The Bride's Prerogative (52 page)

“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

W
hat 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.

“But Papa …” Isabel wiped her streaming eyes again with her muslin handkerchief.

“I know, my dear, but you’ve said last night’s behavior was an aberration.”

“True. Papa rarely drinks to the point of …” Isabel trailed off, but Libby had already heard how he’d come home after midnight and two of their trusted cowpunchers had carried him in and put him to bed, shushing each other as they tripped over chairs and banged into the bedstead, trying not to awaken her. “He often has a couple of drinks in the evening. I know this. Sometimes it makes him … less cordial than he would otherwise be. But last night …”

“He was still asleep when you left home, you said.”

“Yes. When he was an hour late, I tried to wake him, but he …”

Libby leaned forward and patted her hand. “I’m sorry, dear. You did right to go to Mr. Bane and tell him your father was indisposed today. I’m sure Griffin will do fine with meeting the stagecoach and taking care of any passengers’ needs.”

“Yes. He …” Isabel licked her chapped lips. “He assured me he would see to things, and he had me letter a sign to hang on the office door: ‘For tickets and other stage line business, see G. Bane at the livery today.’ And he’s a man of his word.”

“Indeed.” Libby rose. “Let me freshen your tea.”

“Oh no. I’m keeping you from your work.” Isabel rose, spilling her cotton bag and gloves to the floor.

Libby bent to help her retrieve them. “You mustn’t fret about that. Florence is doing a good job. I’m actually thinking of training another clerk to give me more time away from the store.”

“Business has been good lately?” Isabel asked.

“Yes, and I see it as a way to help one more woman in Fergus become independent.”

“Oh? Of whom are you thinking? If it’s not a private matter.”

“I haven’t settled my mind on one person yet, but I’m watching the Spur & Saddle. I thought that if Bitsy and Augie have a slack time when they can’t afford to keep both Vashti and Goldie on, I might take one of them under my wing.” Libby eyed her anxiously, but no censure met her in Isabel’s face. There was a time when the schoolmarm would have been horrified and boycotted the emporium if Libby hired a former saloon girl. Now the moral judgments were left to Rose Caplinger and a few of the town’s older women, Libby thought wryly. “There’s Myra Harper, too. She hasn’t expressed interest, but I think she might be a good candidate.”

“I guess there are plenty of women in this town who’d like a chance to earn some money at a respectable establishment.” Isabel drew on her gloves. “Thank you for your advice. You are a good friend.”

“You’re welcome,” Libby said. “Speak softly to your father, and I’m sure this time of turbulence will pass. And as to that hole he dug behind the barn …”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Probably.” They looked at each other for a moment. Libby hoped they were right, but she couldn’t see an advantage to stirring up more suspicion and anger between Isabel and her father. Cyrus was a proud, opinionated man. Best to ignore his occasional lapses. “Now don’t forget the box social next Saturday.”

Isabel ducked her head. “I don’t think I’ll put a box in the auction.”

“You must!” Libby squeezed her arm. “My dear, there will be dozens of bachelors bidding on the box lunches. It’s a civic duty of all the single women to enter.”

That drew a wan smile. “Do you think so, or are you in jest?”

Libby lifted her eyebrows. “I am entering.”

Isabel’s skeptical face made her burst out in laughter.

“I am, truly. So you must enter, too.”

“What if we end up with a couple of crude miners?”

“Then we’ll insist on eating together to keep one another safe, and rejoice in the amount of money we raised toward outfitting Dr. Kincaid’s new office. But I shall pray that two nice gentlemen buy our lunches. And you must enter the pie contest, too. I happen to know you make the best lemon meringue pie in the territory.”

Isabel smiled and drew Libby into an awkward hug. “Thank you so much. I’ve not had anyone to talk with this way since Mama died.”

Tears filled Libby’s eyes. “Come again soon. And if your father is cross with you tonight, ride into town and stay with me. I mean it.”

Isabel opened her mouth as though to protest, then closed her lips and nodded. “Thank you, then.”

She exited through the kitchen door. Libby watched over the rail until Isabel was safely down the stairs and on the back porch that served as her freight platform.

She carried their dishes to the dry sink and tidied the apartment. As she walked down the inside stairs into the emporium, she assured herself that hushing up the matter was best. What good would it do to report Cyrus’s drunken spree—of which Ethan might already be aware? But it bothered her that Cyrus had set up his brother-in-law as a rancher when he’d had no contact with him for more than twenty years and didn’t seem to like him much. Smith had been in prison before, and he’d hired a crew of unsavory characters. The whole matter puzzled Libby. Cyrus was a shrewd businessman, known for running a tight ship. He wouldn’t put up with laziness or drunkenness and had been known to fire stagecoach drivers for tardiness.

A vague uneasiness hovered in her chest. Kenton Smith’s reappearance had not eased Isabel’s fears; instead, it had substituted new ones for the old. How long could her friend continue living in dread?

