cyrus wondered if Gert Dooley and others in the neighborhood had brought over dishes they’d prepared for their own families.

  “I’d still like to meet Mr. Morrell and thank him,” Mr. Benton said.

  “Why don’t we ask the sheriff to show you around the town after lunch?” Cyrus asked. Inwardly, he congratulated himself on coming up with this brilliant notion. Chapman was polite and discreet, if a bit of a dolt. He could keep the Bentons busy for an hour while the mayor and council hashed over the unexpected developments. He smiled at Mr. Benton. “While you’re gone, the council can discuss living arrangements for you and where you can begin holding services.”

  “You said there’s no church building.”

  “No, there’s not,” the mayor said. “We do have a schoolhouse.”
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  “We’ve got a dozen vacant buildings in town,” Griffin said. “This used to be a mining boom town, but most of the people left after the ore played out. Why not use one of those empty buildings for a church? At least temporarily.”

  The suggestion bothered Cyrus, since he owned those buildings. No one would want to pay him for the use of one for worship services. On the other hand, Isabel hated having to rearrange the classroom after a community event. No doubt she’d be out of sorts if the council gave the minister permission to use her schoolroom for services. His daughter obeyed his decrees, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t find subtle ways to make her displeasure known.

  “Er, we can discuss the matter,” he said quickly.

  Six hours later, Cyrus wandered into the Nugget for a much-needed drink. Lately, if he went to the Spur & Saddle to drink, word got around. Why should the town care if he put a little whiskey back? He had a suspicion it was Bitsy’s doing because he’d spoken out against the shooting club. For the last couple of weeks, she’d made snide comments every time he went in there. All right, if she didn’t want his business, he’d take it elsewhere. The Nugget wasn’t as quiet and comfortable, but at least he could have a drink there without worrying someone would count his refills and tell his daughter how many.

  Jamin Morrell sat at a corner table with a couple of ranchers. When Cyrus entered, Morrell rose and headed over to the bar.

  “Set up a whiskey for Mr. Fennel, Ted. He deserves a lot more than that for offering the new preacher free rent on a house.”

  Cyrus smiled, though it had irked him to no end when the mayor and the rest of the council had pressured him to do it this afternoon. Word of the decision had run through the town like a prairie fire, and now folks thought he was generous.

  He’d argued with Charles, Griffin, and Zachary that if a preacher should be paid, so should a landlord. But he was the only one with vacant real estate in town. At last he’d agreed to give six months’ free rent on one of his empty houses to the Bentons. If they didn’t find other living quarters during that time, they could discuss a rental or purchase agreement with him.

  “Not a problem, Morrell.” His tone was more jovial than he felt. So long as the rest of the town never found out how bitterly he’d fought the free-rent proposal, he could play the hero as well as Jamin. “You deserve some credit yourself, persuading Mr. and Mrs. Benton to come to our fair town.”

  Jamin shrugged. “It was a long shot. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t want to get the people’s hopes up. But I knew someone in St. Louis who might know someone, so I sent off a letter.”

  “Well, we owe you a big debt. Been wishing we had a preacher for a long time.” Not that he personally had wished it. He’d have to spend Sundays sitting through dull sermons now, but at least they’d have someone to perform weddings and funerals, and most of the ladies would be happy.

  Cyrus sipped his first whiskey. He still thought there must be more to the story. Isabel and half the matrons of the town had nagged their menfolk for years to get a preacher for Fergus. The town council had written several letters to towns back East and even splurged on a newspaper ad in Boston, hoping to entice a man to come, with no results. But when Morrell got the idea, he asked a friend a favor, and presto—a bona fide, ordained minister showed up!

  The argument over whether to use the schoolhouse for church services, build a sanctuary, or designate some other building a temporary church had lasted even longer than the one over housing the couple. Not everyone in town would attend church, and some didn’t want to see the town subsidizing it. The council had discussed asking the members of the community for donations. At last they’d agreed that it really wasn’t a town problem. The church members should bear the expense of a building to meet in. But since all the town pillars wanted a church and a minister, they would encourage the townspeople to contribute to the cause.

  After much wrestling, Cyrus had agreed to open the old Jonnason Haberdashery building, between the jail and the telegraph office, for services. The people interested in having a church would clean it and provide seating. And a small rental would be paid to Cyrus from the church’s offerings.

  Mr. Benton had found this arrangement satisfactory, and Cyrus had left him after giving him and Mrs. Benton a tour of their new “church” and housing. Orissa Walker offered to let them stay at the mayor’s house until the ladies got their new lodgings ready. She also promised to line up a bevy of local women to help clean both buildings. Griffin had offered to canvass the residents for basic furnishings for the new parsonage. All was accomplished so quickly that Cyrus’s head spun—or perhaps that was partly due to the second and third glasses of whiskey Ted had poured for him. He still had the feeling he’d gotten the short end of the stick, but at least Charles and the others had agreed he should be paid for use of the haberdashery.

