The Amen Trail

by Sharon Sala

Myron frowned. “Miss Fannie, you really shouldn’t—”

  “Shouldn’t what? Care that I will grow old without ever being loved? Care that I’m nothing but a thorn in my father’s side?” She shrugged as tears welled. “Maybe you’re right.” She stuffed the handkerchief back in Myron’s hand. “I’ll just be going now.”

  Myron felt as if he’d just failed a huge test, although for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what he could have done or said differently.

  “Miss Fannie?”

  She paused, and turned around.

  “You are a very handsome woman.”

  Fannie frowned. “I do not like to be made fun of.”

  Now it was Myron’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about?”

  “I am not blind, nor am I fanciful. I am not a handsome woman and I don’t appreciate your factitiousness on my behalf.”

  Myron’s frown deepened. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I can assure you I was not making jest of you. I think you’re a fine, upstanding woman, as well as a handsome one. And just for the record, I think Harley Charles is an ass, and your father, a fool. Now, if you’re certain I cannot help you further, I will be getting back to my work.”

  Fannie’s mouth was open. She knew because there was just the faintest taste of grit on her tongue from the dust in the air. However, she couldn’t find the good sense to respond to what he’d just said.

  Frustrated and embarrassed by what he’d just said, Myron headed back to the saloon. His hands were on the swinging doors when he suddenly stopped and turned around.

  “Miss Fannie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Exactly what kind of a job did you expect to get here?”

  Unconsciously, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “I’m quite adept at cards. I was hoping you would allow me to play poker in your saloon.”

  “Poker?”

  She nodded. “I am proficient in several styles of the game.”

  “Poker.”

  A slight frown creased Fannie’s brow. “Yes, Mr. Griggs. Poker. Are you hard of hearing?”

  He grinned. Not only was Fannie Smithson a handsome woman, but it would seem she had her fair share of grit.

  “No, ma’am, my hearing is just fine.”

  “Well then,” she said, and started to walk away, only this time it was Myron who spoke up.

  “Miss Smithson… Fannie?”

  “Yes?”

  “How would you feel if I was to call on you this evening?”

  Now it was Fannie’s turn to be stunned.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, may I call upon you this evening?”

  “Call on me?”

  He nodded.

  “This evening?”

  He nodded again.

  Fannie blushed. “I’m spoken for.”

  “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

  Unconsciously, Fannie touched the third finger on her left hand. It wasn’t the first time that the thought had occurred to her, either. Harley had asked for her hand in marriage, but he’d never given her an engagement ring, and after the preacher’s demise, he’d quit speaking of their impending marriage at all.

  “I don’t have one,” she muttered.

  “Then what do you say?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  He sighed. “Now who’s hearing is defective?”

  She glanced toward the upper floor of the saloon, imagining the sleeping trollops in their beds of sin, and tried to imagine what he expected of her.

  Myron could tell she’d been taken aback, but she couldn’t be more surprised than he was when he’d asked to come calling.

  “So, Fannie Smithson, what do you say?”

  She pointed to the second story of the saloon.

  “I am not as those women are,” she stated.

  He frowned. “Of course, you’re not. I would never have assumed you to be so.”

  “Then sir, I must ask, what are your intentions?”

  Myron looked at her dark eyes and the sturdy cut of her chin and shoulders and grinned.

  “It’s like this Miss Fannie, it’s just occurred to me that I have been wasting a lot of years by not seeing your charms before this and… well… I reckon I intend to send Harley Charles begging.”

  Her eyes widened and then she stifled a smile.

  “Is that so?” She hoped that the heat she was feeling did not show on her face. “If you would care to have supper with us, I expect it will be done around six.”

  He tried to imagine who he would get to tend bar and then knew it didn’t matter.

  “Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.”

  Fannie smiled.

