The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “So you lived with Mama and her parents on the farm back in Waterville?” she asked as she cleared their plates and brought the coffeepot.

  “Waterford, my dear,” her father said quickly, spoiling her attempt to trip up the guest. She’d thought it a clever ploy, but not with Papa there to catch it before the alleged uncle had time to open his mouth.

  “Oh yes, of course.” Isabel turned a smile on the stranger. “You’ll have to forgive me, sir. I was born after my parents came west, so I don’t remember that place at all.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Uncle Kenton picked up his cup and sipped his coffee, giving no indication that he intended to answer the question.

  “Er … so you were Mama’s older brother?”

  “By a few years.”

  “Oh.” Isabel was certain that her mother would have extolled a brother who fell between her and Leola in age—as certain as she was that the Ladies’ Shooting Club met on Monday and Thursday afternoons. Possibly more so, since the club occasionally adjusted their schedule to accommodate funerals, butchering days, and the club president’s recent catarrh.

  While the guest continued to sip his coffee, Papa scowled at her, his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle of his brow to form a miniature windbreak. His hard, gray eyes sent such a chilly look her way that Isabel shivered. She turned quickly away and set the coffeepot on the stove. After taking a moment to collect herself, she returned to the table, bearing half a mince pie.

  “Would you gentlemen like dessert?”

  “Oh, now that looks fine. Pert’ near scrumptious.” Kenton’s lips spread in a wolflike grin. “Yes, thank you,” said Papa.

  She cut generous slices for them both but none for herself. She sat down again and stirred her coffee, which didn’t need it, and pondered the situation. When the men’s cups reached half empty, she jumped up and refilled them.

  “Well!” Papa wiped his mouth with his napkin and threaded it through his napkin ring again. “Kenton, what do you say we go into my office and talk things over? Bring your coffee along.”

  “Certainly.” Uncle Kenton rose, nodded to Isabel, and followed her father into the hall.

  Isabel sat still at the table, her mind and heart racing. The men walked down the hallway to the small room Papa called his office, and the door closed. Of course, Papa had a larger office in town, where he used to have his assay business and where he now sold tickets for the Wells Fargo line. But he kept a room at the ranch house for himself—a place where he could smoke a cigar, or read, or go over the accounts for the ranch or for one of his businesses in town.

  What was the man doing here? Had he truly come to meet his niece? Then why closet himself with Papa? And why had he evaded her questions?

  She rose and put away the leftover food, washed and dried the dishes, swept the floor, and filled the water reservoir on the cookstove, but the two men did not emerge from the office.

  At a gentle tapping sound, she hurried to the back door. One of the ranch hands stood there with an armload of kindling and stove wood. Five of their six hired men had ridden out that morning for the roundup, leaving only Brady behind to tend to chores at the ranch house.

  “Come in, Brady. Thank you.” Isabel swung the door wide. Brady had been with them since before Mama died. Older than most of the other hands, he usually hauled firewood and water for Isabel each evening, as he had for her mother. She appreciated that.

  Brady walked to the wood box and dumped his load of sticks. “Saw a horse out front. Your pa got company?”

  “Yes.”

  Brady lingered, and she knew he expected more. He wasn’t being nosy, exactly. After all, the ranch’s business was his business. Isabel wondered if he wished he was out on the roundup with the others, or if the middle-aged man was glad he didn’t have to sleep on the cold ground tonight. Regardless, she could see that he wanted an explanation.

  “My uncle is visiting. They’re … they’re talking in Papa’s office.”

  “That right?” Brady frowned but said no more about it. “Thought I’d butcher a couple of hens tomorrow, since we’re about out of fresh meat.”

  Isabel trusted Brady’s judgment on such things. Judah, the cook, was off with the other hands to prepare their meals on the roundup, and he usually supervised the butchering. But with the warmer spring weather upon them, they’d used all the frozen meat and all the smoked hams and fish. Only a side or two of bacon remained in the smokehouse. But Brady would keep her in small lots of meat until the other men came home and Judah butchered again.

