“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Moore,” Peter Nash said. “We’re pleased that you could join us today. As you can see, we’ve invited all the town’s leading business owners to help the council decide on a matter that’s been hanging for nearly a year now—that of Dr. Kincaid’s situation.”
Charles Walker, Maitland Dostie, Ethan, Griffin, the Reverend Mr. Benton, and Ted Hire, along with council members Libby, Cyrus, Oscar Runnels, and Zachary Harper, completed the group. Ellie Nash entered bearing a tray of mismatched mugs and teacups. She circulated, allowing each guest to choose coffee or tea.
Libby accepted a pretty, violet-sprigged cup of black tea, and Bitsy followed her lead, still darting nervous glances at various members of the gathering.
“Dr. Kincaid will join us in about a half hour,” the mayor went on. “That is, provided he doesn’t get an emergency call. I thought that would give us time to discuss a few things before he gets here.”
“Is there a problem?” asked Maitland, the telegraph operator.
“The doc isn’t happy with his living situation,” Peter said.
“He’s perfectly comfortable at the Fennel House.”
Cyrus’s defensive comment drew a sigh from Bitsy. Libby half-expected her to speak up, but for once she withheld her usually frank opinion.
“I’m sure he is, but he’d like a more permanent arrangement.” Peter looked around at the others. “What happened is this: A citizen of our town, who is now deceased, invited Dr. Kincaid to come and practice in Fergus. We’re glad he did, but the promises Mr. Morrell made to the doctor had not been approved by the town council, and we found them to be a bit extravagant.”
“Just what did he promise?” Oscar asked. He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a cigar. He glanced over at the ladies, as though suddenly remembering their presence. Libby frowned at him, and for once, Oscar took the hint and put his cigar back without lighting it.
Peter lifted a sheet of paper. “The doctor was kind enough to loan me the actual letter he received. In it, Morrell promised him a house, rent-free, in town, along with a horse and buggy to be maintained gratis at the livery stable”—at this, Griffin scowled fiercely—“and medical supplies to be shipped in regularly from Boise at no charge to the doctor.”
“The town can’t afford all that.” Charles Walker spoke for the first time, his voice higher and thinner even than it had been before his grave injury the summer before.
“No, we can’t, and it’s not reasonable.” Peter folded the letter and laid it aside. “No other physician would expect such benefits. I’ve discussed this with Dr. Kincaid, and he understands. However, he doesn’t feel he can open an office and stock the supplies he’ll need without some help from the town. So far he’s been operating from the boardinghouse, going to his patients whenever he’s called upon.”
“But we’re paying his board and room for him,” Bitsy said.
Cyrus leaned forward. “Correction. The town is paying for his board. He’s getting his room at the Fennel House free, which doesn’t help me much in paying the couple who are running the place.”
“But surely it’s good advertising,” Libby said. “Folks must feel safer staying there with a doctor in the house.”
“Yes,” said Ethan. “I expect the doc lends the place an air of respectability.”
No one mentioned the boardinghouse’s proximity to the Nugget saloon, but Ted Hire, who currently managed the place, sank a little lower in his chair.
The minister cleared his throat. “If I might make a suggestion, Mr. Mayor.”
“Of course, Reverend.”
“There are several vacant buildings on Main Street and Gold Lane, mostly owned by Mr. Fennel.” He nodded deferentially at Cyrus. “Mr. Fennel made my wife and me an offer last year. We lived rent free in one of his houses for six months. During that time, the church began to pay me a salary. Apphia and I sought the Lord’s direction. At the end of the six months, we approached Mr. Fennel about buying the house. We reached a satisfactory agreement with payments we can afford. Perhaps he would like to extend a similar offer to the doctor.”
“I don’t know how much income he has,” Libby said. “Some folks pay him in foodstuffs.” She didn’t reveal how Kincaid had come to her asking if she could take two bushels of dried corn off his hands and apply the value to the account he’d run up at the emporium for medical supplies and sundries.
