The Bride's Prerogative

by Davis, Susan Page

  “Oh?”

  Starr nodded. “The big thing is her sister-in-law. That Rose Caplinger appears to have set her cap at Hiram, and Trudy says he wants none of it. She’s cooking up a scheme to save her brother.”

  “What sort of scheme?” Isabel managed a sketchy smile, but she didn’t feel the spirit of the plan or quite see the humor of it.

  “She’s going to try to match Rose up with the blacksmith. Get her out of Hiram’s hair.”

  Isabel’s mouth went dry. She could see her second nonoption evaporating into thin air over the distant peak of War Eagle Mountain.

  Starr grinned. “Come on, let’s get you set up to shoot.”

  Isabel supposed she could pretend the pronghorn painted on her target was Rose Caplinger. The very thought shocked her, and she quickly offered a silent prayer of repentance. She fired her rounds and squinted through the haze to see if she’d aimed well. The acrid smoke of the pistol she’d bought against Papa’s wishes left a bitter taste that lingered on her tongue.

  When she left the practice an hour later, Isabel couldn’t stop thinking about what Starr Tinen had told her. The women of the shooting club, whom she had actually begun to think of as friends, planned to do their utmost to marry off the man she loved to Hiram Dooley’s shrewish sister-in-law. She couldn’t bear it. For years she had carried a secret adoration of the big, brawny smith. Griffin Bane was all that she imagined in a good husband. Unlike her father, he was forthright and plainspoken. No devious schemes for Griffin. He lived a simple life, open for all to read. Honest, hardworking, not to mention handsome. And he’d proved faithful in church, too, since they’d begun having church.

  She marched home and straight to her bedroom. Papa wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours, provided he didn’t stop at the Nugget first. In that case, who knew?

  She sat down on the edge of her bed. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. Had she made a fatal mistake in never revealing her feelings for Griffin? No one knew except her mother, and she’d taken the secret to her grave. Isabel had dreaded anyone finding out. If Griffin learned of her love and rejected her, she wouldn’t be able to stand the sorrow. It was better that he didn’t suspect. Yet she’d said nothing all this time, and now she stood a good chance of losing him forever. If she didn’t act swiftly, Starr and Trudy would throw Rose Caplinger at him. But if she let the facts be known?

  The very idea terrified her.

  She’d nearly told Libby a week ago when they’d talked about her father. If she had, would Libby have put a stop to this wild plan?

  Tears streamed down Isabel’s cheeks. When she reached for a handkerchief, her hands shook. She gave in to her sorrow and buried her face in her pillow. She’d never really thought Griffin would come courting. But the notion that he couldn’t—ever—if Trudy Dooley’s plan went forward, opened a black chasm inside her. She sobbed with abandon. The knowledge that no one would hear her only magnified her loneliness. She cried harder.

  Twenty minutes later, she sat up and dried her eyes. If Papa discovered she’d cried over a man who barely knew she existed, he’d tell her she was foolish, and perhaps he’d be right.

  “Are you just going to let this happen?” she asked aloud.

  Continuing to live unloved and unacknowledged suddenly loomed a larger danger than the humiliation she might suffer if she took action.

  Before she could change her mind, she washed her face and grabbed her shawl and bonnet. She walked quickly the half mile to town, hoping the cool breeze would even out her blotchy complexion and repair the mottling her weeping session had caused. Instead of dissipating with the exercise, her indignation grew. When the livery stable came into view, she headed straight for it, not allowing herself to think about whether anyone else saw her. The townsfolk would assume she went on business for her father, anyway. No one would ever imagine her walking into a man’s place of business on a personal errand.

  Smoke poured from the stovepipe on top of the smithy next to the stable, and she veered toward it. The sun would set soon, and Griffin would stop his work. She was glad she’d caught him before he left for the evening. The ringing of steel on steel beckoned her.

