The Bride's Prerogative (37 page)

When he’d gone out, she went to the hall door and listened. Papa’s voice and Uncle Kenton’s rose and fell. She wondered if she could distinguish what they said if she were, say, three yards farther down the hallway.

As she turned this over in her mind, Brady entered again through the back door and set the full bucket of water beside the stove. He dumped the coal into the scuttle by the wood box. Isabel was thankful that her father was blessed with enough resources to buy coal. The town of Fergus had long mourned its dashed hopes of getting a railroad spur. Coal must be hauled in by freighters and cost more than some of the town’s one hundred or so residents could afford. Firewood was hard to come by, but some scoured the mountains for it in the dead of winter. Old-timers told of when dried buffalo chips were available on the prairie a few miles distant, but that era had long since closed.

“Is the gentleman staying over?”

Isabel stared at him, dismayed at the thought. “Oh, I … I think not.” But where
would
Uncle Kenton stay the night? She supposed Papa might send him a mile to the boardinghouse, but was that polite, to shuffle a relative off like that? She certainly hoped Papa wouldn’t invite him to stay at the ranch.

“Anything else you need tonight, Miss Isabel?”

“No, thank you.”

“I was going to ask the boss if I could ride into town for a bit.” Isabel looked away. Of course Brady would want to stop in at the Nugget saloon. She hated the place, but her own father patronized it. He let his hands go to town on paydays. She knew Papa would say yes tonight if Brady asked him, since it was a quiet evening. The seasoned cowboy rarely overindulged, but he liked a glass or two and some company.

“I hate to disturb them.” She nodded and met his gaze. “I’m sure it’s all right, Brady.”

“Thanks. I won’t be gone but an hour.”

The cowboy touched his hat brim and disappeared, shutting the door behind him. Isabel shivered. The kitchen was no longer overly warm. No doubt the temperature would drop even farther tonight. Spring took its time settling into these mountains, and they still had to keep a fire all night. Her father, being the richest man in Fergus, wouldn’t feel the bite of cold.

Kenton Smith, she reflected, looked less prosperous than his brother-in-law. A thought oozed into her mind that he might have come looking for a job or a leg up in the world. Kin was kin, and one didn’t turn family away.

She looked at the clock. Quarter to eight. Should she wait to see if the men came out and joined her for further conversation? She didn’t want to spend any more time with Uncle Kenton. He had none of her mother’s sweetness and charm. He didn’t even look like Mama. And if Mama had been proud of him, she’d have told her daughter about him.

Maybe she could quietly retire and avoid seeing him again. But just in case, she’d better check the linens in the spare room. She blew out the lamp on the table.

As she tiptoed down the dusky hallway, she heard Uncle Kenton’s voice rise in pitch to rival Bertha Runnels’ soprano.

“No, you listen to me!”

Isabel gasped and backed up against the wall across from the closed office door, her pulse throbbing. Her father’s voice came, calmer and firm.

“Sit down, Kenton. We can work this out.”

Isabel didn’t want to hear any more. Papa said people in town were always asking him for money for one thing or another. Probably this no-account uncle she’d never heard of wanted some, too. Come to think of it, that might explain why she’d never heard of Uncle Kenton. Maybe he was a leech, and Mama hadn’t wanted him to find them and beg for a handout.

She wrapped her arms around herself and hurried toward her room, passing the door to the spare room. Better take a look.

A quick glance told her the chamber was ready if her father decided to put her uncle in there, but she hoped he wouldn’t. Feeling a bit selfish and uncharitable, she sent up a quick prayer.
Lord, if Thou carest about my comfort, please do not let that man stay the night in this house
.

Guilt crept over her, and she stopped praying as she walked to her own room. He was her mother’s brother, after all. She set her spectacles on the dresser and took her time brushing her long, light brown hair and thinking about tomorrow’s lessons. The fourth graders would multiply fractions, and she had no doubt Will Ingram would have trouble with the concept. In the end, he would probably
make
trouble to distract her from the arithmetic lesson.

