The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “Starved,” Ethan admitted. “Are you sure you want me, though, with your company and all? ‘Cause I could go over to the boardinghouse.”

  “Would I have set four places at the table if we didn’t?” She looked pointedly toward the extra place setting. As much as she loved him, sometimes Ethan needed things spelled out for him.

  He smiled and sank back into the chair. “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, Rose came down and joined them. She’d brushed her dress off and combed her hair. Hiram held a chair for her, and Ethan held Trudy’s. When all were seated, Hiram nodded at Ethan.

  His friend, having known Hiram’s quiet ways for years, bowed his head and began to pray.

  After the blessing, Rose smiled brightly at Ethan. “Sheriff, I didn’t realize you were joining us for the meal. How delightful.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The tips of Ethan’s ears turned pink.

  “Are you a particular friend of Hiram’s?”

  “You might say that.” Ethan’s gaze darted to Trudy’s, and she imagined she read apology there.

  It’s all right, Trudy thought. I know you care for me. She held his look and tried to communicate that thought to him. Ethan’s ears became red.

  “Uh, how long can we expect to enjoy your company, Mrs. Caplinger?” He tore his gaze from Trudy’s and looked back to the visitor.

  “I haven’t decided yet. If I like Fergus and dear Hiram thinks it’s a good idea”—Rose turned her beaming face toward her stunned brother-in-law—“I may decide to make this my new home.”

  Hiram dropped his fork. It clattered off his ironstone plate onto the floor. The others all stared at him. Hiram’s face went three shades redder than Ethan’s.

  CHAPTER 7

  Libby and her clerk, Florence Nash, dashed out of the emporium at half past two.

  Annie Harper and her daughter, Myra, were just driving out of Harper Lane, where their farm lay. Annie’s husband, Zachary, one of the town council members and occasional deputy for Ethan, allowed her to take the wagon to shooting club meetings and carry several of the other women who lived within the town limits. They usually drove out to a ranch near Ethan’s to practice their marksmanship.

  Trudy came from her house, carrying her brother’s Sharps rifle, and Apphia Benton, the minister’s wife, bustled up the sidewalk from Gold Lane, where she and her husband rented a little cottage from Cyrus Fennel. From the Spur & Saddle, at the south end of Main, came the owner, Bitsy Shepard, and two of her saloon girls.

  Each woman carried her weapon of choice to the practice sessions, or whatever she was able to lay hands on, ranging from Bitsy’s tiny Deringer pistol to prewar muskets used by some of the outlying ranchers’ wives. Libby had begun selling a variety of firearms the summer before, and several ladies had purchased pistols that would fit into their handbags.

  Annie stopped the wagon and waited for the various club members to climb in at the back. Libby placed her handbag in the wagon bed, carefully lifted her skirts, turned, and gave a little hop onto the edge. Florence’s mother, Ellie Nash, ran down the steps of her house, where her husband kept the post office, her skirts hiked up above her ankles.

  “We’ll wait for you, Mama,” Florence called. “Don’t get all in a dither.”

  “Isn’t your sister-in-law coming?” Libby asked as Trudy settled beside her and smoothed her skirts over her ankles.

  Trudy shook her head. “She wanted to take a nap, and I can’t say I blame her. She’s had more than a week’s travel by train and stagecoach.”

  “Poor thing must be exhausted,” Libby said.

  “Your sister-in-law?” Florence asked. “I didn’t know you had one.”

  “She’s come to visit us from Maine.” Trudy’s strained smile told Libby she would rather not discuss it—indeed, would probably rather not be hosting the woman. But in a small town like Fergus, news of a newcomer always interested folks.

  “Is she your brother’s kin?” Annie asked, looking over her shoulder at Trudy.

  “That’s right. Rose is the sister of Hiram’s wife, Violet.”

  “Poor dear,” Annie murmured.

  Trudy’s lips tightened, and she busied herself with resting the Sharps so that it wouldn’t jostle on the ride. Libby considered Trudy her best friend. Their experiences of the past year had bound them together in spirit, though Trudy was younger by a decade, and Libby could read her friend quite well by now.

