The Bride's Prerogative (76 page)

The two girls who worked at the Nugget Saloon slipped in and found seats in the back row. They wore their low-cut satins to church but covered up with their shawls. Seemed nearly everyone in town came to church these days. Griffin supposed that was a good thing.

The folks from the Spur & Saddle had claimed a pew just ahead of the sheriff and his party. That was a case where the last folks you ever expected to see in church had turned to Christ and flipped their lives head over heels. Vashti Edwards and Goldie Keller sat with Bitsy and Augie, and you’d have never thought to look at them that they’d ever been anything but respectable. Bitsy and the girls still had a heavy hand with the rouge and lip color, and they were too frugal to throw out their fancy dresses, but they’d altered them a bit. No one would think they’d been saloon girls for years.

That set Griffin’s mind off on a rabbit trail. A passenger who occasionally rode the line on business had come in from Boise Friday. He’d complimented Griffin on the polite and beautiful young woman who now ran his ticket office. Griffin hadn’t let on about Vashti’s past. If anyone didn’t know, they’d assume she’d always been decent. She didn’t have a hoity-toity Eastern accent like Rose Caplinger, the milliner, but neither did she speak coarsely like the guttersnipes at the Nugget. And Goldie—why, that blond girl at the Spur & Saddle could play the piano like a professional. Last Christmas, she’d played a concert of carols at the church, and the whole town had lauded her. The reverend’s wife was getting up a new collection to buy a piano for the church so they could have Goldie play the hymns every Sunday.

The Reverend Phineas Benton rose to open the service, and Griffin focused his attention on the front of the large room. The first hymn, “Amazing Grace,” helped. Griffin tended to let his mind wander when he was sitting still, listing all the things he needed to do when church was over.

Of course, he never worked at the forge on Sundays. Not since the preacher came. People would hear his hammer and know he worked on the Sabbath. But if he didn’t putter around the livery on Sunday afternoon, some things would never get done. The horses needed to be fed, watered, and groomed. And Wells Fargo and Company had never heard of the no-Sunday-labor rule. The stagecoach schedules must be kept no matter what day of the week.

Everyone around him sat down, and he realized the singing was over. He sat down on his pew.

Preacher Benton gazed out over the congregation. “My fellow believers, this morning we’ll look at Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians and contemplate the virtue of benevolence. Gracious giving where it is perhaps not merited. Of course, if someone we love is in need, we do all we can to help them out. But what of the stranger or, even more, the person we know slightly and do not like? Can you be gracious when you don’t feel like it? My friends, if you see someone unsavory in need, can you meet that need without resentment and bitterness? Ask yourself what Christ would do in this situation. Unto the least of these …”

Griffin tipped back his head and gazed up into the rafters. He dealt with unsavory men all the time. And the good Lord knew he’d been gracious to one of his drivers. He ought to have fired Jules Harding the first time he showed up for work drunk. But Griffin had tossed him in the watering tank behind the livery to sober him up and put him on the box of the stage dripping wet. The second time, he’d turned him away and driven the run to Dewey himself—big mistake. As experienced as he was with horses, Griffin wasn’t much of a hand with a six-horse hitch. But they’d made it through. It wasn’t until time number three that he’d given Jules the boot. That was benevolence, wasn’t it? Giving a man three chances when old Cy Fennel would have cut him loose the first time.

“I submit to you, dear people,” the reverend said, “that sometimes God would have us give our fellow man another chance. Remember the question about forgiveness?”

For some reason, Griffin’s mind drifted to Vashti Edwards. Should he give her a chance at driving coaches? She was no more a stagecoach driver than he was. Less of one, if the truth be told. He’d be foolish to allow a girl who used to drive her daddy’s farm wagon to climb up on the box. The passengers’ lives would be at stake. No, he’d done the right thing to turn her down. And hadn’t he shown grace by letting her work at the office? Of course, he paid her a pittance—and only when she sold tickets. A dim spark of guilt flickered deep in his heart.

Phineas Benton wasn’t through yet. “We’ve all had times when we were down—when another person reached out and gave us a hand. When someone gave us a boost we needed but didn’t deserve.”

