The Bride's Prerogative (21 page)

“Surely.” Milzie reached out a shaky hand. Soft, whole stockings. “Thankee, ma’am.”

Libby hesitated and looked about the store. “You know, it’s time when I like to sit down for a minute. There aren’t many customers, and Florence can look after things for a bit. Would you like to have a little refreshment with me in the back room?”

Milzie could scarcely believe it. Since joining the shooting club, she’d received invitations from the cleanest, nicest women in town—not to say the richest, necessarily, though Libby Adams probably qualified there—but some of the best. Tea with the minister’s wife on Monday had nearly been enough to lure her into church. Hot tea with sugar and cream, little quarter sandwiches, boiled eggs, and cookies so small it took four to make a mouthful. Her mouth watered just thinking about it.

In the storage room, Libby let Milzie sit in the big chair by her desk. She took a cut glass bottle and two tumblers from a cupboard and poured each glass half full of red liquid. Milzie stared at the lovely swirling beverage.

“This is raspberry shrub.” Libby smiled again. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I try to get enough berries every summer to make a good batch.”

“It won’t be long before the berries come on,” Milzie said with what she hoped passed for a sage nod.

“That’s right. This is my last bottle from last year.” Libby sat down on a stool nearby and raised her glass to her lips.

Milzie lifted hers and smelled the liquid. It surely did smell of fresh raspberries. Her stomach clutched. Emmaline’s corn cake was long gone. She took a sip. The sharp juice, sweetened, but not too much, slid down slicker than a greased eel. No fermentation. Miz Adams wouldn’t offer anything like that, of course. Milzie gulped the rest and lowered her glass with a sigh. Libby’s glass was still nearly as full as when she’d started.

“That’s mighty pleasin’. Thankee.”

Libby kept smiling but didn’t offer more. “So you’re feeling well now?”

“I am. You can expect to see me on Monday.”

“Good.” Libby stood in a swirl of challis skirts and rustling cotton petticoats. “Now, Milzie, I’ve put aside a few more things. Don’t take them if you don’t want to, but if you can use them …” She opened the cupboard again, put the ornate bottle away, and brought out a couple of tins. “A can of oysters and one of pears. Can you use those?”

“Oh yes, ma’am.” Milzie opened her capacious sack, and the cans disappeared inside. “I do thank you.”

Libby nodded. “You’re welcome. I need to get back to the store now, but we’ve had a good visit today.”

“Yes, yes.” Clearly the hostess expected her to precede her back into the emporium, so Milzie went.

“Good day, Milzie,” Libby said when they reached the store.

“Good day to you.” Mrs. Walker was looking over the housewares, and she watched critically. Milzie made a deep bow to Libby. “I shall see you on Monday.” She turned, chuckling, and walked as steadily as her tired old bones would allow toward the front door. Mrs. Walker’s horrified expression was worth the aching feet she’d have tonight.

She made her way down the boardwalk, uncertain where to go next. Should she head for home? Her sack would grow heavy, and she might need to rest along the way. Maybe she would take a rest right now. She slid between weathered buildings and found a spot behind the smithy where she could lean against the back wall. Inside, the blacksmith was working at his forge. She liked to hear the
whoosh
of the bellows and the
cling-cling
of the hammer. She leaned back and closed her eyes. So far, she’d had a good day.

Sometime later, she awoke. The blacksmith had stopped working. A horse nickered, and she looked toward the back of the livery. The big, bearded man came out of the barn, leading a solid chestnut horse. He opened a gate and released the horse into a paddock with three others. The stagecoach must have come in.

She looked up at the sky. The sun would set soon. She’d best get going. Already she doubted she’d be home before dark, but that didn’t worry her much. The moon would be near full tonight, and the air would be cooler once the sun was down. She picked up her sack and headed back to Main Street.

As she passed one building, an open door drew her. It was an office. She looked up at the sign. Of course. Wells Fargo. This must be where Cyrus Fennel conducted his business. The coach was nowhere in sight. She peeked inside. A desk, shelves and cupboards, and a man crouched behind the desk, as though taking something from a low drawer.