  “I remember Violet,” said Bitsy. “She was a dainty thing, comely and pert.” Bitsy was a shrewd business owner, and she made up for her diminutive size by wearing bright colors, startling makeup, and when she felt the occasion warranted it, shocking fashions. For the moment, she wore her bright red bloomer costume, which, where Bitsy was concerned, exhibited the height of modesty.

  Her two girls were also apt to show up sporting what some ladies would deem inappropriate clothing. This time their skirts hung short enough to reveal their shoe tops and sheer, clocked stockings with a suggestion of ruffled satin petticoats—a sharp contrast to Mrs. Benton’s proper two-piece, black bombazine dress. But the club members had welcomed them into their ranks and their hearts. Their friendship and prayers had borne fruit, and Goldie and Vashti now regularly attended the Reverend Mr. Benton’s church services. Bitsy, however, had come to church only once. Libby had not given up praying for her.

  “I wish I could have known Violet,” said Apphia, the newest arrival among them. “I’ve heard she was lovely in spirit as well as in form.”

  “I sort of remember her, but I was only a tyke when she passed on,” Myra said as Annie clucked to the horses. “Is her sister as pretty as Violet was?”

  “Rose is …” Trudy cleared her throat and shot a glance at Libby. “Yes, she’s very pretty.”

  Libby determined to have a moment alone with Trudy before the day was over. Something had clearly gone wrong with the visit, and the young woman’s insecurities had resurfaced.

  “And what’s Hiram up to this afternoon?” Apphia asked gently, but Libby had to wonder if she asked to make sure that Hiram had not stayed home alone with Rose. That wouldn’t be proper, though most of the people in Fergus wouldn’t give a hoot.

  “He’s gone over to the livery to help Griffin Bane,” Trudy said. The wagon was now nearly even with the smithy on the right, and beyond it lay Bane’s livery stable. All the ladies gazed toward it.

  “Mrs. Harper!” A high female voice reached them from the other side, and all those in the wagon swung around and looked toward the Nugget saloon. Opal, one of the employees at that establishment, hurried out the door and ran toward them carrying a shotgun. “Do you have room for me?”

  “Surely. Pile in at the back.” Annie stopped the horse and waited for Opal to climb in. She handled the shotgun with utmost care. One of the first things Trudy taught each new club member was gun safety, and carrying loaded guns in wagons was forbidden.

  “Miz Adams, I’ll need more shells for this when we’re done,” Opal said when she’d caught her breath.

  “Save your empty shells for me, and I’ll give you a discount.” Libby had recently made a practice of buying back used shotgun shells and spent brass casings from the women.

  “Ted doesn’t like me taking it, but he said if I buy my own ammunition, it’s all right. I’m saving up for a pistol like yours.”

  “Take your time,” Libby said. “And be sure to thank Mr. Hire for letting you use his shotgun.”

  “‘Tisn’t his, really.” Opal shook her head as though nothing made sense anymore. “Since Mr. Morrell was—” She broke off and cast an uneasy glance at Trudy. “Well, since he died, Ted’s just kind of taken over the Nugget. I don’t think he really owns it.”

  “I’m told he has rights,” Trudy said. “I asked the sheriff about it myself. He said Ted Hire has contacted Jamin Morrell’s kin. Morrell has two sisters in Philadelphia, and Ted is negotiating with them to buy the business. He’s putting aside a percentage of the income from the Nu
gget in an account for the family.”

  Libby wondered if Ted kept honest records for the ill-fated saloon owner’s sisters, but that was none of her business. Ted seemed decent enough—he always kept short accounts with her at the emporium. But he was shrewd. He’d managed to keep undisputed control of the Nugget when the owner died. And he never came to church, unlike Augie Moore. The big man who tended the bar at Bitsy’s saloon attended services faithfully and even carried his own Bible. Funny, Libby thought. If she needed help and had only the rival saloons’ men to give it, she’d pick big, muscular Augie any day over cold-eyed Ted.

  “I’m glad the snow’s off and we can shoot out to Thalens’ ranch again,” Florence said. “It was all right meeting out behind your place now and then in the winter, Trudy, but it’s so much nicer to get out away from town.”

  “And to be able to shoot without your gloves on,” her friend Myra added.

  “Yes,” said Ellie, “and to be back on the twice-a-week schedule. My aim suffered over the winter.”