That was true enough. Griffin liked to think he’d built his own career. He’d been apprenticed to a blacksmith back in Pennsylvania when he was an awkward kid. His master had been tough on him, but he’d shaped Griffin into a competent farrier and ironworker. When his apprenticeship was over, Griffin had stayed on long enough to earn the money to buy his own tools. Then he’d come west. Opportunity lay in the West, he’d heard. The little town of Fergus, Idaho, had given him the chance to build his smithy and run his own business. Five years later when the livery stable owner moved on, Griffin had saved enough to buy him out, so he became one of the town’s most prominent business owners.

But how much of that was due to his own hard work? To hear the preacher tell it, none. It was all God’s doing, and in a way, Griff could see that viewpoint. God could have kept him from succeeding. But the Almighty had blessed him and first made it possible for him to get started and later made him able to buy the livery.

Then there was Isabel Fennel. Her father was once the richest man in town. When Cyrus died, she could have hired anyone she wanted to fulfill the Wells Fargo contract, or she could have simply told Wells Fargo they needed to find a new man to oversee the Fergus branch line. But no. She’d turned to Griffin and offered it to him. He had a lot to be thankful for. But did that mean he should turn around and put a green-as-grass girl who wasn’t strong enough to control a newborn filly on the box to drive six coach horses? Griffin shuddered.

“All rise, please, for the benediction.”

As they filed toward the church door, Vashti craned her neck. Griffin wasn’t hard to keep track of—he stood several inches taller than anyone else in the line ahead of her.

Her friend Goldie nudged her. “Who you staring at?”

“Mr. Bane.”

“You’re mooning over your new boss?”

Vashti frowned at her. “No, I most certainly am not.”

“What are you doing, then?”

“Trying to figure out how to make him let me drive the stage.”

“You might as well forget about that. He’s told you more than once he won’t let you.”

A lanky young man stepped into the aisle beside them. “Morning, Miss Vashti. Or should I say, ‘afternoon’?” Johnny Conway cracked a broad smile at her.

“I expect it is past noon,” Vashti said absently.

“You’re one of the stagecoach drivers, aren’t you?” Goldie asked, gazing up at Johnny with her overlarge blue eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. Have we met before?”

“Maybe.” Goldie fluttered her lashes. Vashti had scolded her for continuing to flirt with men since they gave up being saloon girls, but the habit seemed ingrained in Goldie. “Ever been to the Spur & Saddle?”

“Well, sure. You’re the gal who plays the pianner.” Johnny’s smile slipped. “I ain’t been there since they changed over—well, you know.”

“That’s all right,” Goldie said.

“You still work there?” Johnny asked.

“No, I work in the Paragon Emporium now, but I still board at the Spur & Saddle, same as Vashti.”

“Oh.” Johnny looked from her to Vashti and arched his eyebrows as though he expected something.

“Her name is Goldie Keller.” Men were always fascinated by Goldie’s china-doll looks. Vashti didn’t mind, so long as they didn’t get fresh with her friend. But Goldie had been around saloons long enough that she knew how to keep most fellows in line.

“I haven’t seen you in church before,” Goldie said, smiling up at him.

“Well, I don’t usually stay over Sunday in Fergus. Most weeks I’m over to Murphy.”

They had reached the door. Vashti turned her back on Johnny and Goldie and shook the pastor’s hand.

“Good day, Miss Edwards.” Pastor Benton always greeted the girls cheerfully, but it was his wife who soothed Vashti’s heart. Though Vashti smiled at the preacher, she turned eagerly to Apphia.

“Hello, Mrs. Benton.”

“Vashti, so good to see you again. You must come visit me this week, if you have a chance.”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

“Why don’t you come Tuesday afternoon, if that won’t interfere with your work? I understand you have two jobs now.”

“I’m putting in a few hours at the Wells Fargo. But I could come over around two thirty.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have the teakettle on.”

