Under Starry Skies (15 page)

“Maybe the shooter wanted to steal his clothes,” Marcus said. “Was that a new pair of buckskins you were wearing to impress the schoolmarm?”

“Maybe the shooter mistook Tye for someone else,” Betsy said.

“Yeah, Wild Bill Hickok.” Marcus snorted.

“Not a chance,” Flint said. “Hickok’s better looking.”

“True. And we can count on our right hands the number of men around here who wear duds like his and none of them resemble this ugly pole cat.” Marcus laughed. “Maybe Maria has a disgruntled student.”

“Or maybe someone out for revenge mistook Maria for her feisty sister who has all drunken sots tossed out on their ears. She has certainly cleaned up the barroom and turned it into a respectable place,” Flint added.

“Do you think our little brother finally enraged one of his Indian friends?” Marcus asked through a mouthful of food.

Tye stood and groaned. “If you’re all going to make fun of me, I’m leaving.”

“No! No, they’re not.” Betsy picked up a nearby broom and stamped her foot to stop the ribald laughter. “I’ve had enough! If I hear another word from any of you, I’ll be using this broom alongside your thick heads—and you,
my dear brothers
, will be using this broom to sweep the sidewalk out front for me. Now get out of here and take your pitiful humor with you.” She waved the broom toward a side door leading into the store and out onto the front walk. “I have a store to run and now, thanks to you all, I have a kitchen to clean.”

Two chairs scraped on the floor as the brothers scrambled up and headed for the side door while Tye wearily rose and headed for the parlor and the back door for his boots. The last thing anyone ever wanted to do was rile Betsy Ashmore.

****

Later in the morning, while Betsy worked in the back of the store repositioning some of the new glassware shipped in from the east coast, she was surprised to see Emma McNeil sail through the door. In her usual haughty manner, Emma marched up to the front counter and tapped on the brass call bell as if she was beating a war drum.

“I’ll be right there,” Betsy called out and set the two cups she was holding on a nearby shelf only to hear Emma impatiently rap the bell again, then seconds later, again. Heaving a sigh, Betsy headed down an aisle to the front of the store.

“What can I do for you today, Mrs. McNeil?” She slid around to the back of the counter where behind her bolts of colorful yard goods were stacked on shelves along with spools of thread and drawers of buttons.

“Well, first, you could at least respond to the bell a little faster when you have a customer.” Emma snorted out her disgust. “I need some ribbon to match the satin dress I plan to wear tonight to the reopening of the Mule Shed. A burgundy color, like this.” She withdrew a small piece of material and shoved it toward Betsy. “And lace. I’d like to see some lace about an inch wide. You’ll need to hurry yourself along, too, since I have other errands to run. After all, I am the owner of the Mule Shed, and it’s imperative I attend the event this evening and be seen in proper attire.” She looked at Betsy as if she were a speck of sawdust beneath her feet and would have liked nothing better than to grind her under her shoe.

Undaunted, Betsy withdrew several spools of lace and ribbons in satins and grosgrain.

Emma bent her head, peered at the spools, and fingered the ribbons and delicate lace. “Is this all you have?” Her voice was close to a whine.

“Yes, it is.” Betsy smiled, thinking about the evening ahead. Everyone in town and in the surrounding area was excited about the reopening of the Mule Shed Inn, and she was certain Abigail would attract a crowd of people curious to see all the renovations. “Tye plans to escort Maria tonight. I’m anxious to see them all dressed up. They’re both such beautiful women.”

Emma’s head snapped up and her beady eyes narrowed. “Those pitiful waifs? Why would anyone care what they might be wearing? Furthermore, I have no idea what Maria sees in that hooligan who’s running about town in those wretched buckskins. Your brother was always a wild thing. Your father should have used a heavier hand on him or for that matter, on all the others.” Emma shoved two spools toward Betsy and continued in a clipped voice, “I’ll take a yard of the ribbon and three yards of the lace. I find it reprehensible Tye put Maria in so much danger yesterday when he dragged her up the mountain to see that filthy lumberman.”

Betsy Ashmore stared at the woman, unblinking. Long ago, she had discovered it took a lot of stamina when dealing with unpleasant customers. “Well, I only hope Maria is feeling better and isn’t angry with Tye. My brother would never deliberately put anyone in harm’s way. I hope to see them both tonight.”