  “Until six,” she said, and started backtracking toward home as fast as her feet would take her. She had a kitchen to clean and a house to put to rights. She didn’t know what her father was going to say about the owner of the saloon eating a meal in their home, but for once she didn’t care. Myron Griggs had shown her more interest and kindness in the last thirty minutes, than her father or Harley had ever done. She paused once as she reached the corner of the sidewalk and looked back. To her surprise, Myron Griggs was standing in the doorway to the saloon, still watching her go.

  He waved.

  She hesitated briefly, then lifted her hand and waved back.

  Then stunned by what she’d just done, she turned around and ran the rest of the way home.

  Hours later, Orville Smithson came home, found Fannie in the kitchen taking a dried apple cobbler out of the oven and with chicken frying on the stove. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the meal.

  “This looks like a fine meal, daughter. What’s the occasion?”

  “Company is coming to supper,” Fannie said, and turned the chicken in the frying pan before adding a small stick of wood to the stove. “Would you mind opening the window a bit, Father? It’s getting hot in here.”

  “Certainly,” Orville said, and opened the windows beside their dining table. A tired breeze stirred the curtains just enough to let them know it was there. “What time is Harley coming?”

  Fannie stopped. “Oh, it isn’t Harley. I haven’t seen him in days. Have you?”

  Orville was so taken aback by the news that it wasn’t Harley they would be entertaining that, for a moment, he forgot to ask who was coming.

  “No, I haven’t seen Harley, but I’m sure he—”

  “He’s been keeping regular company with the whores at Myron Griggs’ saloon.”

  Orville gasped. Not only was he shocked that she’d used the word whores, but that she knew of Harley’s indiscretions.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

  Fannie turned and faced her father, then pointed at him with the carving knife she was holding.

  “Harley Charles doesn’t care for my feelings because he doesn’t care for me. He asked to marry me because he wants your money.”

  Orville didn’t know what stunned him most—the fact that Fannie was pointing a knife at him, or that she’d figured Harley out. What she didn’t know, and what he hoped to God she never discovered, was that Orville was the one who’d promised Harley money if he’d take Fannie off his hands.

  “Even so, you have to—”

  Fannie’s chin jutted as she pointed the knife in Orville’s face.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Fannie said.

  Orville suddenly remembered he was the boss in this house and raised his voice into a stern shout.

  “You will lay down that knife and remember your place,” he said. “You are my daughter, and as long as you stay under this roof, you will do as I say.”

  Fannie blinked back tears, determined not to let her father’s anger stop her.

  “That’s just it, Father. I am doing what you say. If it wasn’t for you, Harley and I would have already married. You’re the one who called off the wedding. You’re the one who wouldn’t let that judge marry us. So if you don’t like
what’s happening, you’re the one to blame. Now stop shouting at me. I have to finish cooking this chicken, and then change into fresh garments before my company arrives.”

  Orville’s frown deepened. “Your company? Exactly who is it who’s coming to supper?”

  “Myron Griggs. Shall I set a place at the table for you, or are you going back to Henrietta’s again?”

  Orville stared. “Griggs? Myron Griggs who owns the saloon?”

  Fannie pretended to study the question, when she already knew the answer.

  “Why yes… I believe he does own his own business which makes him quite the entrepreneur. I do so admire a man who shows initiative in this respect, don’t you, Father?”

  “Yes… no… I won’t have it,” Orville sputtered.

  Fannie stared at the chicken, pretending to misunderstand his remarks.

  “I’m sorry, Father. Did Henrietta fix you chicken for dinner at noon? If I’d known, I would have chosen another course for us. As it is, it’s too late to fix another meat.”

  In frustration, Orville grabbed a pot holder and threw it across the kitchen.

  “I was not referring to the chicken. It looks fine.”

  Fannie beamed. “Good. It’s almost done. You might want to wash up. Mr. Griggs will be here at six.”

  “No. I won’t have it.”

  Fannie shrugged. “Sorry. It’s chicken or nothing. Of course you could revisit Henrietta again. Maybe she’s serving up something besides what you had at noon.”