  “Fine. I’ll be at school all day, but you can leave them in the lean-to. I’ll cook them when I come home.”

  Brady would hang the chickens where no dogs or other critters could get at them. He nodded and picked up the empty water pail from beside the stove. “I’ll get you some more water and coal, Miss Isabel.”

  When he’d gone out, she went to the hall door and listened. Papa’s voice and Uncle Kenton’s rose and fell. She wondered if she could distinguish what they said if she were, say, three yards farther down the hallway.

  As she turned this over in her mind, Brady entered again through the back door and set the full bucket of water beside the stove. He dumped the coal into the scuttle by the wood box. Isabel was thankful that her father was blessed with enough resources to buy coal. The town of Fergus had long mourned its dashed hopes of getting a railroad spur. Coal must be hauled in by freighters and cost more than some of the town’s one hundred or so residents could afford. Firewood was hard to come by, but some scoured the mountains for it in the dead of winter. Old-timers told of when dried buffalo chips were available on the prairie a few miles distant, but that era had long since closed.

  “Is the gentleman staying over?”

  Isabel stared at him, dismayed at the thought. “Oh, I … I think not.” But where would Uncle Kenton stay the night? She supposed Papa might send him a mile to the boardinghouse, but was that polite, to shuffle a relative off like that? She certainly hoped Papa wouldn’t invite him to stay at the ranch.

  “Anything else you need tonight, Miss Isabel?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I was going to ask the boss if I could ride into town for a bit.” Isabel looked away. Of course Brady would want to stop in at the Nugget saloon. She hated the place, but her own father patronized it. He let his hands go to town on paydays. She knew Papa would say yes tonight if Brady asked him, since it was a quiet evening. The seasoned cowboy rarely overindulged, but he liked a glass or two and some company.

  “I hate to disturb them.” She nodded and met his gaze. “I’m sure it’s all right, Brady.”

  “Thanks. I won’t be gone but an hour.”

  The cowboy touched his hat brim and disappeared, shutting the door behind him. Isabel shivered. The kitchen was no longer overly warm. No doubt the temperature would drop even farther tonight. Spring took its time settling into these mountains, and they still had to keep a fire all night. Her father, being the richest man in Fergus, wouldn’t feel the bite of cold.

  Kenton Smith, she reflected, looked less prosperous than his brother-in-law. A thought oozed into her mind that he might have come looking for a job or a leg up in the world. Kin was kin, and one didn’t turn family away.

  She looked at the clock. Quarter to eight. Should she wait to see if the men came out and joined her for further conversation? She didn’t want to spend any more time with Uncle Kenton. He had none of her mother’s sweetness and charm. He didn’t even look like Mama. And if Mama had been proud of him, she’d have told her daughter about him.

  Maybe she could quietly retire and avoid seeing him again. But just in case, she’d better check the linens in the spare room. She blew out the lamp on the table.

  As she tiptoed down the dusky hallway, she heard Uncle Kenton’s voice rise in pitch to rival Bertha Runnels’ soprano.

  “No, you listen to me!”

  Isabel gasped and backed up against the wall across from the c
losed office door, her pulse throbbing. Her father’s voice came, calmer and firm.

  “Sit down, Kenton. We can work this out.”

  Isabel didn’t want to hear any more. Papa said people in town were always asking him for money for one thing or another. Probably this no-account uncle she’d never heard of wanted some, too. Come to think of it, that might explain why she’d never heard of Uncle Kenton. Maybe he was a leech, and Mama hadn’t wanted him to find them and beg for a handout.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and hurried toward her room, passing the door to the spare room. Better take a look.

  A quick glance told her the chamber was ready if her father decided to put her uncle in there, but she hoped he wouldn’t. Feeling a bit selfish and uncharitable, she sent up a quick prayer. Lord, if Thou carest about my comfort, please do not let that man stay the night in this house.

  Guilt crept over her, and she stopped praying as she walked to her own room. He was her mother’s brother, after all. She set her spectacles on the dresser and took her time brushing her long, light brown hair and thinking about tomorrow’s lessons. The fourth graders would multiply fractions, and she had no doubt Will Ingram would have trouble with the concept. In the end, he would probably make trouble to distract her from the arithmetic lesson.