“Better?” Emma asked with knitted brows.

Betsy took a yardstick and measured the lace. “I mean, I hope she’s fine from all the excitement. She had a few scrapes and scratches when Tye pushed her off her horse.” She wrapped the ribbon and lace in paper and handed it to Emma. “The total is a dollar.”

Emma sniffed and lifted her chin in an arrogant manner. “Put it on my account.”

“Yes, Mrs. McNeil, and I will need you to put some money on your account sometime soon.” This was the part of owning a business Betsy hated the most. She could overlook the poor who needed more time to pay, but she had no tolerance for people like Emma who bought things they didn’t need, had the money to pay, and just neglected their obligations.

“What a rude little girl, you are.” Emma huffed. “My husband not yet cold in the ground, and you’re begging for money?”

Willing herself to remain calm, Betsy drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The old biddy’s husband wasn’t even cold in the ground, yet she had plans to attend the opening of the Mule Shed as if she was the belle of the ball? “I’m not begging for money, Mrs. McNeil. I’m requesting payment on an account three months overdue. It rightfully needs to be paid.”

“Why you miserable, ill-mannered girl,” Emma snapped. “I’ll be sure to let the whole town folk know how disrespectful you are!”

Betsy watched Emma’s straight back stomp toward the door. “You do that, Mrs. McNeil,” she muttered under her breath. “Have a nice day,” she said aloud.

The bang of the door was Emma’s response.

****

It was late afternoon and Abigail was nervous. She paced the floor of the cottage after the noon meal, chewing on her finger and mumbling to herself as she re-examined her list of notes she compiled for the inn’s re-opening. Table cloths were starched, pressed, and placed on all the tables. Candles and fresh flowers were in vases, and new coat pegs were attached to the walls just inside the main entrance. Logs were placed in the fireplace and barroom stove and were ready to be lit to chase away the evening’s chill. Those who had chosen to dine were expected to arrive at six o’clock, and then the inn and barroom would open at seven for everyone else who wanted to see the renovations, imbibe in the various small treats, ales, and liquor—and join in the festivities of song and dance.

The whisky, wine, and ale were all stocked and ready to be served. Charlie Haney, her bartender, had suggested ale at five cents a glass was reasonable, but whiskey at twelve cents was too steep. Good whiskey was hard to come by, Abigail countered, and Charlie had agreed Abigail’s Canadian whiskey was the best he’d ever tasted. Abigail wondered how her father could have left them so penniless. Here she was, agonizing over a few cents. She remembered the long trip from Utah, the boat ride on the river, and wagon journey northward with Cousins Joshua and Adam and decided to keep the price as she originally intended.

She looked down at the blue dress Maria had sewn for her. It was exquisite, even if was remade from a cast-off of Emma’s, and it made her blue eyes sparkle even more brilliantly. She stopped and looked toward the manse on the hill. Aunt Emma! She had forgotten she had asked Aunt Emma to dine with them. She also had not made any arrangements to get Emma an escort or to have her delivered to the inn.

At first, Emma had adamantly said she couldn’t attend the reopening, what with Henry’s funeral but a mere month and a half ago. Abigail had insisted her presence would be a tribute to her late uncle, and of course, as owner in the business, Emma would be expected to attend. Abigail assured her if she were properly dressed in mourning black, everyone would be delighted to see her. It had taken little convincing for her aunt to reconsider.

As Abigail paced the room, she decided to let Tye and Maria take care of queer Aunt Emma. She looked at her notes again and remembered she had planned to borrow two matching ribbons from Maria to lend to the two girls who were singing for the guests before the dinner hour. In her haste to get to Maria’s hair ribbons in the bedroom, she stumbled over a stool and caught herself, but not before she also caught the edge of her gown on the wood box and ripped the hem. She pulled it away carefully and groaned, just as Maria entered through the back door in time to see the disaster.

“Slow down, Abigail!” Maria set aside the book she was holding and reached for her sewing box. “Sit down, please. You will be in pieces before the evening has started!” She pulled out a chair and proceeded to guide her sister to it. Then she pulled out another, seated herself across from her, and began to repair the damage.

