by Sharon Sala
“Sir, you are getting far too close for good manners. I must ask you to step back.”
The cowboy frowned. “But you shore don’t talk like her.”
“Then that must mean I’m someone else, don’t you agree?”
He thought about it for a minute and then nodded.
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon that’s so.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me?”
It took him a bit to realize he’d just been dismissed.
“Oh. Yeah. Uh… nice wedding and all.”
Letty gave what she hoped was a disapproving sniff and sailed past him with her head high, and her lips clamped tightly in a small, angry pucker. She grabbed Eulis’s arm and none too gently pulled him out from the crowd.
“That cowboy is back. We need to go.”
Eulis sighed. “You’re gonna have to quit botherin’ me when I’m workin’.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Letty snapped.
“When you weren’t hissing like a pissed-off snake, you sounded like you was comin’ down with the ague. I can’t keep my mind on my business with you doin’ all that.”
“I was just trying to warn you that you were saying it wrong… again,” she added, and gave his wrist a yank. “Hurry up. I can feel that cowboy’s eyes on the back of my head.”
“It ain’t my fault that most of your acquaintances knew you better without your clothes.”
Letty frowned. She wouldn’t let Eulis know that his words had hurt.
“Shut up, Eulis. Just for once, why don’t you shut up?”
“I’m sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else. The name is Reverend… Reverend Randall Ward Howe.”
Letty dumped the books into his arms and stomped off to the hotel.
Eulis grinned.
It wasn’t often that he got in the last word with Sister Leticia, but it always felt good when he did.
GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN
Thanks to Orville Smithson’s rigid, straight-laced beliefs, his daughter Fannie was withering on the vine. Fannie was nearing twenty-five years old and people were beginning to label her an old maid. Never a woman to lay claim to great beauty, her bargaining power as a marriage candidate for Harley Charles, the last decent single man in Dripping Springs, was waning by the day. Her attraction for him had been her strong back and wide hips, the same physical attributes he looked for in his breeding mares. Fannie wasn’t kidding herself that Harley was smitten by whatever charms she could lay claim to. She was all too aware that he’d been willing to overlook her rather homely features because of the fine dowry her father was offering.
Harley had finally proposed almost a year ago and the wedding had been set. Four weeks before the ceremony, the preacher had suffered a heart attack during a rather virulent tirade from the pulpit and died in front of the entire congregation. While Fannie was sorry for the preacher’s demise, she was even sorrier for herself. No preacher meant she was not going to become Mrs. Harley Charles, anytime soon. What was worse, she was hearing rumors that Harley was seeing one of those women down at Griggs Saloon. Even though she didn’t really hold him accountable for succumbing to his manly needs, she feared that the longer he had to wait for her, the less likely he might want to become her husband.
The pressure of it all had finally boiled over last night during a fit of pique with her father. She’d told him that if he didn’t find a preacher to marry them before the month was out, that she wasn’t going to marry anyone at all. Ever.
The ultimatum had been a low blow and she knew it.
For several months now, her father, Orville, had been courting Henrietta Lewis, a local widow, and Fannie suspected he’d been counting on her moving out to clear the way for a new wife. Since her mother’s death, Fannie had been the ‘lady of the house’ and Orville was wily enough in the ways of women to know that he couldn’t bring a second wife into his house, and unseat his daughter’s place, without a whole lot of friction.
Now, Fannie sat silently at the breakfast table, watching her father sop up the remaining sorghum molasses in his plate with the last of the biscuits. He had a way of eating that she absolutely abhorred, yet as the daughter of the house, knew it was not her place to correct her father’s table manners. Still, as she watched him push two halves of a biscuit through a well of dark cane sorghum, then slap them together before stuffing them into his mouth, she couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Lewis had ever seen him eat.
His silence regarding her complaints was getting on her nerves. She wanted answers. She wanted action. She wanted out of this house before what was left of her dried up and blew away.
“Father.”
“Whttt?”
Fannie sighed, ignoring the fact that he was talking with his mouthful.
“I am going to do some shopping this morning. Is there anything you need that I should add to the list?”
“Shvvvvng ssop.”
Fannie frowned. “I’ll add shaving soap to the list. Should I expect you home for the noon meal?”
“Hmm ummp.”
“Dining with Mrs. Lewis, then, are you?”
Orville blushed and then nodded. It didn’t seem right that his daughter be discussing his relationship with Henrietta, especially since Henrietta had started letting him feel her breasts. Of course, Fannie didn’t know he was doing it, but it still seemed awkward. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood abruptly, taking one last swallow of his coffee to wash down the biscuit and sorghum.
“Father.”
Still bothered by Henrietta’s breasts, and Fannie’s curiosity in the same thought, he was more abrupt than usual.
“What?”
“Are you going to the shop now?”
As barber and sometimes dentist, Orville was never at a loss for customers, and hated to keep them waiting. He glanced at his pocket watch before dropping it back in his pocket.
“Yes. What did you want? It’s almost seven o’clock and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He frowned. “If you’re bringing up the issue of finding a preacher again, then I simply don’t have the time.”