  When she shoved the door open, he looked up from his anvil, where he was shaping a horseshoe. Despite the chilly May air outside, the smithy was warm, and Griffin stood near the forge wearing his denim trousers, leather apron, and one of the men’s cotton loomed undervests that Libby sold in the ready-mades section at the emporium. His suspenders hung in loops from his belt, and perspiration glistened on his noble brow. Isabel’s knees wobbled suddenly. She grasped the doorjamb and hauled in a deep breath to stave off a swoon.

  “Miss Fennel. What can I do for you?” Her sudden appearance in the doorway of the smithy startled Griffin.

  “What can you do for me?” Isabel’s voice shook.

  “Does your father need something?” Cyrus had already been over here twice today to grouse about the quality of the new team Bill Stout had brought in for tomorrow’s stage run. Griffin had stood the man’s griping only so long. Then he’d told Cyrus it wasn’t his fault if someone had bought inferior livestock for the stage line, and maybe the division agent—Cyrus himself—ought to take over the task of buying the replacement horses. Then Griffin had politely but firmly asked him to clear out so some people could get their work done. And now Cyrus was sending his daughter over to bother him? He lowered the hot horseshoe into the tub of water by the forge.

  The steam plumed up between them. Isabel stared at him with her pale eyes. She seemed colorless, standing there in her dress the hue of dust. Any tints her clothing caught came from the glowing coals in his forge.

  “Mr. Bane …”

  She swallowed hard, and his heart tripped. Was she bringing bad news? Her visit was unprecedented, and she wore an expression that bespoke resignation. Maybe someone had died. He almost turned to look at his friend, who sat in the shadowy corner to her left, but she began speaking again.

  “I’ll tell you what you can do for me.” She squared her shoulders. “At the very least, you can notice I’m alive.”

  Griff straightened with the three-pound rounding hammer in his hands and cocked his head to one side. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Griffin Bane, we’ve been acquainted more than ten years, and I don’t think you’ve ever once noticed me.”

  He tried to get out an answer to that, but no sound was capable of passing his constricted windpipe.

  Isabel balled her hands into fists. “I’m a good cook and a woman of faith. Do I need to remind you that I’m also intelligent, or that my father owns a great deal of property? When he passes on, I shall inherit it all. Every acre. I may not be the handsomest woman in Fergus, but I daresay I’m among the most eligible.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes ma’am, I expect so.”

  “Do you? Well then, do something about it. Or do you prefer to be sacrificed to that woman, so that Hiram Dooley doesn’t have to think about getting married?”

  A sudden movement in the corner drew a startled gasp from her. Hiram leaped from his perch as Isabel whirled and stared at him. She lifted one thin hand to her lips and sobbed. Lifting her skirt, she turned and ran.

  Hiram raised one hand as though to stop her, but she was gone. He looked around at Griffin. For a long moment they stared at each other. Hiram shrugged.

  The quiet gunsmith’s bewilderment reflected his own, and Griffin began to shake. A huge laugh worked its way up from his belly to his chest. Unable to stop, he let it out in a whoop. Hiram’s eyes flared, but he soon chortled sheepishly. Griffin laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and sputtered on the coals in the forge.

  At last he pulled his bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his eyes. “I ask you, what on earth was that all about?”

  Hiram gulped. “I have no idea. But her eyes were kinda wild and scary looking.”

  Griffin rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his eyebrows. “I don’t know what got into her. I
t was like … like a mare that’s been in the loco weed.”

  Hiram looked toward the doorway and shook his head. “Don’t think she even knew I was here, at first.”

  “Me neither,” Griffin said. “But what do you suppose she meant, me being sacrificed at your weddin’?”

  Hiram’s face froze. “She didn’t say that.”

  “What did she say? Some babble about how I’d ought to respect her pa’s money. Do you think she wants me to take on shopping for a new team for him? Because I told him I don’t have time to go to the horse auction in Boise.”

  “That’s … not the impression I got.” Hiram hesitated. “I can’t say for certain, but it sounds to me like she thinks one of us ought to marry her.”

  Griffin’s hand went slack, and the hammer clattered to the floor. “Ow!” He grabbed the toe of his boot and hopped about the smithy on one foot. When he at last stood still again and gingerly tested his weight on his injured foot, Hiram’s face had gone all sad, the way he’d looked most of the time since Violet died.