She didn’t care for Fennel, but he was rich. Maybe he would give her something out of respect for Frank, God rest his soul. Everyone else had been kind today. Why not see if the richest man in town felt generous?

She stepped forward. “Evening, Mr.—”

He looked up suddenly. Cold, angry eyes glittered in the dimness. The face beneath the hat brim wasn’t right. Who was he? He stood, and she thought she knew, though why he should be in here … Maybe he worked for Fennel now.

“You!” He stepped around the desk toward her.

His harsh voice frightened her, and she backed toward the door. She fetched up against a wall instead, beside a small box stove.

Suddenly the silhouette of his hat and something about his nose sparked a memory. “You came out of the jailhouse the night Bert Thalen was killed.”

His eyes narrowed, and he advanced toward her, his lips curled in a snarl. “You meddling old woman!” He reached for her.

Milzie tried to duck past him, but she was too slow, and he had her cornered between the stove and the wall. She dropped her sack of plunder and held her stout walking stick with both hands. Why was he angry with her?

He snatched the stick and tossed it aside as thought it were a twig. As his hands closed about her throat, she groped for something else—anything.

She grasped a poker and swung it up. He grabbed it and wrestled her for it. She stared into his eyes as they both stood clutching the sooty poker. He gritted his teeth.

“You should have stayed home, old woman.”

He yanked the poker from her. Milzie shrank back against the wall and raised her hands before her face.

CHAPTER 24

C
yrus polished off his second whiskey and shook his head as Ted Hire raised the bottle to refill his glass.

“Not tonight, Ted. I’d better get on home, or Isabel will be beating the bushes for me.” The Nugget was filling up anyway, and he didn’t like to stay there on a Saturday evening. The noise at the saloon always mounted steadily after the sun went down. He’d rather go home and settle down in his comfortable chair before the fireplace. “I’ll take a bottle of that good whiskey with me though.”

As Ted bent to retrieve a fresh bottle, Cyrus pulled out his wallet. He settled his account and picked up the bottle—not as good as the stuff Bitsy kept. He’d have to speak to Jamin about that. He turned toward the door just as Ethan Chapman stepped through it. The noise level immediately fell.

“Evening, sheriff,” said Nick Telford, the stagecoach driver. He had settled in early at a corner table and was playing poker for pennies with a few friends. An inveterate gambler, Nick had been known to lose his entire month’s pay a penny at a time. Cyrus figured that was his business. Nick would win one week, and Bill Stout the next, and then Parnell Oxley. At least the currency circulated in the local economy.

“Howdy, boys.” Ethan’s gaze swept over the poker players, skipped quickly past the saloon girl carrying drinks to two cow hands, and landed on Cyrus. “Mr. Fennel.”

Cyrus gave him a curt nod. He wished he’d have gotten away before Ethan walked in to see him carrying his bottle.

Jamin Morrell entered from the back room and called out cheerfully, “Well, Sheriff! How’s life in the fair town of Fergus tonight?”

“Quiet so far. Doesn’t look like you’re having any trouble in here.”

“Not a bit,” Morrell assured him, though he hadn’t been in the saloon at all for the last half hour. Of course, Ted probably would have fetched him in a hurry from out back or wherever he’d been if someone had started tearing up the place.

“Well, excuse me, gentlemen.” Cyrus held the bottle down at his side, away from the sheriff, and walked toward the door. “Have a pleasant evening.”

He went out into the cooler evening air. The sun was low, and his long shadow stretched before him as he crossed the street diagonally. He continued up the boardwalk to the stagecoach office. Time to lock up and head for the ranch. He left his horse at the livery during the day, but lately his relationship with Griffin had seen some strain. He’d either have to confront the blacksmith or find someone else to house the stagecoach teams and his personal mount. That didn’t seem practical. He reached the office and pushed the door open with a sigh. Griffin worked hard, but he had a stubborn streak. Too bad. It would be so much easier if he’d just go along with—

Cyrus stood still, staring at the dark heap on the floor beside the stove. What on earth?