  Orville blushed before he thought. Henrietta had served something different up at noon all right, but it had nothing to do with food. Then he remembered the point he’d been trying to make.

  “I was not talking about chicken,” he shouted.

  “Good,” Fannie said, and then gasped when there was a knock at the door. “That must be Mr. Griggs now.”

  She handed Orville the knife and dashed out of the room before he could stop her. She knew her father well enough to know that he was basically a coward, and once Myron Griggs was inside their house, manners would forbid any sort of bad behavior.

  Fannie was smiling when she opened the door.

  Myron took one look at her and found himself dumbstruck. He still couldn’t believe he’d never noticed her in this way before. He took off his hat and combed his fingers through his hair.

  “Evening, Miss Fannie, something sure does smell good.”

  Fannie beamed. “Come in, come in,” she said. “It’s just fried chicken and apple cobbler.”

  Myron groaned. He hadn’t had anything but steak, eggs, and beans in so long he had almost forgotten there were other kinds of foods.

  “I’m at your mercy,” he said, as he entered the house and let Fannie hang his hat on the coat rack in the hall.

  Then he saw Orville walk into the hallway and knew that they’d been arguing. Probably about him. He nodded.

  “Orville… haven’t seen you in a while. Heard you’re keeping company with the Widow Lewis.”

  Fannie turned and looked at her father as if he was a stranger. She hadn’t known he’d frequented the saloon but she did now.

  “Well then,” she said. “Since you two are old friends, I’ll go dish up the food. Supper will be ready in about five minutes.” Then she pinned her father with a look that left him both nervous and startled. “Father… perhaps Mr. Griggs would like a sherry before dinner?”

  “Yes, of course,” Orville muttered, then waved Myron into the sitting room as Fannie disappeared.

  “Nice house,” Myron said, and then pointed toward a gilded mantle clock. “My mother has one of these back in Philadelphia.”

  Orville’s complaint died on his lips as he turned around.

  “You are from Philadelphia?”

  Myron nodded. “Born and raised. Youngest of four sons. Father expected me to go into the business with him, but frankly, there were already too many Griggs in the company as it was.”

  Orville eyed Myron curiously, wondering what else he hadn’t known about the man who sold liquor and women on a daily basis.

  “What business was your father in?” Orville asked.

  “Not was in. He’s still in business,” Myron said. “Cotton, actually. The family owns and operates a dozen cotton mills along the coast as well as the cotton exchange in Philadelphia.”

  Orville’s mouth dropped. “Your family is well-to-do?”

  Myron grinned. “I suppose so, but then one never really thinks of one’s family in that way, you know. After all, your mother and father are just that. Nothing less. Nothing more. Don’t you agree?”

  Orville nodded. Not because he necessarily agreed with the man, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find the good sense to form a sentence of complaint.

  “About that sherry?” Myron asked.

  Orville frowned. “To hell with sherry,” he muttered, and took a bottle of whiskey from the sideboard and poured two generous shots into two glasses. He handed one to Myron then took the other for himself.

  Myron lifted his glass in a toast. “To Fannie,” he said.

  Orville stared a moment, then shrugged. “What the hell,” he muttered, and the glasses clinked. “To Fannie.”

  They didn’t know she was standing in the doorway, or that her heart skipped a beat when she heard them toast her name.

  “Supper is ready,” she said.

  Myron downed his whiskey neat and then headed for her with a smile. He offered her his elbow.

  “Miss Fannie, may I escort you to the table?”

  Fannie smiled primly. “Yes, thank you.” She looked back at Orville, who had yet to taste his drink. “Father, are you coming?”

  “Yes,” he said, and once they were gone, not only drank his whiskey, but refilled the glass and emptied it again.

  HARD LUCK AND HONEYMOONS

  Harley Charles ran a comb through his mustache, grooming it carefully until it curled just right at the ends. Satisfied that he looked every inch the handsome gentleman he perceived himself to be, he still turned from one side to the other, admiring his reflection in the mirror. Judging himself fit, he settled his hat at just the right angle and headed for the door.