“No, I wasn’t talking about me.”
“Then what?” Orville muttered.
She pointed. “You have molasses in your mustache.”
Fannie hid a grin as her father yanked out a handkerchief, then hurried to a mirror. Good. He was not only bothered, but embarrassed, as it should be. That hanging judge who’d come through Dripping Springs in March had been willing to marry them then, but Orville had deemed it unseemly that the ceremony be performed by a man who’s job it was to sentence criminals to hang. It was his fault that she and Harley were still living apart.
Even though Harley was still holding up his end of the bargain by coming to Sunday dinner every week like clockwork, and calling on Fannie every Wednesday night to play whist, she didn’t feel as if his heart was in it. Personally, Fannie didn’t like whist. She thought it a bit boring and much preferred poker, but was not allowed to play a game of chance.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Orville mumbled, and started out the door.
“Father, wait,” Fannie called.
Now Orville was thoroughly pissed.
“What it is now?”
Fannie held out her hand. “I’ll be needing some money.”
Orville muttered beneath his breath as he dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins and dropped them onto the table, ignoring Fannie’s outstretched hand.
“If you need more, just charge it,” he said, and slammed the door behind him as he left.
His rudeness was, for Fannie, the last straw. If she had been born a son instead of a daughter, he wouldn’t be treating her this way. Even Harley Charles was casual about her feelings, assuming that her opinion, if she dared to have one, was not worth consideration. Orville wanted her out of the house but wasn’t willing to go out of his way to help make it happen, and Harley
cared so little about her that he was making no attempt to hide his indiscretions with the women at the saloon. These were supposed to be the two most important men in her life and neither one of them cared a flip about her feelings.
She got up from the table and began carrying the dirty dishes to the dish pan, when she suddenly stopped. She looked down at the cups in her hand, then back at the table with the sorghum smears and biscuit crumbs and put them back where they’d been. Her father didn’t seem to think what she wanted was important. She wondered what he’d think when he came home for supper and found breakfast dishes still on the table and nothing cooking for the evening meal.
“That’s what’s wrong,” she muttered, as she tucked the wayward strands of her hair back into the tidy bun at the back of her neck, and scooped the coins her father had given her from the table and dropped them into her pocket.
She might not be pretty, but she wasn’t dumb. She had a skill that she was willing to match against any man in Dripping Springs, but putting it into action was going to take a lot of nerve—maybe more than she had. However, if she didn’t try something, she was going to hate herself for the rest of her miserable, lonely life.
Her heart was pounding as she headed for town. Mrs. Patton, the gunsmith’s wife, waved at her from the back yard where she was hanging a load of laundry on the clothes line.
“Good morning, Fannie,” Mrs. Patton called. “Going shopping?”
“No, ma’am,” she answered, and kept walking forward, even though her heart was starting to pound and her hands had begun to sweat.
She turned the corner and stepped up onto the sidewalk with purpose, hesitating briefly as she glanced across the street to Grigg’s Saloon. There were a half-dozen horses tied to the hitching rail in front, and a couple of teams pulling wagons in front of Mercer’s Mercantile. She recognized Muriel Foster’s husband, Richard, who was carrying a fifty-pound sack of flour on his shoulder to the wagon. Two of the Foster children were playing with a puppy in the back of the wagon. Their laughter and the puppy’s playful yips drifted across the distance, warming Fannie’s heart.
That’s what she wanted—a family of her own, including the pups. She looked back at the saloon. If she followed through on this impulsive stunt, she might be putting every dream she ever had in jeopardy. Then she sighed. Therein lay the problem. If something didn’t change, they would forever be dreams, and not the reality she so desperately desired.
Firming her resolve, she took a deep breath, patted the handful of coins in her pocket, stepped off the sidewalk, and headed toward Grigg’s Saloon.
***
Myron Griggs had been born in Philadelphia. The fourth son of a well-to-do cotton broker, he’d been expected to go into the family business as his three older brothers had done. But Myron had looked into the future, seen himself as a middle-aged man still living under his father’s thumb and rebelled. That very day he’d packed a suitcase, taken all of his money out of the bank, and headed west. He’d had no definite destination in mind, and even considered going all the way across country to California until the stagecoach stopped at a way station on the western edge of the Kansas territories. The sun had been about to set and the sky was a vivid wash of orange, red and yellows. He’d taken a look at the sky, then at the vast, seemingly endless horizon, and knew he was home. He talked the station manager into letting him stay on until he could get a place built of his own and just like that, his decision was made.
It was somewhat ironic that a way station and a saloon were the first two businesses to be built. But not nearly as ironic as the fact that they’d named the place Dripping Springs, when there was nothing but a dry creek bed to be seen for miles. The only time there was any standing water to be had was when it rained, at which time the dry creek bed would flood and take whoever, or whatever, was in or around it to glory. To date, a pair of Stanfield Smith’s pigs, an old mule, and one stranger, had gotten caught in flash floods and drowned.