“And besides,” Cyrus added, “I’ve already given him ten months’ free rent at the Fennel House. I can’t see extending it any longer.”
“Hmm.” Peter looked around at all of them. “Perhaps the town could afford to pay Mr. Fennel a reasonable rent on a house for the doctor. Then he could set up his office and take patients there, as well as have more private living quarters. I’m afraid we’ll lose him if we don’t resolve the issue soon.”
“I’m sure the church members would help fix up the house, as they helped us with ours,” Mr. Benton said.
Griffin straightened his shoulders. “I can let him use one of my wagons, and I can make him a good deal on a horse if he wants to buy one. Can’t just give him one. I mean, they cost money. So does feed. But if he wants to arrange payments or something, I’ll work with him. He’s a good doctor, and I think we should do all we can to keep him here.”
“I agree,” Bitsy said. “Augie and I can pitch in a few extra dollars, can’t we?” She looked to her new husband.
He nodded. “Guess so.”
“Donations would help,” Peter said, “but if it’s to be a regular thing, we really ought to make it part of the town’s budget.”
Oscar laughed. “What’s that? We’ve never had a budget.”
“Certainly we have.” Zack shook a finger toward his neighbor. “Just because we never wrote it down, don’t mean we don’t have one. We always collect taxes for the sheriff’s pay and things like that. So, we add a dollar or two to each family’s yearly bill to help the doctor out until his practice becomes more profitable.”
Libby stirred. “Mr. Mayor, I think Mr. Runnels has a point. The town council hasn’t kept the best records of its meetings, and we generally collect money until we have enough to pay our bills, but it really should be better organized.”
“Are you volunteering, ma’am?” Peter’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.
Libby smiled with gritted teeth. “I’ll take part of the responsibility, but not all. I could keep official minutes at the meetings, for instance. But we really should keep precise records on how much is collected from whom and how it is spent.”
“I’ve been saying that for years,” Cyrus said.
“Well then, Mr. Fennel, would you set up a ledger for the town’s local tax collection and distribution?”
“I wasn’t volunteering.”
Everyone stared at Cyrus.
“Oh all right.” He shrugged. “Someone’s got to do it, I suppose. Perhaps Mrs. Adams will assist me, to make certain I set the accounts up properly.”
His suggestion surprised Libby. She’d thought she’d successfully discouraged his advances, and she had no desire to spend time alone with him. “Really, you ought to be able to do it without my help. You ran the assay office for some time, and now you run the stagecoach line. You must keep books for that and report to Wells Fargo.”
Cyrus didn’t look happy, but in the end, he agreed to set up the town’s ledger.
Peter nodded at him. “That’s the way, Mr. Fennel. Your labor in this matter will be greatly appreciated.” He took out his pocket watch. “The doctor should be here soon, and we’ll present this plan to him. Any other business to discuss while we wait?”
“Mr. Fennel,” said the minister, “yesterday I rode out to that ranch you have northeast of town.”
Cyrus’s eyes flared, and he waited in silence.
“I met Mr. Smith, your tenant.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I’d heard you had a gentleman living out there and working the ranch. I invited him and hi
s employees to the church services.”
“What did he say?” Cyrus asked.
“He said he might come, but truthfully, he didn’t sound committed to the idea. He also warned me not to expect his men, as they’re busy stringing fence.”
Libby listened with interest. That must be where the rolls of barbed wire Cyrus had ordered went.
“We have a lot of newcomers in town,” Griffin noted.
“Yes, we do.” Mr. Benton smiled. “My wife suggested we have a social event to bring folks together. A box social, perhaps.”
“That sounds like fun,” Libby said. “I’m sure the Ladies’ Shooting Club would support the event.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Adams. I’ll ask Apphia to speak with you about it.” The minister beamed at her. “Social gatherings now and then can draw the community together.”
Bitsy looked askance at Libby. “I’m not sure you’d want Mr. Smith’s cowhands to go to it. They might make a ruckus.”