  He’d put in a hard day out on the range with his two hired hands, separating bull calves that were to be castrated from the herd. The summer had been hot and dryer than normal, and the dust, mingled with the scent of blood and bawling calves, had been wearing. Even so, he’d spent the day looking forward to riding into Dripping Springs. There was a woman named Lola at Griggs Saloon who set his teeth on edge in a very nice way.

  Just thinking about what awaited him in town made him lengthen his stride as he hurried out the door. It occurred to him only after he was mounted up and riding away that it was Wednesday night—the night he normally spent with Fannie Smithson. Now he was torn between duty and desire. He didn’t want Fannie, but he wanted Fannie’s dowry, and to get it, he’d sold his soul to Orville Smithson, the devil in disguise. Orville had paid him a thousand dollars to propose with a promise of ten more when they were wed. He figured any woman, no matter how homely, was worth that much money. And once he had the money in hand, he was going to sweet-talk Widow Taggert into selling her land to him, which would double the size of his ranch and make him the rich man he intended to be. But since he needed Fannie to make this all happen, he reluctantly gave up the idea of Lola, and set his mind to endure the evening of whist that lay ahead.

  ***

  Fannie got up to refill Myron’s coffee cup while eyeing the plate of rapidly disappearing chicken as her father and Myron ate in relative silence.

  Orville was still in shock that this man was eating at his table, and didn’t know what to make of it all. He kept eyeing Fannie, uncomfortable with the constant smile on her face, and the warm, almost familiar tone in Myron Griggs’ voice as he praised Fannie’s cooking.

  Fannie basked under the compliments while trying to appear as stunned as she felt that Myron Griggs had told her she was a handsome woman
and, in his words, “a damned fine cook”. It did her good to see people enjoy her food, but she wasn’t accustomed to compliments. Even so, Myron Griggs had done nothing but compliment her tonight—from the attractiveness of her hair, to her way with biscuits, and she knew her father was seething. That, in itself was a satisfaction she hadn’t expected. Seeing her father furious, but helpless to act upon it, was oddly satisfying. As the meal progressed, she began to relax more and more. By the time they got to the apple cobbler, she was heady with the power of being somewhat in control.

  ***

  “Father… Mr. Griggs, would either of you care for some clotted cream on your serving of apple cobbler?”

  “Yes, please,” Orville said, while Myron only shook his head and shook his finger at her in a scolding but playful manner.

  “I’ve told you twice already to call me Myron, and I would love clotted cream on my cobbler. I haven’t had anything this wonderful since I left Philadelphia.”

  Orville wanted to be pissed about the unwanted guest, but he couldn’t rid himself of his curiosity. Who would have ever guessed that the owner of the saloon was a Philadelphia blue-blood?

  Fannie picked up the cream pitcher then, instead of pouring, dipped the thick, sweet cream onto the servings of warm cobbler.

  Still curious, Orville leaned forward, ostensibly to put a spoonful of sugar in his coffee, but it was to give himself something to do while he thought about how to form his next question. He dropped the sugar into the cup and then began to stir.

  “So, Myron… you say your family is still in cotton.”

  Myron nodded. “Yes. I get letters regularly from Mother and occasionally from Father. My two oldest brothers run the cotton mills we own in Boston and New York City, and the brother just older than me works with Father in Philadelphia.”

  “So you’re not ostracized from the family or anything like that?” Orville asked.

  Myron laughed, which made Fannie stop what she was doing and stare. She couldn’t remember thinking a man’s laugh a sensual thing, but Myron’s exuberance was so delightful she couldn’t help but smile with him.

  “Lord no,” Myron said. “Oh, initially they weren’t pleased when I wanted to do something besides work in the family business, but they understood my desire to strike out on my own. In fact, I’ve been having Father invest some of my money over the years. He thinks my business of choice quite ironic.”