  “The way I see it,” Morrell now said, “having a preacher will help this town grow. The population dropped off after the mines played out, but it’s still a nice little town. It will be even better with a few more businesses, a few more families….”

  A few more customers. That’s what he was thinking, wasn’t it? Cyrus nodded. “I like the way you think, Morrell. Well, mostly. You’re a real businessman.”

  Now, if only the ladies of Fergus would get distracted by the cleaning frenzy and forget about their little shooting club. The very existence of the group peeved him. It wasn’t right.

  Maybe if he kept on the preacher’s good side, he could bend his ear and get him to say something from the pulpit that would make the women see how wrong it was for them to be out shooting up the hillsides when they ought to be doing what they were doing this minute—cleaning and cooking.

  A vision flitted through his mind of the town’s ladies, led by the timid Mrs. Benton, lovely Libby Adams, and belligerent Gert Dooley, all marching toward the Nugget carrying axes and signs that read: DEMON RUM.

  No. Not in this life.

  “Ted, better pour me another.”

  “It’s so nice of Hiram to do this for me.” Libby totaled the columns of figures listing the amount of each cartridge size she wanted and her estimated cost.

  “Well, with the new preacher coming and all, we need you ladies to stay here to help them get settled.” Ethan smiled at her. “I think it’s great that you’ve made a donation to start the church fund.”

  Libby circled her total and reached for the cash box. “I hope it will inspire others to do the same. The congregation needs to buy that building from Cy Fennel as soon as possible.” She counted out several large bills. “I’ve wired ahead for a case of Bibles, too.”

  “That’s a good idea. Folks will be wanting them, now that we’re going to have church regular. I might even buy one myself.”

  “You don’t have a Bible, Ethan? I’m surprised at you.” Libby lowered her voice. “I hope Hiram doesn’t mind carrying all this money.”

  “Griffin’s going with him.”

  “Wonderful. But who will tend the livery?”

  “He’s got Josiah Runnels and Ezra Dyer ready to swap the stagecoach teams out. If anyone needs to have blacksmithing done, they’ll have to wait.”

  Libby arched her delicate eyebrows. “I’m surprised Griffin would go to so much trouble. Loaning us a wagon and team was generous enough.”

  “Well, Griff isn’t sure he approves of the shooting club, but he’s starting to disapprove of Fennel. He may be doing it partly to make him mad.”

  “Ah.” Libby nodded. “I’m afraid Gert’s and my doings have caused people to take sides. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. You ladies are right to want more security.”

  Libby looked around as Florence entered the back door. “I don’t like to trust this delicate an order to Oscar Runnels and his mule teams. They’re slow, and besides, after what happened yesterday, Cyrus might forbid Mr. Runnels to do it for me. It’s just as well Hiram and Griffin are willing.” She handed him the money
and her list. “Thank you, Ethan.”

  He nodded and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The sturdy freight wagon came down the street, with Griffin holding the reins and Hiram sitting beside him. They pulled up in front of the emporium, and Ethan stepped into the street. Two rifles lay at the men’s feet.

  “You two take care.”

  “We will,” Griffin said. “If you don’t mind looking in at the livery once or twice, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Maybe you can look in on Trudy, too,” Hiram said.

  “Trudy? Who’s Trudy?” Griffin’s bushy brows lowered, and he leaned away from Hiram, the better to stare at him.

  Ethan grinned and ignored the question, hoping his face wouldn’t go too red in front of the blacksmith. “I’ll do that. Here’s Miz Adams’s list.” He handed the cash over with it, and Hiram quickly stuffed both in his vest pocket and buttoned it closed.

  “See ya tomorrow night.” Ethan stepped back up on the boardwalk and waved.

  Griffin clucked to the horses and set off down Main Street, then turned his head again to stare at Hiram. “Who’s Trudy?”

  Ethan laughed and headed across the street.

  “Sheriff!”

  He stopped on the walk in front of the jail and turned toward the call. Micah Landry trotted up on his bay mare and dismounted.

  “What is it, Mr. Landry?”

  “My wife, that’s what.”

  “Is she hurt?” Ethan’s neck prickled at the anger in the rancher’s voice.

  “Not yet, but she might be soon. I’ve had enough of this shooting society.”

  “Oh.” Ethan gritted his teeth and prepared to hear a passionate rant.

  Micah wrapped the mare’s reins around the hitching rail and stepped up on the boardwalk with him. “Emmaline is wasting two afternoons a week now, going out to yak with a bunch of misguided women and shoot off a passel of lead. Do you know how much ammunition she’s used in the last three weeks?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Two boxes of shotgun shells, that’s how much. I told her we can’t afford a dollar a month for shooting practice. And what’ll we do when one of those women gets shot?”