No sound of the stranger’s leaving had reached her. Not for the first time, she wished she could see the front dooryard from her window, but her room was on the back side of the house. Finally, she drew the curtains and undressed. If Papa came out of his office this late and expected her to play hostess, shame on him.

She cracked the window open, turned out her lamp, and crawled under the quilts. Once or twice, she heard their voices, but when she raised her head, the tones had dropped again. After a long lull, she drifted into near sleep, but suddenly she opened her eyes. A regular crunching sound came to her, not from down the hall, but from outside. Hoofbeats?

Isabel sat up in the dark.

The sound continued but got no fainter or louder. She rose and went to her window. It seemed to come from the direction of the barn. She stuck her feet into her shoes and grabbed a big shawl. Wrapping it around her, she crossed the room, opened the door, and stood listening. She heard nothing from within the house. A faint glow showed that a lamp still burned somewhere at the front of the dwelling. She walked down the hall, her shoes clumping a little since she hadn’t buttoned them all the way up.

The front room was empty, and the table lamp burned low.

“Papa?”

No one answered.

She stole to the kitchen and opened the back door an inch. Again she heard the
crunch-crunch
, with a bit of a metallic clang to it.

After a quick look around, she gathered the heavy flannel skirt of her nightdress and tiptoed across the yard between the house and the barn. A pause in the noise made her flatten herself against the rough boards of the barn siding. Her breath came in deep gulps. She made herself exhale slowly and quietly, though her heart raced. A clack came from behind the barn, and then a moment’s stillness. Measuring the distance from her position to the kitchen door, she wondered just how foolish she was.

The crunching began again, and she edged toward the back corner of the barn. A glow brighter than starlight and lower than the heavens spilled around the edge of the wall. She sneaked one step closer and another, until her icy fingers touched the boards at the back corner.

Crunch-splat. Crunch-splat
.

She knew what made that sound. To confirm her inkling, she peeked around the corner.

A kerosene lantern sat on the ground near a small heap of dirt. Her father, tall and broad-shouldered, cast a huge shadow against the back wall of the barn as he wielded a spade.

Isabel pulled back around the edge and leaned against the boards with her eyes shut. What did it mean? Her father was digging a hole in the night … for what? And where was Uncle Kenton? Maybe he was there, too, and she hadn’t seen him in the shadows.

Slowly, she leaned forward, until one eye passed the corner. No Uncle Kenton. Her father scooped up another spadeful of dirt. A cold breeze caught the fringe of Isabel’s shawl and her loose hair. She drew back, not wanting to think about the scene. She gathered her nightdress and sidled along to the front of the barn wall. As quietly as she could, she fled across the barnyard to the kitchen door. Once inside, she ran down the hall to her room and closed the door behind her. She sat down on her bed, panting. There was no doubt.

Her father was not opening the hole; he was filling it in.

CHAPTER 3

A
re you going to Boise to fetch Rose?” Ethan asked as he shuffled two biscuits from the serving plate to his own.

Hiram shook his head. He’d thought about Rose’s telegram for the last two hours, and the more he considered its implications, the more they troubled him.

As she often did, his sister spoke for him. “She’s taking the stagecoach tomorrow.”

“That road has been open only a few days.” Ethan frowned as he buttered his biscuit. “The stage had trouble getting through from Reynolds yesterday.”

“Well, if the stage can’t get through, chances are a wagon couldn’t either,” Trudy said.

“True.” Ethan shot a troubled glance at Hiram. “What’ll you do? Will she stay here with you?”

“I don’t suppose we could send her to the boardinghouse.” Trudy frowned.

The idea of boarding Rose elsewhere hadn’t occurred to Hiram, and he looked eagerly to Trudy.

“Don’t look so hopeful. We couldn’t do that, and you know it.”