Ethan frowned. “So long as we make sure no alcohol is served, the whole town could enjoy a holiday. We could stipulate that it’s a dry party when we announce it.”
“We’d lose a workday,” Zack noted.
“Yes, but we’d get to know some of these new people.” Mr. Benton’s face lit as he named them off. “There’s Dr. Kincaid and Mrs. Caplinger, who tells me she’s thinking of locating here permanently, and a new couple out on the Colburn place and Mr. Smith and his men. There may be others I’m forgetting.”
“The Thistles,” Libby said. “They came last summer.”
“Yes, and we don’t have many social occasions when it comes down to it,” Peter said. “Folks enjoyed the Moores’ wedding so much, I think they’d welcome another chance to get together without waiting for a funeral.”
Bitsy’s cheeks reddened deeper than her rouge accounted for. “I’ll help Miz Adams and the other women, Mayor. Just tell us what you want, and we’ll arrange the refreshments and such.”
A sudden thought came to Libby. “Say, what if we made this into a fund-raiser to help support Dr. Kincaid?”
After a moment’s silence, Peter said, “Mrs. Adams, that’s brilliant.”
Ethan grinned at him. “Mayor, if you want someone to be sure everyone in town gets an invitation, I highly recommend the Ladies’ Shooting Club. They helped me write some letters about the Peart property a couple of weeks ago.”
“What did you find out about that?” Griffin asked.
“Nothing much yet.”
Ellie Nash opened the parlor door. “Excuse me, folks. The doctor’s here. Are you ready for him?”
Dr. Kincaid entered, and the discussion returned to his living quarters. By that time, Cyrus had accepted the idea of putting the physician in one of his vacant houses, even if he received a miniscule rent. Better than nothing, Libby thought. He can always raise the rent when the doctor’s practice prospers.
Isabel opened the oven to check on the chicken. Papa was late for supper. He’d had that meeting with the council and business owners this afternoon, but surely that was finished by now. She poured a little water in the roasting pan to keep the chicken from drying out.
A knock at the front door startled her. She doffed her apron and hurried down the hall. She pulled the door open and stared into feral dark eyes. If asked, she’d have said Kenton Smith was the one person she least wanted to see, yet she couldn’t deny the relief that washed over her when she found him waiting on the stoop.
“Oh, Mr … Uncle Kenton.”
“Isabel. Is your father home?”
“Uh …” The plaid shirt he wore was in better condition than the one she’d first seen him in, and his beard had filled in, but it did nothing to enhance his pinched face and crooked teeth. His eyelids lowered at her hesitation, making slits of the critical orbs. She quickly cataloged how many of the hired hands were about the place and how loudly she would have to scream for one of them to hear her. “I expect him any minute. Could I … could I get you some coffee?”
“That’d be nice, thank you. And can one of your boys tend to my horse? He’s mighty dry, too, after that long ride.”
“Certainly. Would you like to sit here on the porch or in the parlor?”
“Oh, what’s wrong with your pa’s study?”
Her lungs contracted, and her breath whooshed out. Papa would never want anyone in there when he wasn’t present. “I’m sorry, I haven’t straightened the room today. Let me show you to the parlor.”
Hoofbeats sounded on the dirt road leading to the ranch house, and she peered over her uncle’s shoulder toward the sound. “Ah, there’s Papa now.”
“Good. I’ll go and meet him.”
Papa rode his big roan gelding toward the corral near the barn. Kenton limped across the yard after him. Brady came from the barn to take Papa’s horse. Isabel sighed and allowed herself to relax for a moment. Then she scurried back to the kitchen. No doubt Uncle Kenton would expect a meal. She set another place at the table then sank into her chair. She could hardly believe he was alive and well. He had indeed stayed in the area and come around to visit again. She closed her eyes. Thank You, Lord. It felt so good to let go of that worry. And forgive me for thinking such an awful thing about Papa.