  “Griff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Seems to me there’s an awful lot of nuptial thinking going on in this town.”

  Griffin gulped. “You think she was serious? Maybe we ought to do something about it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe ask the sheriff to put a moratorium on weddings?” Hiram frowned. “Ethan can’t do that.”

  “Well then, the preacher maybe?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Libby knocked on the door of the small house and looked around appreciatively. Lilies bloomed below the front windows, and the fresh white paint on the board siding made the dwelling stand out from the weather-beaten gray buildings on either side.

  The Bentons had come to town less than a year ago, but they’d made a lot of improvements in the little rental. The pastor had purchased paint, nails, and various other items at the emporium, and Libby wondered if the landlord—Cyrus Fennel—had reimbursed the couple for enhancing his property. She also wondered if he’d followed through on his original promise to let them buy the house if they wanted to, after the six months’ free rent he’d grudgingly given them had expired. On the Reverend Mr. Benton’s small salary, she doubted they could afford it. Perhaps she should bring the matter up at the next town council meeting.

  Bitsy cleared her throat, and Libby glanced over at her. Her companion eyed the door through narrowed eyes and twisted the chain handle of her mesh reticule between her hands.

  Before Libby could assure her there was no need for nervousness, Apphia opened the door, her face glowing with pleasure.

  “Ladies! Do come in. I’m so happy to see you both.”

  “I hope we’re not interrupting your supper,” Libby said.

  “Not at all. We just finished. Are you here to consult my husband or to visit with me?”

  Bitsy jerked her shoulders back and shot a panicky glance at Libby.

  “You, please,” Libby said, and Bitsy huffed out a quiet sigh.

  “Delightful. Won’t you come and sit in the parlor?”

  Libby stood aside, beckoning for Bitsy to precede her. Her friend hesitated then mounted the steps and followed Apphia, pulling her shawl across the deep neckline of her bright yellow satin dress. Libby came last, closing the door.

  The tiny house had no entry hall, and the front door opened on what the hostess had so glibly called a parlor. The cramped room held two chairs and a cushioned bench, a small table bearing a kerosene lamp, and a bookshelf consisting of rough boards stacked on large tin cans painted a jaunty red. Two potted plants and a framed miniature sat atop the shelves, and one wall held a sampler portraying a cross wreathed in roses and silk-floss letters, reading: BUT MY GOD SHALL SUPPLY ALL YOUR NEED ACCORDING TO HIS RICHES IN GLORY BY CHRIST JESUS.—PHILIPPIANS 4:19.

  Mr. Benton peered in a doorway at the back, which Libby knew from previous visits led to the kitchen.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  “Hello, Pastor.”

  “May I serve you three ladies something?”

  “No, thank you,” Libby said quickly, and Bitsy shook her head, not meeting the preacher’s gaze.

  “That’s kind of you, Phineas, but we seem to be content.” Apphia nodded to her husband with a smile, and he withdrew. “Please sit down.” She indicated the two chairs and took a seat on the bench.

  “I do hope we’re not intruding,” Libby said.

  Bitsy seemed more on edge than before. She wriggled in her chair, arranging her skirt and shawl to expose as little of her flesh as possible.

  “Not at all. I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you this afternoon on your fine shooting,” Apphia said to Bitsy. “Earning the ‘personal best’ ribbon is an honor.”

  “It surely is.” Bitsy touched the bit of sky blue ribbon pinned to her bodice. “I think I hold this more valuable than my onyx eardrops.”

  “The shooting club has helped us all to grow inwardly, I think.”

  Libby nodded, and silence descended on them. Apphia obviously waited for a cue from her as to the nature of their visit. The pastor’s wife wouldn’t want to make presumptions, yet she mustn’t enjoy seeing Bitsy so uncomfortable in the parsonage.

  “Bitsy and I were talking today, and she had some questions that I couldn’t answer concerning spiritual matters. Do you mind if we present her inquiries to you?”

  “Of course not—unless you’d prefer to speak to Mr. Benton. He is much more knowledgeable than I am.”