  When they arrived at the ravine where they practiced in good weather, four ranchers’ wives awaited them, and Isabel Fennel was walking over the hill from the schoolhouse.

  As the other riders climbed down, Trudy waited, standing in the wagon bed.

  “Ladies,” she called, and they all gathered around and looked up at her. “Sheriff Chapman has requested help from our membership. It’s not a dangerous task, and it’s one that any of you could take part in if you have the time and the desire.”

  The women’s eyes glinted with interest. After the quiet winter in Fergus, they were ready for some action.

  Trudy cleared her throat. “You all remember our dear, departed member, Millicent Peart.”

  The ladies murmured, “Oh yes” and “We surely do.” Tears sprang into Libby’s eyes just thinking about the old woman.

  Trudy nodded. “Of course you do. We all do. Well, it’s been brought to the sheriff’s attention that Millicent had no will, and no one in town seems to know whether the Pearts had an heir who can claim their property.”

  “How can we help?” asked Starr Tinen.

  Trudy nodded at her. “Afternoon, Starr. The sheriff asked if some of our members could help write letters. He’d like to inquire of town officials and law officers back East, in the area where the Pearts came from, to see if we can find a trace of any relatives back there.”

  “I’ll help,” said Emmaline Landry. Several other women raised their hands.

  “Wonderful,” Trudy said.

  Libby rummaged in her bag. “Would you like me to take names?”

  “I’m not sure we need to.” Trudy raised her voice. “Any of those willing and able may gather this evening at my house. Come after supper—six thirty or so. Bring your pen and ink. If you can spare an envelope and a sheet of writing paper, bring those, too. The sheriff is asking around town for information about Frank and Milzie Peart’s background. He’ll come by tonight and tell us what he knows so that we can begin our task.”

  “Maybe we could send some telegrams,” Bitsy said. “It would be faster.”

  “But explaining the situation may take quite a few words.”

  Ellie frowned. “That could get expensive.”

  “Yes, I think it’s best if we write letters,” Trudy said. “There’s no big hurry, and Sheriff Chapman can help us word our inquiries discreetly.” She looked over the club members. Isabel nodded soberly, and Trudy hoped the schoolteacher would come to the gathering, though she lived outside town. “All right, then. If there’s no other business, let’s get started. Mrs. Benton, would you open our meeting in prayer, please?”

  After the prayer, Libby went to the back of the wagon to offer Trudy a steadying hand as she climbed down. “I can’t come tonight, but I’ll send a dozen envelopes over with Florence.”

  “Thank you.” Trudy brushed off her skirt and straightened.

  Libby shrugged. “It’s not much.” She wished she could go. She always enjoyed visiting with Trudy and her brother. The other ladies would liven up the evening for sure. But she kept the emporium open until six every night, and afterward she straightened the store and worked on her bookkeeping. Like Bitsy and the saloon girls, she would have to bypass the gathering. “I wonder why anyone cares about that place. The Pearts’ cabin burned flat, and the mine never paid much. The land is practically vertical.”

  “I know, but …” Trudy’s brow wrinkled above her blue gray eyes. “Ethan told me Cy Fennel was the one who asked about the property.”

  Libby looked over her shoulder to see if Cyrus’s daughter was within earshot, but Isabel had already gone to her shooting station. “He’s already bought up every parcel available. Doesn’t he own enough land?”

  “Apparently not.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Ethan made his rounds that evening at a measured pace. He’d just come from an enjoyable half hour in Trudy’s kitchen, instructing the ladies on how to frame their inquiries about the Pearts. Some of the old-timers of Fergus had given him a few scraps of information. Several folks had recalled that Frank Peart was from New Jersey, and Ethan had probed the memories of those who had been in town the longest.

  Charles Walker, the former mayor of Fergus, remembered the name of a town Frank had talked about. Ethan had borrowed a geography book from Isabel during the school’s lunch hour and found that the town was just outside Elizabeth, a fair-sized city. He’d decided to inquire of the city clerk as well, in case some of the Peart family records were filed there. A wire to the U.S. marshal in Boise might turn up something, and he’d passed the name of an attorney in the territorial capital to Trudy. She would write to the lawyer and explain the situation, asking for any advice the man could give the sheriff. Ethan was confident that within a few weeks they would learn something.