The day of the social dawned bright and clear. Ethan and his two ranch hands hurried to complete morning chores so they all could attend the gathering at the schoolhouse. Spin and Johnny eagerly accepted their pay from Ethan.

“I sure hope Florence Nash tells me which basket is hers.” Spin riffled the bills Ethan had handed him.

“Don’t spend your whole week’s pay on a lunch.” Johnny shook his head at his brother’s enthusiasm. “That little redhead’s got you in a tizzy.”

“Ain’t no shame in likin’ a girl. Right, Sheriff?” Spin wiggled his eyebrows at Ethan.

“No Marcus. No shame a’tall.”

Spin scowled at Ethan’s use of his proper name. “Hey! You better not call me that in town.”

“Watch it,” Johnny said. “He’s the boss, remember?”

Ethan grinned. “I expect you’ll be eyeing the females soon, too. I suggest you take a hard look at the Harper sisters. They’re good girls.”

Spin pushed his hat back and frowned. “Myra’s too old for him.”

“Who says? Anyway, Alice isn’t. And she’s not homely either.” Ethan took off his work gloves. “All right, let’s get breakfast and clean up. Folks will start gathering by ten o’clock.”

“Are you cookin’ breakfast?” Spin’s eyes gleamed with hope.

“No, you are. Call me when it’s ready.” Ethan slapped his shoulder with his leather gloves and strode toward the house.

An hour and a half later, he and the McDade boys saddled up and rode to the schoolhouse. The school yard was already thronged. Rough tables covered with dishes stretched along one side of the meadow where the scholars played during recesses. Food for those who would not be dining on auctioned box lunches filled the plank surfaces.

Ethan tied Scout to the fence between the schoolhouse and the graveyard and ambled about the grounds speaking to the townspeople. Seemed every rancher and miner within the Owyhee Valley had gotten the word and come to join in the gala.

“Hello, Lyman,” he called to a gray-haired rancher who lived five miles outside town. He hadn’t seen Lyman and Ruth Robinson for at least eight months. “How’d you fare last winter?”

“We got by.”

Ethan lingered a moment with the couple and strolled on. Dr. Kincaid hailed him and excused himself from a knot of gaily gowned ladies.

“Well Doc, seems you’ve got some admirers.” Ethan extended his hand, and Kincaid shook it heartily.

“For some reason, all the single ladies seem to be competing to get my attention. It’s rather distracting. Does that happen to you, Sheriff?”

Ethan chuckled. “Not since I started stepping out with Trudy.”

“Ah, so that’s the key. A steady girl.”

“Maybe so. Have any of them told you which is their box lunch yet, to be sure you’ll bid on it?”

Enlightenment brightened Kincaid’s face. “Oh, so
that’s
what Miss Edwards meant when she said she hoped I liked pink and green ribbons. Mumbo jumbo, I thought.”

“Far from it. She’s gunning for you, that’s sure.”

“Aha. And has the fair Miss Dooley told you which is hers?”

Ethan frowned. “No, she hasn’t.” Was Trudy really going to risk letting another man buy her lunch? He’d better find her soon and see if he could get a hint out of her.

“Oh, and the eldest Harper girl asked me if I like currant pie and said something about a red bow….” The doctor looked anxiously toward the table set aside for the mystery lunches.

“You’d best decide which one you want and put your money on it, Doc.” Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. He’d just spotted Hiram and Trudy walking into the school yard with Rose, Libby, and the Nash family.

The ladies carried large baskets with bright cloths covering the contents.

Ethan greeted them and fell into step beside Trudy. “May I carry that for you?”

She laughed. “Oh no. No man is going to get his hands on our baskets before we deliver our boxes for the auction. Right, Libby?”

“Absolutely.” Libby smiled at him. “I hope you intend to participate in the auction, Sheriff.”

“Of course. But it will be difficult to remain impartial. If I only had an inkling of what to bid on …”

“You may carry my basket, Sheriff,” Rose called.

Ethan broke stride. “Oh … of course. Where would you like it?”

“Just follow me, sir. You’ll need to exercise discretion, however. Mustn’t tell any of the other fellows which box is mine.” Rose giggled and wiggled a finger, beckoning him toward the auction table.

Ethan cast a helpless glance at Trudy. She shrugged as though to say, “You got yourself into it.”

Orissa Walker and Annie Harper accepted the single women’s offerings under cover of a strategically hung tablecloth.

“Go on and enjoy yourselves, gals,” Annie told Trudy and Libby. “We’ll get a batch of six or eight before we add them to the ones on the table. That way, if the gents are watching, they still won’t know whose is whose.”

“What have we here?” Orissa asked as Ethan and Rose stopped before her.

“Why, it’s my lunch for auction.” Rose smiled prettily and lifted the linen towel draped over her box. Ethan couldn’t help seeing the curled lavender ribbons and paper pansies that decorated the top of the box. “Now, Sheriff, remember, mum’s the word.” She winked at him, and Ethan felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Was she hinting that he should bid on her box? Or perhaps that he should tell the other men to bid on it? If he whispered about which was hers, would that in reality drive away bidders?