  No sound of the stranger’s leaving had reached her. Not for the first time, she wished she could see the front dooryard from her window, but her room was on the back side of the house. Finally, she drew the curtains and undressed. If Papa came out of his office this late and expected her to play hostess, shame on him.

  She cracked the window open, turned out her lamp, and crawled under the quilts. Once or twice, she heard their voices, but when she raised her head, the tones had dropped again. After a long lull, she drifted into near sleep, but suddenly she opened her eyes. A regular crunching sound came to her, not from down the hall, but from outside. Hoofbeats?

  Isabel sat up in the dark.

  The sound continued but got no fainter or louder. She rose and went to her window. It seemed to come from the direction of the barn. She stuck her feet into her shoes and grabbed a big shawl. Wrapping it around her, she crossed the room, opened the door, and stood listening. She heard nothing from within the house. A faint glow showed that a lamp still burned somewhere at the front of the dwelling. She walked down the hall, her shoes clumping a little since she hadn’t buttoned them all the way up.

  The front room was empty, and the table lamp burned low.

  “Papa?”

  No one answered.

  She stole to the kitchen and opened the back door an inch. Again she heard the crunch-crunch, with a bit of a metallic clang to it.

  After a quick look around, she gathered the heavy flannel skirt of her nightdress and tiptoed across the yard between the house and the barn. A pause in the noise made her flatten herself against the rough boards of the barn siding. Her breath came in deep gulps. She made herself exhale slowly and quietly, though her heart raced. A clack came from behind the barn, and then a moment’s stillness. Measuring the distance from her position to the kitchen door, she wondered just how foolish she was.

  The crunching began again, and she edged toward the back corner of the barn. A glow brighter than starlight and lower than the heavens spilled around the edge of the wall. She sneaked one step closer and another, until her icy fingers touched the boards at the back corner.

  Crunch-splat. Crunch-splat.

  She knew what made that sound. To confirm her inkling, she peeked around the corner.

  A kerosene lantern sat on the ground near a small heap of dirt. Her father, tall and broad-shouldered, cast a huge shadow against the back wall of the barn as he wielded a spade.

  Isabel pulled back around the edge and leaned against the boards with her eyes shut. What did it mean? Her father was digging a hole in the night … for what? And where was Uncle Kenton? Maybe he was there, too, and she hadn’t seen him in the shadows.

  Slowly, she leaned forward, until one eye passed the corner. No Uncle Kenton. Her father scooped up another spadeful of dirt. A cold breeze caught the fringe of Isabel’s shawl and her loose hair. She drew back, not wanting to think about the scene. She gathered her nightdress and sidled along to the front of the barn wall. As quietly as she could, she fled across the barnyard to the kitchen door. Once inside, she ran down the hall to her room and closed the door behind her. She sat down on her bed, panting. There was no doubt.

  Her father was not opening the hole; he was filling it in.

  CHAPTER 3

  Are you going to Boise to fetch Rose?” Ethan asked as he shuffled two biscuits from the serving plate to his own.

  Hiram shook his head. He’d thought about Rose’s telegram for the last two hours, and the more he considered its implications, the more they troubled him.

  As she often did, his sister spoke for him. “She’s taking the stagecoach tomorrow.”

  “That road has been open only a few days.” Ethan frowned as he buttered his biscuit. “The stage had trouble getting through from Reynolds yesterday.”

  “Well, if the stage can’t get through, chances are a wagon couldn’t either,” Trudy said.

  “True.” Ethan shot a troubled glance at Hiram. “What’ll you do? Will she stay here with you?”

  “I don’t suppose we could send her to the boardinghouse.” Trudy frowned.

  The idea of boarding Rose elsewhere hadn’t occurred to Hiram, and he looked eagerly to Trudy.

  “Don’t look so hopeful. We couldn’t do that, and you know it.”

  Hiram shrugged and put his knife to his venison steak.

