“We’re going to walk down toward the river and back.”
Hiram lifted a hand in salute. He wouldn’t worry about her in Ethan’s care. Besides, it was too chilly for them to stay out late.
The back door shut on the laughing pair, and he sat in the comfortable quiet of the house, sanding the wood he held. He was happy for Trudy. She’d come as a gangly sixteen-year-old girl, powerless to help him in his fresh grief. Over the last nine years, she’d grown into a beautiful woman. She’d held off potential suitors until Hiram had wondered if she would remain a spinster for his sake.
Then he’d realized she was waiting for Ethan. For a long time, Ethan Chapman had glided along in self-made isolation, ignoring everything but his own hurt. Last summer the town council had thrust sheriffhood upon him. And he’d finally sat up and taken note of the town and Gertrude Dooley.
Hiram’s contented smiled soured when he remembered the telegram. Rose Caplinger was as unlike her younger sister, Violet, as a buzzard was unlike a swallow. She might be handsome—Hiram couldn’t really remember—but she had the sharpest tongue in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. That he recalled quite clearly. More than once, she’d been informally censured in the neighborhood for gossip. She had none of Violet’s gentle spirit and always sought the limelight for herself. If Rose wasn’t the center of attention, then the day was not worth living.
He looked about the room once more, regretting the extra work her visit would cause Trudy and the intrusion into their happy existence. What would happen to his peace when Rose arrived?
Isabel had the coffee scalding hot and the eggs nearly set in the pan before her father came to the kitchen. As he did every weekday morning, he appeared for breakfast fully dressed in the clothes he would wear to town. He was a somewhat snappy dresser, as men’s fashions went in Fergus. With the Reverend Phineas Benton and Dr. James Kincaid, he completed the roster of men who wore a coat and tie every day.
He pulled a watch from his trouser pocket and consulted it before taking his seat. “Seven-oh-four.”
“Are you sending out both coaches today?”
“Yes indeed. Winter’s back is broken, and the line is open for business in both directions.” He flapped his napkin out and laid it in his lap.
Isabel filled a plate with eggs, two leftover biscuits, and two sausage patties, and placed it before him. “Papa?”
“Yes? That looks good.”
“Thank you. Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Tell me about Uncle Kenton.”
“Kenton?” Her father looked up at her briefly with a small frown. He picked up his fork. “What about him?”
“Well … where is he?”
“He left last evening.”
“Obviously, but where did he go?” Isabel turned to get him a mug of coffee.
“Oh, I believe he’s traveling about. He said he may come back again after a bit. You’ll see him again, I’ll warrant.”
She set the steaming mug beside his plate and took her seat opposite him.
“Papa?”
“Hmm?”
She waited until he looked into her eyes.
“Why have I never heard of Uncle Kenton until last night? Mama told me many times that she never had a brother—only her and Leola.”
Her father coughed and covered his face with his napkin for a moment. When he revealed it again, he looked rather blotchy and uncomfortable.
“My dear, I can only tell you the truth.”
“Please do.”
He sighed and returned the napkin to his lap. “You’re grown up, and you deserve to know it. The fact is, I advised Mary to tell you years ago—certainly by the time you turned twenty-one. But no, she wanted to protect you.”
“Protect me? From her brother?”
Papa cleared his throat and toyed with his fork. “Yes, actually. She didn’t want you to ever know about his … his past. And she thought that as long as we were in the West and he was in the East, you would never know about him and the disgrace he brought on her family.”
Isabel stared at him. Her mother had never hinted at disgrace or regret concerning the Smith family. She’d spoken with longing about her parents and her childhood home, the happy days with her sister until the frail Leola sickened.
“I … don’t understand.”
Her father gave a big sigh and reached across the table for her hand. “It pains me to tell you this, my dear, but your Uncle Kenton spent several years in prison.”
Isabel swallowed hard and wished she’d poured herself some coffee. “What for?”
“It’s just as well if you don’t know the details. Your mother was mortified by the scandal, and her family rarely talked about Kenton. She figured you’d be happier not knowing he existed.” Papa ate his eggs, and Isabel watched him, unsatisfied.