Ethan left the Nugget and walked slowly up the boardwalk toward the jail. What now? He could relax for an hour or so then check the two saloons again. Drop in on Hi and Trudy? Didn’t want to wear out his welcome. His discussion with Hiram last night had crossed his mind many times throughout the day. Had the time come to face up to the past and let go of it? That would mean thinking about the future, and he usually shied away from that.

Across the street and up half a block, Cy Fennel lurched out of his office, still holding the bottle of whiskey he’d carried at the Nugget. He must be drunker than Ethan had realized. He staggered to the edge of the boardwalk and retched.

Ethan paused, wondering what to do. Should he go get Cyrus and walk him over to the jail, where he could sleep it off? He’d leave the cell door unlocked, of course. But if he did that, Cy would be furious later. Maybe he should go to the livery, get Cy’s horse, put him on it, and head him toward home. No, he might fall off halfway there and break his neck.

Cyrus straightened and looked about. He focused on Ethan and lifted his free arm.

“Chapman! Quick! Come over here.”

Ethan blinked. He didn’t sound drunk. He raised his chin and stepped into the street.
Lord, let me not have to mix it up with Cy tonight, please
.

He was only halfway across when Cyrus lunged down from the walkway and met him in the street.

“It’s old Mrs. Peart!”

“What?” Ethan stared at him. Was the man right out of his befuddled mind?

“Millicent Peart. In my office. Go look.”

Ethan struggled to make sense of that. Only one thing to do. He walked over and stepped onto the sidewalk. His boots thudded with each step to the office door. It was nearly dark inside. Before his eyes fully adjusted, he spotted a huddled figure on the floor near the cold box stove. It couldn’t be. He stepped closer and stared down at her. Cyrus’s words began to make sense. The poker lay beside her. He bent down and then stood up quickly. No wonder Cyrus had emptied his stomach. There’d be no question of how Milzie Peart died.

A shadow darkened the room even more. He swung around. Cyrus stood in the doorway, staring at the crumpled form on the floor.

“What happened?” Ethan asked.

“She was in here when I came over to lock up. Almost didn’t see her.”

“Can you light a lantern?”

Cyrus hesitated, and Ethan didn’t blame him. The sight was bad enough in the gloom. When Cy reached for the kerosene lantern that hung over his desk, Ethan held out his hand. “I’ll do it. You go ‘round to Dooleys’ and fetch Hiram for me, would you?”

Cyrus’s brow cleared. “Sure. I guess he’ll need to build another box. Oh, matches are in my drawer.” He nodded toward the desk.

When he’d left, Ethan stood still for a moment.
Lord, show me what to do. This is getting scary, and I’ve got no notion how to stop it. Please, Lord
.

Slowly, he moved around the desk and opened the top drawer. Sure enough, a box of safety matches rested inside. He lit the lantern and adjusted the wick. He had no reason not to look at Milzie again. Might as well get it over with.

He set the lantern on the edge of the desk, pulled in a deep breath, and turned toward the body. From the distance of three yards, the brutal destruction of her skull wasn’t evident. He took a step toward her, bracing himself. Footsteps hurried along the boardwalk outside, and he paused. A moment later, Hiram appeared at the door. His gaze bounced from Ethan’s face to the still body on the floor. He grimaced.

“Looks like someone took Cy’s poker to her,” Ethan said.

Hiram nodded and inched closer.

“I suppose we need to look her over a little better than we did Bert.” Ethan forced himself to approach the body. Blood ran over the floorboards around her head. He knelt down, careful to stay out of it.

“Poor thing,” Hiram said softly, crouching beside him.

“Where’ll we take her?” Ethan asked. “Livery stable?”

“I sent Cyrus to ask Griff. Old Cy was white as my granny’s Irish table linen, and he didn’t seem eager to come back here.”