  Bitsy’s eyes darted toward the door. Perspiration beaded on her powdered brow.

  “I think we’d prefer you for this errand,” Libby said.

  “Of course.” Apphia waited, an expectant smile hovering at her lips. “Bitsy, let me say again how glad I am to have you here.”

  “Oh, I …” Bitsy cleared her throat and studied the crocheted doily beneath the lamp. Libby wondered how many invitations from Apphia the saloon owner had turned down in the past year. But she was here now, and that was what counted.

  “Bitsy is very interested in the scriptures, and more pointedly, the matter of salvation.”

  Bitsy drew in a deep breath. “I’m convinced now that God can save me. Didn’t know for sure, but Libby’s shown me lots of places in the Bible where it says He can.”

  “Oh yes, most assuredly He can,” Apphia said.

  After a quick nod, Bitsy plunged on. “Well, here’s the thing. If I got saved, would God make me close the saloon?”

  Apphia blinked twice. “To be honest, I’m not sure. But I believe the Lord is going to save you, my dear, and I also believe that if you come to Him, you’ll want to do whatever will please Him.”

  Libby let out a pent-up breath. She’d known there was a better answer than her poor brain had come up with.

  “But how will I know what He expects me to do?” Bitsy leaned forward in her earnestness, letting the edges of her shawl slip.

  “He makes that very clear in His Word.” Apphia reached to the bookcase and took out a black-covered Bible. “Let me show you some verses.”

  Libby watched quietly as Apphia turned to Acts 16:31.

  “‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ “

  “Hmm.” Bitsy bit her bottom lip. “I thought He expected us to do good deeds.”

  “That comes after,” Apphia said. “If you believe Jesus died to pay for your sins, you’ll want to do things that please Him. But that’s not what will save you and get you into heaven.”

  Bitsy frowned. “Funny. I always heard that it did. When someone died, folks would say, ‘He’s surely in heaven, he was such a good person.’ But you’re telling me different.”

  Apphia smiled. “If there’s one thing I want you to understand, Bitsy, it’s that all the good deeds in the world won’t amount to a thing if you don’t trust in Jesus. The first and most important thing is that you believe on Him. Doing good doesn’t save you. But after you are saved, you will want to do good to please
Him.”

  Bitsy’s frown deepened, and she shook her head. “See, that’s what I was afraid of. If I listen to this, I’ll have to change my entire life and start being good.”

  Libby smiled involuntarily. “Bitsy, you already do good deeds. I don’t know many people as generous as you.”

  “But my business. How would I live?” Bitsy shook her head. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  Apphia said gently, “If God is calling you, then you won’t be able to resist. But you needn’t be afraid. He wants only what is good for you.”

  “That’s what Augie says.”

  Apphia said nothing but shot a surprised look Libby’s way. “Let me share another scripture with you. It tells a little bit of what God expects from us after we believe in Him.”

  “Yes, I’d like to hear that.” Bitsy settled back and waited while Apphia turned the pages.

  “Here. This is in Micah 6:8. ‘He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’ You see? God wants us to walk with Him. He wants us to do kindnesses to others and to be merciful.”

  “I expect I could work on it,” Bitsy said doubtfully.

  “That’s one of the best parts,” Libby told her. “God will help you know what’s right through reading the Bible. And He’ll give you the strength to do it.”

  “That’s right.” Apphia began turning pages again.

  At that moment, male voices could be heard outside the front door, and a firm knock resounded throughout the house.

  “Excuse me.” Apphia laid her Bible aside and hopped up to answer it.

  “Hello, ma’am.” Griffin Bane’s deep voice was filled with humility. “We’re sorry to disturb you this evening, but Mr. Dooley and I wondered if we could have a word with the parson. If he’s not too busy, that is.”

  At the mention of Hiram’s name, Libby tuned her ears to the conversation. She leaned over to try to get a look, but Griffin’s large figure completely cut off her view of anyone accompanying him.

  “Certainly, Mr. Bane. Won’t you both go on through to the kitchen? I believe my husband is out there studying his sermon.”