After a moment’s silence, she got up and fixed her own plate, though she didn’t feel like eating. The memories badgered her as she sat down again and nibbled at her food. She didn’t recall much about her early years, though there had been a farm in Nebraska. When she was seven, Papa left her and Mama there and came ahead of them to Idaho Territory, prospecting for gold. A year later, he’d sent for them, and they’d ridden the train as far as they could. Papa had met them in Salt Lake City and brought them to the boom town of Fergus, where by then, he ran the assay office.
Isabel ruminated on her father’s words. She had a criminal for a relative: a man who’d done something so dire her father wouldn’t even name the deed. What else did she not know about her family?
Her father took a second watch from his vest pocket and opened the case.
“Would you like more coffee?” she asked.
“No, I think I’ll leave now and stop at the sheriff’s before I open the stagecoach office.” He stood and reached for his hat. “Want me to drop you at the schoolhouse?”
It was early yet. Though she could use some extra time to prepare in the classroom, Isabel had her domestic chores to think of, too. “Thank you, but I’ll stay and do the dishes first. Oh, and Papa, I’ll be going to the shooting club after school.”
Her father scowled. Any mention of the Ladies’ Shooting Club of Fergus put him in a foul mood. It was Isabel’s one rebellion, and she stuck to it with a bit of pluck that surprised her.
“I thought they met during school hours.”
“They do, but Trudy and the others agreed to meet at three now that the sun sets later. I appreciate their doing that for me.”
He said nothing but clapped his hat to his light brown hair. She thought him quite handsome with the touches of gray at his temples. Not for the first time, she wondered if he’d thought of remarrying. Of course, he had a built-in cook and housekeeper. Should she ever leave him, he had the means to hire someone to do for him, as he had hired the Thistles to run the boardinghouse and the cowboys to do the ranch work. Did he ever long for companionship beyond what he got from her and his male friends in town? Once she’d thought he’d eyed Libby Adams wistfully, but she didn’t know if he’d ever approached the beautiful storekeeper.
“I’ll be here for supper,” she said as he stepped toward the door. “You’ll be home to eat, won’t you?” It wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but she needed what information he was willing to give. The other would have to wait, perhaps forever. She would not dare ask.
“I’m not sure.”
She sighed as his footsteps echoed down the hall and the front door closed. Would he linger in town and visit the Nugget before he came home? She’d have to prepare supper and have it waiting in case he did show up to eat it.
The question she’d stifled several times during their conversation overcame all other thoughts and reared up, dark and threatening. In the darkness of the night, what had Papa buried behind the barn?
CHAPTER 4
Ethan Chapman entered the jailhouse whistling. No prisoners, which meant he’d slept in his own bed and had a good breakfast with his two ranch hands, brothers Spin and John
ny McDade. The sun shone on Fergus, though a cool wind blew down from the mountain passes. The river ran high from snow melt on the summits. And Trudy was in her kitchen—he could smell her baking from next door. Gingerbread. With the wind out of the south, he was pretty sure he knew what he’d have for dessert at noontime.
The office, cell, and back room retained the same neat condition he’d left them in yesterday. Not much call to stick around this morning. When he wasn’t needed at the jailhouse, Ethan liked to walk about town to let himself be seen. His visits with the business owners reassured them that Fergus would remain peaceful. They hadn’t had a serious crime since last summer, when the Penny Man had kept them all on edge for a few weeks.
He turned northward first and strolled past the boardinghouse. Mr. Thistle, a one-armed Civil War veteran, worked at washing the windows fronting on Main Street.
“Morning, Sheriff.”
“Good morning, Mr. Thistle. How’s business?”
“Pretty good since the stage started running again. We expect some guests to come in today. Rilla’s fixing lamb stew for luncheon if you’re interested.”