  He mounted the steps to the Spur & Saddle. Nine months ago, he’d cringed to enter the saloons. Now it didn’t bother him. It was a regular part of his job. Bitsy’s place wasn’t bad, anyway. Inside, it looked like a swanky hotel lobby. Bitsy’d had the piano and two velvet-covered settees hauled all the way up here by mule train. She did all right. Lots of regular patrons came here once a week or more.

  Now, the Nugget, at the other end of Main Street, sang a different tune. The plain, square building held a few tables, a rustic bar, and short benches. Men didn’t go in there for the atmosphere. The former owner had made plans to improve the place, but right now, Ted Hire was running the Nugget. He seemed to be doing all right, but who could really say? Maybe Oscar Runnels, who freighted in the liquor for him. But Ted kept his business affairs to himself.

  Ethan took only a few steps into the Spur & Saddle. On a Thursday evening, things weren’t too lively. About ten men sat in the cushioned chairs or on the settees with their drinks in their hands. Three played a quiet poker game. The rest conversed with each other or the ladies serving drinks. Funny how he thought of Bitsy, Goldie, and Vashti as ladies now. A year ago, he’d have blushed scarlet to think about the saloon women. Now he considered Bitsy a friend and ally, if an eccentric one, and he knew Trudy cared about Bitsy and her girls as well.

  Augie stood behind the bar and waved. Ethan nodded to him. Bitsy sat at a table, engaged in conversation with a gentleman Ethan didn’t recognize, but he had the look of a salesman. Probably staying overnight at the Fennel House, the boardinghouse owned by the number-one landlord of Fergus, good old Cyrus.

  Vashti, the dark-haired girl, caught his eye as she sashayed across from the bar to the poker players, balancing a tray with three glasses on it. She smiled broadly, and Ethan had to admit the girl had a pleasant face. He turned away before he could form any impressions of the rest of her. Augie and the ladies had everything under control. He rarely had to take action at the Spur & Saddle.

  He strolled across the street and passed the end of Harper Lane and the Walkers’ house. Lamplight streamed from the parlor windows of the yellow house. Ethan thought of stopping in to see how the former mayor
was doing, but he shrank from the almost certainly sour reception Orissa Walker would give him. Charles hadn’t fully recovered after being shot last summer, and he’d had to give up his position as mayor. Just couldn’t keep up with things anymore. Orissa seemed to take it personally that she was no longer the mayor’s wife, but no way could she keep that position when her husband couldn’t serve.

  After the shooting, Ethan had wondered if Cyrus Fennel would manage to get himself named mayor, but the folks had demanded a vote. They’d elected a man everyone truly liked: postmaster Peter Nash, Walker’s next-door neighbor. Things had been quiet since, to Ethan’s relief. He’d spent a quiet winter on the ranch, riding into town most days and taking his time courting Trudy. Life in Fergus was good these days. Good and peaceful.

  He sauntered on, checking locked storefronts and peering into vacant buildings left over from the Gold Rush of twenty years ago. He even moseyed along the side streets. Quiet. Absolutely, pin-droppingly quiet.

  Outside the livery, he found Griffin and Hiram sitting on a couple of hay bales shooting the breeze.

  “What are you doing out here, Hi?” Ethan asked.

  Hiram rolled his eyes heavenward.

  Griffin laughed. “He’s got a kitchen full of women, and he says it’s your fault.”

  “Oh yeah.” Ethan leaned against the wall and guffawed. “I expect the ladies will be finished before long.”

  The big blacksmith ran a hand through his beard. “He don’t like being booted out of his own house. Can’t say as I blame him.”

  “That so?” Ethan eyed Hiram, but he only grimaced and looked skyward. “Tell Trudy. Maybe next time they can meet at Preacher Benton’s house.”

  “Yeah,” said Griffin, “or how about Bitsy’s place? She’s got plenty of room.”

  Hiram sat up and glared at Griffin.

  “Take it easy, now.” Ethan clamped his hand on Hiram’s shoulder. “You know he’s just teasing. We wouldn’t want our womenfolk meeting in a saloon, would we, Griff?”