Vashti stepped out into the sunlight, feeling warm to her toes. Mrs. Benton genuinely cared about the ladies in this town, whether they were rich or poor, refined or crude. Vashti had seen her reach out to women many would consider among the least desirable residents of Fergus. She’d befriended the girls from both saloons back when there were two in town. At the time, Vashti had been jealous of the attention Apphia paid the girls from the Nugget. But now she understood. That was Apphia’s nature: to love them all impartially. Even so, whenever she spent time with the pastor’s wife, Vashti felt almost as if she were Apphia’s only friend and certainly the one she loved best.

She went down the front steps. Griffin Bane had disappeared, probably going back to the livery or the smithy. She waited while Goldie greeted the Bentons. Johnny Conway didn’t leave her friend’s side. He shook the pastor’s hand, too, and spoke to Apphia. He came down the steps with Goldie.

“Say, Miss Vashti, why are you so keen on learning to drive?”

Vashti bristled. “I already know how to drive.”

He laughed, and it stung a little. “All right, then. Why do you want so badly to drive a stagecoach? Griff told me you’ve been hounding him to hire you to drive.”

“So?”

“So, you’re not ready.”

Vashti held back her retort and gazed up at him. She liked Johnny in a way. He was boyishly handsome and had a fun-loving streak, but he’d be trouble for the woman who lost her heart to him.

“So how did
you
get ready?” What she really wanted to know was how he’d convinced Griffin Bane to hire him. Maybe it amounted to the same thing.

“When I was a kid, my pa put up a rig for me in the barn, so’s I could practice handling the reins without anyone—or any horses—getting hurt.”

“What kind of a rig?”

“It’s just a frame with six reins attached like they are on a real hitch. You can pretend to drive for hours at a time, working those lines with your fingers until you can tighten or ease up on any one of the six without affecting the others. That’s what you need to do if you’re going to control all six horses’t once. You can’t drive them all like you would one horse. They’d learn to take advantage of you worse than a tinhorn gambler.”

Vashti scowled at him, but what he said made sense. Already her mind was groping for a place where she could have someone make a rig for her. It couldn’t be at the livery—Griff would see it. Besides, she wouldn’t want to be over there for hours on end, practicing.

Trudy Dooley would let her have it in her barn if she still lived with her brother. But she’d married the sheriff last summer, so she was Mrs. Chapman now and lived out on the sheriff’s ranch. It wasn’t far out of town, but it was too far for Vashti to trot out there every day.

Augie and Bitsy didn’t have a barn. They had a woodshed, though. She wondered if there’d be room out there. They’d burned all of last winter’s wood, so the shed was pretty nearly empty. But Augie would be filling it soon and ordering a ton of coal, too.

The pastor and his wife stepped outside. All of the church folks must be finished shaking their hands. The reverend closed the church door, and they turned to walk down the steps together.

Vashti smiled as another option came to mind. She hurried toward the couple.

“Mrs. Benton, Reverend—I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Apphia paused and waited for her to reach them, a smile hovering on her lips. “What is it, Vashti? You know we’ll do anything feasible for you.”

Vashti wasn’t quite sure what
feasible
meant, but she knew the Bentons were bighearted when it came to folks in need. “You folks have a stable you’re not using.”

The minister’s eyes widened. “Are you getting a horse, Miss Edwards?”

Vashti shook her head. “No, sir, that would be nice but too expensive. This is cheaper and easier to clean up after.” Mr. Benton laughed.

Apphia squeezed her hand. “Well, my dear, you have us on pins and needles. What is it you want to use the stable for?”

“For a place where I can learn to drive my imaginary stagecoach.”

CHAPTER 4

T
he next day as the coach came in from Reynolds, Vashti stood in front of the Wells Fargo office, ready to make sure the disembarking passengers had their needs met. Sure enough, a couple got out and turned expectantly toward her.

Too bad—it was nearly time for her to set out for the shooting club’s regular practice. But Mr. Bane had made it clear that directing the passengers to food and lodging and hearing any complaints they might make was part of her job, for which he now grudgingly paid her a dime a day, plus the commission on tickets she sold.

“May I help you folks?” she asked, remembering belatedly that Griffin had also specified she smile when addressing customers. She tacked on a perfunctory curve of her lips.