“Thank you. We’ll see.” Ethan watched him adroitly wring out his rag with one hand, then ambled on past one of Cy Fennel’s vacant buildings left over from the town’s boom period and past the Nugget. The saloon was quiet now, but in twelve hours or so, things would heat up. Ethan would return then, with his damping influence on the party atmosphere. He could hear a rhythmic ringing from the smithy and crossed Main Street, since the Nugget was the last business on the west side of that end. As he stepped into the smithy, his friend Griffin Bane glanced up from his work and nodded.
“Ethan.”
“Howdy, Griff.”
The blacksmith hammered fussily at the edge of the hoe blade he was shaping, then plunged it into a tub of water. The sizzle and sharp-smelling cloud of steam comforted Ethan. Everything was right in Fergus.
“Livery busy these days?” he asked.
“Tolerable.” With his tongs, Griffin seized a new piece of bar stock and stuck it into the forge. “We’ve got two coach teams to switch out today.”
“So I’ve heard. That’s good.” When he went outside again, Ethan looked toward the livery stable, which Griffin also owned. The towering smith had bought it when the original owner moved on to a more prosperous town. For now, things looked quiet. The six-mule replacement teams for the stagecoaches were probably grazing out back.
Ethan wandered down the board sidewalk on the east side of Main. Beyond a vacant building was Charles Walker’s feed store. He stepped inside, hoping to see Walker, but an employee was there alone, counting bags of oats. Ethan said a quick ‘Good morning’ and went out again.
Next came the stagecoach line’s office. Cy Fennel was unlocking the door.
“Oh Sheriff, I was thinking of walking over to see you this morning.”
“You’re in town early, Mr. Fennel.”
“Yes, well, things are picking up now, and I have some book-work to go over. But I wanted to ask you something. Step in for a minute, won’t you?”
Ethan followed him into the small office where Cyrus sold stagecoach tickets. He avoided looking at the discoloration on the board floor near the stove, which marked the spot where a corpse had once lain. He didn’t like remembering that.
Cyrus sat down behind his desk and laid his keys and a ledger on the surface.
“What is it?” Ethan asked.
“I wondered if you know who owns the Peart place now.” Ethan raised his eyebrows, which made his hat ride up a little. “Frank and Milzie Peart’s land?”
“That’s right. Who’s the owner?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know.”
“Didn’t you have to contact the heirs when Milzie died?”
Ethan shook his head. “I reported it to the marshal and took an inventory, but I’m no lawyer.”
Cyrus stroked his chin. “Maybe I’ll take a look next time I’m in Boise. There must be an heir.”
“My understanding is that they had no will and no surviving children. When I went through Mrs. Peart’s belongings, I didn’t find any evidence that she had living relatives. No letters or anything like that.”
Cyrus shrugged. “Well, now that we’ve got us a preacher and a doctor, maybe we should try to entice a lawyer to come to Fergus.”
The idea startled Ethan. His pa had always said lawyers were more trouble than they were worth. And he wasn’t sure he wanted Cyrus poking into the Peart estate. Cyrus had already bought up more property in and around town than any one man ought to own. He cleared his throat. “I guess I could look into it a little more. Write some letters, maybe.”
Cyrus stood and hung up his hat. “Good. Let me know if you find out anything, Sheriff.”
Ethan was dismissed, no question. He turned and went out, but his complacency had wilted. Cyrus had that effect on people. And he usually got them to do what he wanted.
Across the street, smoke rose from the Dooleys’ chimney, reminding him of the gingerbread. Of course. Trudy. She and her friends would rise to the challenge. He would invite the Ladies’ Shooting Club to help him discover Milzie Peart’s heir.
CHAPTER 5
Hiram removed his hat as he entered the emporium with his sister shortly before noon. The smells of cinnamon, soap, leather, and vinegar hit his nostrils with a not unpleasant mix. Libby Adams kept the store tidy, and people tended to gravitate there to have a chat with neighbors and get the latest news.