“Understandable.” They sat staring down at her. “I hear a good undertaker can fix a person up so’s they look natural again,” Ethan said.

“It would take a lot of fixin’.”

“Yeah.” Ethan swallowed back bile. “Maybe we should get an old blanket or something to put her on before we move her.” Hiram nodded. “Gert might help clean her up a bit.”

“Don’t want to ask her.”

“Me neither.”

After a long pause, Ethan said, “Maybe one of the older ladies?”

“We could ask.”

Between Milzie and the door lay a grimy flour sack. Ethan leaned over and pulled it to him. Lumpy metal items clanked together. He opened it and peered inside.

“Cans and a wad of newspaper.” He pulled out a pair of dark stockings.

Quick footsteps heralded a new arrival, and they both looked toward the door. Phineas Benton entered, panting and adjusting his waistcoat. “Gentlemen, can I be of assistance?”

Ethan stuffed the stockings back into the sack and stood slowly. “I don’t think so, Pastor. This woman’s good and dead.”

“So Mr. Fennel informed me. He stopped at my house on his way to fetch the smith.” Benton doffed his bowler hat and looked at the body with mournful eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help you, Sheriff?”

“Well, Hiram and I were just saying we should get a blanket or something to put her on and tote her over to the livery. We usually lay folks out over there because we don’t have a … what you’d call a mortuary.”

“Indeed,” Benton said. “Perhaps I can find something, though most of our bedclothes were newly donated by the parishioners.”

“Ask my sister, Gert,” Hiram said.

Benton glanced at him and nodded. “Thank you. Shall I go now?”

“Please,” said Ethan.

The preacher turned to go then looked back. “My wife will, of course, volunteer to assist the ladies who prepare the body for burial. I believe she was acquainted with Mrs. Peart, though I myself had never met her.”

Hiram and Ethan exchanged looks.

“That’d be fine,” Ethan said.

“Perhaps Mrs. Walker would help, too.”

Ethan doubted that, but he said nothing.

“Gert will probably want to be there.” Hiram looked down at the floor.

He was right; Gert
would
want to do a last service for one of the shooting club members and a senior resident of the town. Ethan still didn’t like the thought of her seeing this grisly sight and handling the bloody corpse. “There’s time to worry about that later. Just see if Miss Dooley can give us something to wrap her in, and we’ll get her over to the livery.”

“It shall be done.” Benton tipped his hat and flitted out into the night.

Ethan looked at Hiram, whose lips twitched. “Yeah, he strikes me that way, too. A mite formal for Fergus, but his heart’s good.”

A moment later, Griffin arrived with Bill Stout and Ned Harmon, who had planned to sleep in his hayloft. The parson returned with a ragged old bedspread, and they began the grim task of transferring the body.

“Easy now,” Griffin said as he carefully slid his arms under Milzie’s torso. “Get that cloth under her head when I lift it.”

Ethan was glad he’d wound up with Milzie’s feet. He might have joined Ned outside vomiting if he’d taken the spot Griffin had. This wanton destruction of an old woman took him back to the atrocities he’d seen during the Indian wars.

Once Milzie’s head was covered, things moved along quickly. The old woman wasn’t very heavy. Bill and Griffin started carrying her out, but Griffin paused and shook his head.

“Just let me carry her, Bill,” the big man said. “You come along and make sure the blanket ain’t draggin’ or nothin’.”

Ethan called after him, “I’ll be over in a few minutes, Griff.” He turned back into the room. Phineas stood near the desk, his hat in his hand, with the air of a footman awaiting his command.

Hiram, however, knelt near the pool of dark blood.

“Ethan.”

“What is it, Hi?”

His friend reached into his pocket and pulled out a jackknife. He opened one blade and bent low over the stain. Using the blade, he prodded at something resting in the blood.

“For your collection,” Hiram said softly. He stood and wiped the small object on his shirttail then held it out to Ethan.

“What is it?” Benton asked.

Without looking, Ethan replied, “An 1866 Indian head penny.”