“I think you might be able to.” The man doffed his bowler hat, revealing his balding head. After a quick glance at his companion, Vashti catalogued them as man and wife, in their sixties, probably come to visit grandchildren.

“Do you need a place to eat lunch? Because the Spur & Saddle, over yonder, has the best food in Fergus.”

“Thank you, that was to be my first question,” the man said. “The second was where we might find Mrs. Elizabeth Adams.”

Vashti grinned. “Well, that sure is easy. Turn around.”

A couple of doors down, Libby was just coming out of the Paragon Emporium with Florence Nash, who clerked for her in the store.

“Miz Adams,” Vashti called.

As usual, Libby wore a fashionable but modest dress made of good material. The powder blue gown brought out the vivid blue of her eyes, and her golden curls were topped by a matching bonnet. Florence, who was quite pretty, looked almost ordinary next to the lovely lady.

Libby advanced toward them with a smile. “Yes, Miss Edwards? May I help you?”

Her well-modulated tones inspired Vashti to speak as smoothly as the emporium’s owner. “Yes, ma’am. These folks would like to see you.”

Libby looked at the couple, favoring them with a hesitant smile. “Hello. Have you just arrived in Fergus?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The man gestured toward his wife. “We’re the Hamiltons. We’ve corresponded with you.”

“Why, yes, of course.” Libby’s reserve melted, and she extended her hand, first to the lady and then to the gentleman. “Forgive me. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” She turned to include Florence and Vashti in her explanation. “Ladies, this couple is interested in viewing the emporium with the prospect of buying it.”

Vashti caught herself so she didn’t let out an unladylike whoop. It was no secret that Libby Adams planned to marry the shy gunsmith, Hiram Dooley, but she couldn’t until she sold her business. No one in Fergus could afford to buy it—with the possible exception of the schoolmarm, Isabel Fennel, who had inherited a large estate from her father. But Isabel enjoyed teaching and had no desire to run a store, thank you, so Mrs. Adams had advertised the emporium in several Eastern newspapers. Goldie had told Vashti all the details she’d learned while stocking shelves in the store.

“You must be tired.” Libby addressed the lady. “Did you folks come all the way from Boise today?”

“Yes, we did,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “We were anxious to get here and meet you and see the emporium.”

“Of course. But you must be hungry.” Libby looked to Mr. Hamilton.

“Well …”

“Of course you are. Please allow me to entertain you at our finest restaurant.” Libby looked apologetically at Florence. “My dear, I fear I must let you go to the club without me today. Please make my excuses to Trudy. She will understand.”

“Yes’m,” said Florence.

“Let me give you folks a quick look at the emporium before we eat.” Libby turned her head and raised her eyebrows in Vashti’s direction. “Miss Edwards, could you possibly run ahead and see if the Moores can accommodate three late diners? We shall be over in ten minutes.”

“I surely can.” Vashti gathered her satin skirt and leaped off the boardwalk. She ran across the street.

When she charged into the dining room, Bitsy was just picking up her husband’s shotgun. Dressed in her red bloomer costume, she looked the part of a sharpshooter.

“What’s happened?” she asked, eyeing Vashti with trepidation.

“Nothing bad. There’s a couple off the stagecoach, and they want to buy Miz Adams’s store. She wants to bring them here to eat. Do you have anything left?”

“Praise the Lord,” Bitsy shouted. “Augie! You hear that?”

Augie poked his shiny bald head out from the kitchen. “Hear what?”

“We’ve got customers coming. Is the stew still hot?”

“Yes, I’ve got it on the back of the stove.”

“Well, heat up those leftover biscuits, too, and put the chicken pie in the warming oven.” Bitsy stuck the shotgun under the serving counter. “I’ll have to stay here to serve them. Tell Trudy.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Vashti asked.

“No, child, you go on. But I need to get out all the luncheon things we put away. We didn’t have a single customer to lunch. I thought today was the first day of our decline and bankruptcy.”

“That day happened last year, when we got married and closed the bar,” Augie muttered as he shuffled for the kitchen.

“Don’t pay him any mind.” Bitsy pulled three of the best china plates off a shelf. “Go on now, Vashti. Tell Trudy I’ll be there Thursday, for sure. And you see if you can’t win the prize today.”