Libby. She would have to tell Libby as soon as possible that her fears were unfounded. How silly she had been to think …
She refused to wonder about the hole Papa had dug. There must be some simple, mundane explanation. Shameful that she had thought otherwise.
She rose, tiptoed to the back door, and opened it a crack so that she could peek out at the barnyard without being observed.
Her father and Kenton stood by the corral fence. The sound of their voices carried to her. Papa didn’t seem to care that all the hands could hear, let alone his daughter in the house.
“I told you I can’t do it.”
“And I say you’d better.”
Kenton’s tone shocked Isabel. No one spoke to her father that way. He’d fire any cowboy who dared. He glared at the shorter man with a look of authoritative dislike that she’d seen him use only twice before—once when he’d caught a ranch hand pilfering from his desk and again when he’d discovered a prairie rattler under the back stoop.
“Get out of here.” She could almost see sparks fly from Papa’s flinty eyes.
“You’ll regret this.”
“Maybe so.”
Uncle Kenton whirled and strode toward the front of the house. Isabel quickly closed the door. She stood shaking for a moment, breathing in shallow gulps. Her hands shook, and she clasped them together. When they’d stopped trembling, she took the extra plate and silverware off the table.
Her father came in a few minutes later. “Supper ready?”
“Yes.”
He washed his hands while Isabel took the chicken from the oven. They both sat down. Papa offered a rather curt blessing for the food.
Isabel started to speak several times but swallowed her words. As she handed him the potatoes, he squinted at her. “Why are you staring?”
“I … I’m sorry. I wondered what Uncle Kenton wanted.”
“Nothing.”
“But he said he’d ridden a long way to see you.”
Her father took a large bite of chicken and chewed it, all the while scowling and avoiding her gaze.
“Not that far,” he said at last. “You may as well know, I let him move into the old Martin place. Wish I hadn’t now.”
Isabel’s bite of potato refused to go down. She coughed and took a drink of water. “Isn’t that where those awful men came from? The ones who made such a commotion in the saloon?”
“Yes, they were his hands.”
“But you made it sound like you didn’t know where he would be! It seems he’s been out on the old Martin ranch ever since he was last here. Why didn’t you tell me?”
His mouth slid into a crooked gash. “Isabel, if there are things you need to know, I will tell you. And things change. Just because Kenton is now
at the Martin place doesn’t mean he was the day you asked me.”
She closed her mouth and sliced off a bite of her chicken. She hated it when Papa treated her this way. She was not a child.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. When Papa’s plate was empty, instead of taking seconds, he sighed and pushed his chair back. “I’m going back into town. Don’t wait up for me.”
“But Papa, you haven’t had your coffee.”
She leaped up, but he was already gone. His heavy footsteps receded down the hallway, and the front door opened and closed. She began to clear the table mechanically. A few minutes later, she heard hoofbeats as a horse left the ranch at high speed.
The coffeepot was still full. She poured herself a mug and added milk, then sat down again. Papa certainly had a lot of secrets, and he wasn’t about to enlighten her on Uncle Kenton’s situation or the demands the man had made this evening. Could the hole behind the barn somehow be related to Kenton Smith’s appearance? Or was it just the spot where Papa had buried a dead animal? He kept the spade in the barn. Should she …
She shuddered.
No, she absolutely should not.
CHAPTER 22
What should I do? Do you think I should talk to the sheriff?”
Libby sat opposite Isabel in her lovely parlor and pondered. It was difficult to imagine herself in her guest’s position. She had come to care for Isabel, and the young woman’s plight made her heart ache.
“I’m not sure there’s any need for that,” Libby said. “After all, now that you’re certain your uncle is well, you’ve less reason to think a crime has been committed—other than the disorderly conduct of his ranch hands, of course, but Sheriff Chapman has dealt with that.” She tried not to think about the dead cowboy out in the cemetery near the schoolhouse. Apphia Benton had described the bleak little burial service to Libby: Only the Reverend and Mrs. Benton, the sheriff, and the two men who’d dug the grave—Griff Bane and Hiram Dooley—had attended.
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