Hiram hung back as Trudy approached the counter. His stomach rumbled because they’d put off lunch until after Rose’s arrival on the stagecoach, and he wouldn’t want the lovely Mrs. Adams to hear such an embarrassing sound. But he could watch with appreciation as she measured out a pound of coffee for Bertha Runnels. When Mrs. Runnels had paid for her purchase and turned away, Libby greeted Trudy with a broad smile, and Hiram inhaled carefully. Seeing Libby smile was as good as watching the sun rise from the top of War Eagle Mountain.
After a moment, he looked away and found some hardware to study, lest people notice him watching Mrs. Adams for an inordinate length of time. Couldn’t have folks drawing unwarranted conclusions, and Hiram was not one to go about staring at women.
“How may I help you today?” Libby asked his sister.
After Mrs. Runnels was out the door, Hiram sneaked another glance. Libby’s rose-colored dress set off her golden hair and blue eyes. She had to be at least his age, maybe a year or two older, but she was still the beauty of Fergus. Looking at her gave him the same lightheaded appreciation as when he’d first handled a .44-caliber six-shooter.
“I need some extra ammunition for this afternoon,” Trudy told her. “Don’t forget we’re meeting an hour later than usual so Isabel can join us after school lets out.”
“Of course. I’ll remind any of the ladies who come in this morning.” Libby took a small box from beneath the counter and set it down. “Anything else for you or Hiram?” Her gaze beamed across the room and caught him looking. Hiram gave a quick nod and turned to examine the hammers and pry bars on the display behind him.
“I’m sure there’s something I should be getting,” Trudy said. “Hi’s sister-in-law is coming in on the Boise stagecoach, and there’s bound to be something we’ll need during her visit.”
“Oh? You didn’t mention that you expected a visitor.”
Trudy gave a dry chuckle. “That’s because we didn’t know. She sent a telegram yesterday afternoon from Boise.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes.” Hiram looked over his shoulder in time to see his sister grimace. “I expect we’ll get by. Let’s see…. Maybe I’ll take some tea and extra sugar. Rose might not like to drink coffee.”
Libby fetched the items. “Do you have plenty of cream?”
Trudy frowned. “I’ll have to ask Annie Harper to send some with the milk tomorrow morning. Unless you have some …”
“I have a can in the icebox.” Once again Libby
obliged and poured a pint into a glass bottle.
“I guess that’s all.” Trudy turned and beckoned to her brother. “Can you carry these things for me, Hi? I didn’t bring a basket.”
“Take one of mine,” Libby said. “You can return it later.”
Before either of the Dooleys could speak, she had placed Trudy’s purchases in a light carrying basket woven of willow sprouts.
“Thank you. That’s a lot like my market basket,” Trudy said. “Well, it was Violet’s, but I’ve used it ever since I came.”
The mention of his deceased wife reminded Hiram of Rose’s imminent arrival, and he glanced toward the front window. No sign of the stagecoach yet.
Trudy picked up on his anxiety. “We’d best get over to the stage stop. Thank you, Libby.”
“Will you bring your guest to the shooting club?” Libby asked.
Trudy’s eyes darkened. “I’m not sure yet. Though what we’ll do with her if she doesn’t care to go, I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
Libby’s gentle smile eased Hiram’s own misgivings on that very topic. He didn’t like the idea of sitting home with Rose while Trudy had fun with the club members. Unfortunately, gentlemen were not welcome at the club meetings.
“I’m sure things will work out.”
Trudy nodded. “I expect so. I’ve been praying ever since Hi brought that telegram home.”
Another customer came to the counter and stood behind them. Hiram glanced her way and nodded. Mrs. Storrey, her arms full of yard goods and notions, nodded back. Hiram reached for the basket.
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” Trudy said to Libby, and Hiram followed her out the door. He put his hat on as they gained the boardwalk and strolled beside Trudy toward the Wells Fargo office with the basket dangling from his hand.
Cyrus Fennel stood just outside his office door, looking anxiously northward, past the Nugget and the smithy, toward Boise.
“Good day, Dooleys.” Cyrus barely looked at them as he eyed the road and then his pocket watch. To Hiram’s amusement, he pulled out a second watch and compared it with the first.
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