Griffin tore open the envelope as he left the post office on Mayor Peter Nash’s closed-in porch. He felt bad for his sister, Evelyn. Five kids, and no grandparents nearby to help her out. He’d written to her, offering to help in a small way—he could probably send her a few dollars a month if she needed it.

He pulled the closely written sheet of paper from the envelope and stopped walking to steady it. Squinting down at her spidery writing, he immediately felt a glow of satisfaction. Offering his brotherly generosity had been just the right thing to do. It would help Evelyn and make him feel good.

Griffin felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, just knowing the good he’d done.

Griffin frowned over that sentence. If she didn’t need money, what did she need? Just his kind thoughts from three thousand miles away?

Griffin’s chest tightened and he feared to turn the page.

Griffin looked up in a panic. People walked along the main street as though everything was normal. A wagonload of women approached from the north. Shooting practice must be finished. Libby Adams and a middle-aged couple came out of the Spur & Saddle, chatting amicably as they headed across to the Paragon Emporium.

Sucking in a deep breath, Griffin turned and hurried back to the post office.

“Peter!” He threw the door open, but the postmaster-mayor was no longer behind the counter. He stepped to the inner door and pounded on it.

Ellie Nash, Peter’s wife, opened it. “Hello, Mr. Bane. I thought you came for your mail earlier.”

“I did.”

“Well, Peter’s out back tending the—”

“What day is it?”

“It’s Monday.”

“No, no, what day of the month?”

“Oh. Let’s see, I believe it’s the fourth.”

“October fourth.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Ellie eyed him curiously.

Griffin ran his hand through his thick beard. He still hadn’t trimmed it. Why on earth hadn’t Evelyn telegraphed him with this news, not to say asked permission to send the boy? He had to get to Mountain Home by tomorrow to meet his nephew, and Mountain Home wasn’t even part of his branch line. He’d have to ride up to Boise and change to the main line there. That or ride a horse across country. But then what would his nephew ride back on?

“Mr. Bane? Are you all right?”

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.” He turned and staggered out the post office door and down the steps. Where would he keep the boy—Justin? He checked the letter to be sure he had the name right. His bed wouldn’t hold both of them. He could give it up for Justin, he supposed. But why should he? Yet there wasn’t room in his small lodging for another bed.

Could he let the boy sleep in the loft over the livery? The stage drivers slept there before the boardinghouse opened. But he’d be so far away, Griffin wouldn’t hear him if he cried out in the night. How old was the lad, anyway? Evelyn hadn’t said. She’d mentioned smoking…. He must be at least fifteen.

Griffin scrunched up his face, recalling the first and last time he’d tried smoking. His father had caught him out behind the barn and tanned his backside but good. He’d been twelve.

What was his sister doing to him?

His breath came in quick gasps, and his boots thunked loudly on the boardwalk. When he came even with the Wells Fargo office, Annie Harper had pulled her wagon over and was letting the shooting club ladies climb down. He ducked quickly inside the office and shut the door.

How could he go to Mountain Home tomorrow? He was still shorthanded. He needed to round up a shotgun messenger for tomorrow’s run to Silver City, and if the man who came in on the Boise stage wouldn’t do it, Griffin would have to do it himself. And what if he did go to Mountain Home? What if he got all the way over there, and Justin didn’t show up? He sat down heavily. There must be a good way to handle this. It occurred to him that he didn’t pray much, but now might be a good time.

Uh, heavenly Father … uh … I know I don’t talk to You as much as I should. But I’m thankful for … for everything You do for me. And I was
wondering … well, could You help me figure out what to do with Evelyn’s boy? It’s too late to tell her not to send him. Uh … thanks
.

A soft knocking sounded on his door, and he jerked his head.

“It’s open.”

The door creaked on its hinges. Vashti Edwards stood there in her usual crinkly finery. He guessed that was all she had to wear—satins and taffetas left over from her saloon days, but no soft cotton housedresses like the ranchers’ wives wore. She was probably being frugal, wearing her old dresses until they wore out, but it was distracting.