Amos walked in, holding a huge box, and stared at the two women, one with a mouth full of pins, quietly stitching the gown of the other, who looked like she was going to jump out of the chair.

“Bad luck, Miss Maria,” he said and shook his head, “to sew a garment while someone is wearing it. And we don’t need bad luck tonight.”

Maria mumbled around the pins in her mouth. “Bad luck, Amos, is having a fidgeting sister flopping around like a fish out of water. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Come to deliver a package and to get Abigail. Charlie thinks we should haul the piano into the dining room for the singers, but I won’t let him until Miss Abby agrees.”

Maria stood and took the box Amos held out to her. “It was sent up from the General Store.”

Maria placed the box on the table, removed the cover, and lifted out the most beautiful green silk dress she’d ever seen. Its bodice was covered with bead work and rich imported lace was sewn into the sleeves. “Oh, my!” she said. “Oh, my goodness. How stunning!”

Beside her, Abigail spoke, “And just when I planned to throttle Tye Ashmore for the antics of the other night, his sister redeems him with this exquisite creation.”

Maria shook her head. “No, the note just says
from a friend
.”

“Well, it must be Betsy or Tye. Who else could it be?” Abigail asked. “Come, Amos, let’s go and resolve the problems at the inn.”

“What about my hair?” Maria’s hands flew up in the air.

“You have an entire hour to get ready,” Abby replied.

“What about Brett?”

“If he shows, bring him along with Emma.”

“We’re taking Aunt Emma, too?” Maria looked at her sister with a sorrowful grimace.

“Yes, see you at six.” Abigail dashed out the door, ending any further discussion of the issue.

Moments later, despite her earlier worries, the Mule Shed Inn looked splendid, ready for guests and well-wishers. The dining room was set with dishes, pure white napkins, and sparkling silverware. Brass fixtures in the rooms were polished to a shine, and the office was dusted, although Abigail insisted it was to remain closed. The delicate odor of roast beef and potatoes cooking in the kitchen drifted into the dining room. The bar had been well-stocked, and all the glasses shimmered in the late sunlight streaming in the windows.

“If you want the piano in the dining room, Miss Abby, we’d better get it moved now,” Charlie said behind her back.

“Then how do we gracefully haul it back through a crowd when our singers are finished?” Amos asked.

All three sets of eyes darted from one to another.

“Very simply put, you need another piano.” Brett strolled through the back door. In his hand, he dangled two pink ribbons. “Miss Abigail O’Donnell, we need to talk.”

Abigail stared wordlessly at the handsomely dressed Brett. He appeared relatively civil, but concealed anger brewed beneath his stoic appearance. He was a remarkably imposing figure, tall and muscular, with an angular face that would make the Greek gods jealous. A chilly silence surrounded them as black as the suit he was wearing. She saw a flash of controlled ire in his green eyes. “Now,
Miss O’Donnell.”

“Let’s go to my office,
Captain Trumble
,” she managed to stammer. Her stomach did a quick somersault. With her back straight and stiff, she walked toward the back corner of the inn.

Chapter Twelve

Inside the office, Abigail moved to her desk and turned toward Brett, who held out his hand and dropped the pink ribbons into her palm. “You forgot these, and you obviously forgot I was escorting you, Abigail.”

“There were problems at the inn, and I decided to come early.” She laid the ribbons aside on the desk. “I walked up with Amos.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” He stepped toward her, and in the blur of a moment, his face turned from irritation to charming. He smiled, reached out, and ran the back of his hand lightly down her forearm. “I would kiss you, but it would only rile you more, and this is no time to have Miss Abigail O’Donnell, manager of the Mule Shed Inn, irritated. Not on opening night.” He reached up and caressed the side of her face. He was so close she could smell the bay rum he used and feel heat radiate from his body.

“For once, you’re right.” She tried hard not to react but was unsuccessful. “And if you would like to keep your trigger finger intact, I’d suggest you remove it from my face.” Together their gazes met, merry green eyes with sky blue ones, and they stared at each other for a moment before both of them smiled.

“I have a piano problem. If I want it in the dining room, I’d better get it moved now.” She backed away as his hand fell away from her, and she pressed her fingers to her temples.

“And how will you gracefully haul it back to the barroom with over half the town milling about? I thought you wanted the Irish gals to sing there later in the evening.”