Josiah Merriwether, the town blacksmith, had suffered a close call when he’d fallen into the creek bed one night while chasing a runaway horse during an approaching storm. The fall had knocked him out and it was only because the stupid horse came back to see what had happened to Josiah and wakened him by nibbling on his ear that he hadn’t suffered the same fate as Stanfield Smith’s pigs. Still, despite the perpetuity of rare and intermittent rain, Dripping Springs survived and flourished.
Only now and then did Myron wonder what his life might have been like had he stayed in his father’s business. Most of the time, he considered himself a fortunate man, if a bit lonely. Peace of mind and being his own boss usually overruled any regrets he might have had, and today was no exception.
He was standing behind the bar pouring a drink for a cowboy who’d stopped in asking about work in the area. Three men were playing cards at the back table while Dewey, his hired help, was sweeping up the floor. The sun was shining. The wind was brisk. It was promising to be a fine day. He heard the squeak of the swinging doors, which indicated a new customer.
Then he looked up and froze. Fannie Smithson was standing in the doorway. The first thought in his head was that she was looking for her fiancé, Harley Charles. Thank goodness Harley wasn’t in here yet. It would have been insulting to Miss Smithson if she were to see her intended with another woman in his lap. It wasn’t until she took a step inward that he came to himself and bolted around the bar.
***
Fannie’s heart was pounding so hard she thought she might faint. It was the first time she’d seen the inside of a men’s sporting establishment. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
The room was large and rather dim. It smelled of stale air and smoke, although it had to be said that the place appeared cleaner than she’d imagined. The large mirror at the back of the bar was cracked from one side to the other in three places, the obvious victim of its locale. There was a steep and narrow stairway at the back of the room, the only way up or down to the rooms above. She knew for a fact that at least three women worked in this place and slept above it during the day. She knew because she’d seen them near sundown, out on the balcony in their scanty garments calling down to the men in the streets below.
There was a scraping of boots against flooring. Startled, she suddenly realized she was the center of attention. The cowboy at the bar, and the three men at the table in the back of the room, were all staring at her. Not only that, but Myron Griggs was coming toward her with a startled expression on his face. At that point, she realized that what she’d been considering was not only foolish, but impossible. She clutched her hands against her middle and willed herself not to cry as the bartender spoke.
“Miss Smithson… please… you shouldn’t be, I mean… is there someone you… uh, are you looking for your father? Is something wrong?”
Fannie cleared her throat. Even though she’d gotten herself in here, it appeared it was going to be more difficult to get out. Her fingers were trembling and her voice was two octaves too high and weak, as if someone was choking off her airway even as she spoke.
“I, uh… I mean, I was going to…”
She shrugged. No need embarrassing herself any further by admitting the truth. The least she could do was lie and save what was left of her reputation.
“My, father… I was trying to find—”
Immediately assuming that something dire had transpired to force Fannie Smithson into his bar, Myron took her by the elbow and escorted her outside to the bench beneath the windows. Once he’d settled her onto the seat, he sat down beside her.
“Has something happened? Your father is not here, but I’d be happy to go look for him.”
It was the sympathy in his voice that was Fannie’s undoing.
“I lied. I wasn’t really looking for my father,” she said, and then tears started to roll.
For lack of anything else to do, Myron took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Please don
’t cry, Miss Smithson.”
She swiped at her tears with his handkerchief then delicately blew her nose before crumpling it into a wad between her fingers.
“I’m not crying,” she muttered.
Myron looked at the tears in her eyes and sighed. It had been years since he’d kept company with a decent woman, and wasn’t sure what to do next. However, he was convinced that arguing with Fannie Smithson wasn’t smart, even if he could still see the tears.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She took a deep breath and then sighed. There was no use taking her hurt feelings out on Myron Griggs.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly and began fussing with the front of her dress, smoothing down the bodice as if it was the most important thing on her mind. “I wasn’t looking for my father. I was coming in to talk to you about a job.”
Myron’s mouth dropped. “A job? Oh no, Miss Smithson. A saloon is no place for a lady like you.” Then he added. “As for that, why on earth would you feel the need to work? Surely your fiancé would not want—”
Fannie slapped the flat of her hand on her knee.
“My fiancé… my father… everyone seems to know what’s best for me without consulting my own feelings.” She drew a shuddering breath, unaware that it revealed her vulnerability even more. “You see, Mr. Griggs, I’m a realist. I know I’m not pretty but—”
Before he thought, Myron took her hand.
“But Miss Smithson, that’s just not true.”
Fannie frowned. “I’m sorry?”
Myron let go of her hand. “No, it’s me who is sorry. I didn’t mean to be forward. Please forgive me. Will you let me escort you to your father’s barber shop?”
Fannie stood abruptly. “No, but thank you for your concern. He’s already dismissed me for the day, so I hardly think my arrival at his place of business would endear me to him even further. As for my fiancé, he could care less about my feelings. He doesn’t care for anything but my dowry.” Then she laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “It’s called a dowry, you know, but it’s really pay-off money.”