  “She’s family.” Trudy nodded as though that settled it. She picked up half her biscuit and smeared it with butter. “It’s just plain rude to expect kinfolk to pay for their lodging.”

  Hiram eyed her sidelong. He and Trudy had been alone too long. She had an uncanny way of reading his unvoiced thoughts.

  “Not even if we paid for it,” she added.

  Hiram drooped in his chair and turned his attention back to his food. His little sister was a good cook, and he would miss that if she married Ethan and moved out of the house. For eight years—no, nine—she’d been his cook, housekeeper, and nearest companion. She understood him. She let him grieve when he got in the sorrowful mood over Violet’s passing, and she left him alone when he needed it. She even helped him in his business, testing people’s guns after he’d fixed them.

  She’d started that shortly after she came. Folks had brought Hiram a passel of work in some misguided attempt to keep him too busy to think of how Violet and their baby boy had died. Hiram had worked on those guns day and night. And as they piled up, repaired, Trudy had asked him if she should take them back to their owners.

  “I’ll need to fire them first,” he’d said.

  “I could do that for you. Just make sure they shoot okay?”

  She’d taken on the job from that day, and her frequent practice had made an excellent shot out of her. So good that other women came to her now for lessons.

  Ethan cleaned his plate before he addressed Trudy again. “So, you expect her on tomorrow’s noon stagecoach?”

  “Probably. I’m getting the front bedroom ready.”

  Hiram cast a worried glance toward the parlor, where the stairs went up. He was glad he’d be down here in his bedroom and Rose would stay in the bedroom upstairs. The front room was nicer than his sister’s little room at the back, but Trudy didn’t like the noise from the street and the saloon at night, so she used the snug room under the eaves, above the kitchen.

  “How long is she staying?” Ethan asked.

  Good question, Hiram thought—one he’d like answered, too.

  “We don’t know yet,” Trudy said. A little frown settled between her eyebrows. The unspoken implication hung in the air. Like Hiram, she hoped Rose wouldn’t extend her visit beyond a few weeks.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do, let me know.” Ethan’s gaze left
Trudy’s face long enough to include Hiram, and he nodded his thanks.

  After a cup of coffee and two pieces of pie, Hiram sat back with a sigh. He surely would miss Trudy’s presence, and not just in the kitchen. That was, if the sheriff ever got around to popping the question. The two walked out in the evenings and had made eyes at each other for nearly a year now. Even though it meant giving up his housekeeper, Hiram thought the time had come. Of course, he’d never say as much. Like him, Ethan took his time to come to a decision and even longer to act on it. But from the way those two looked at each other, everyone in town could tell the decision was as good as made. The only thing lacking was the formal proposal.

  “Well, I’m glad Rose gave us a day’s warning and didn’t show up unannounced.” Trudy had a faraway look, and Hiram figured she was ticking off the cleaning chores she’d do before Rose arrived. She stood. “More coffee?”

  Hiram shook his head.

  “No, thanks,” Ethan said. “Want to walk tonight?”

  “It’s a little windy.”

  Ethan nodded reluctantly. “It’s chilly.” He waited, watching her, obviously hoping she’d brave the cold and the gale for him.

  “I’d make a fire in the parlor,” Hiram offered.

  Ethan flicked a surprised glance at him. Hiram wished he’d stayed quiet, as usual. But if Trudy didn’t want to go out into the cold …

  “Thanks, Hi, but I’ll wear my cloak and bonnet. Let me wash up these dishes first.”

  “I’ll dry.” Ethan started carrying plates from the table to the dishpan on the sideboard.

  Hiram stood and gathered his own dishes. Trudy poured hot water into her dishpan and added soap. Hiram made a silent exit into the front room, where he had a half-finished gunstock waiting for him. If Ethan needed more time alone with Trudy to get his proposal out, Hiram would do all he could to provide it. He took a last glance back through the doorway into the kitchen and saw Trudy laughing as she tied an apron around the sheriff’s waist. Hiram smiled and went to his comfortable chair.

  A few minutes later, Trudy came to the doorway.