Hiram shrugged and put his knife to his venison steak.

“She’s family.” Trudy nodded as though that settled it. She picked up half her biscuit and smeared it with butter. “It’s just plain rude to expect kinfolk to pay for their lodging.”

Hiram eyed her sidelong. He and Trudy had been alone too long. She had an uncanny way of reading his unvoiced thoughts.

“Not even if we paid for it,” she added.

Hiram drooped in his chair and turned his attention back to his food. His little sister was a good cook, and he would miss that if she married Ethan and moved out of the house. For eight years—no, nine—she’d been his cook, housekeeper, and nearest companion. She understood him. She let him grieve when he got in the sorrowful mood over Violet’s passing, and she left him alone when he needed it. She even helped him in his business, testing people’s guns after he’d fixed them.

She’d started that shortly after she came. Folks had brought Hiram a passel of work in some misguided attempt to keep him too busy to think of how Violet and their baby boy had died. Hiram had worked on those guns day and night. And as they piled up, repaired, Trudy had asked him if she should take them back to their owners.

“I’ll need to fire them first,” he’d said.

“I could do that for you. Just make sure they shoot okay?”

She’d taken on the job from that day, and her frequent practice had made an excellent shot out of her. So good that other women came to her now for lessons.

Ethan cleaned his plate before he addressed Trudy again. “So, you expect her on tomorrow’s noon stagecoach?”

“Probably. I’m getting the front bedroom ready.”

Hiram cast a worried glance toward the parlor, where the stairs went up. He was glad he’d be down here in his bedroom and Rose would stay in the bedroom upstairs. The front room was nicer than his sister’s little room at the back, but Trudy didn’t like the noise from the street and the saloon at night, so she used the snug room under the eaves, above the kitchen.

“How long is she staying?” Ethan asked.

Good question
, Hiram thought—one he’d like answered, too.

“We don’t know yet,” Trudy said. A little frown settled between her eyebrows. The unspoken implication hung in the air. Like Hiram, she hoped Rose wouldn’t extend her visit beyond a few weeks.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do, let me know.” Ethan’s gaze left Trudy’s face long enough to include Hiram, and he nodded his thanks.

After a cup of coffee and two pieces of pie, Hiram sat back with a sigh. He surely would miss Trudy’s presence, and not just in the kitchen. That was, if the sheriff ever got around to popping the question. The two walked out in the evenings and had made eyes at each other for nearly a year now. Even though it meant giving up his housekeeper, Hiram thought the time had come. Of course, he’d never say as much. Like him, Ethan took his time to come to a decision and even longer to act on it. But from the way those two looked at each other, everyone in town could tell the decision was as good as made. The only thing lacking was the formal proposal.

“Well, I’m glad Rose gave us a day’s warning and didn’t show up unannounced.” Trudy had a faraway look, and Hiram figured she was ticking off the cleaning chores she’d do before Rose arrived. She stood. “More coffee?”

Hiram shook his head.

“No, thanks,” Ethan said. “Want to walk tonight?”

“It’s a little windy.”

Ethan nodded reluctantly. “It’s chilly.” He waited, watching her, obviously hoping she’d brave the cold and the gale for him.

“I’d make a fire in the parlor,” Hiram offered.

Ethan flicked a surprised glance at him. Hiram wished he’d stayed quiet, as usual. But if Trudy didn’t want to go out into the cold …

“Thanks, Hi, but I’ll wear my cloak and bonnet. Let me wash up these dishes first.”

“I’ll dry.” Ethan started carrying plates from the table to the dishpan on the sideboard.

Hiram stood and gathered his own dishes. Trudy poured hot water into her dishpan and added soap. Hiram made a silent exit into the front room, where he had a half-finished gunstock waiting for him. If Ethan needed more time alone with Trudy to get his proposal out, Hiram would do all he could to provide it. He took a last glance back through the doorway into the kitchen and saw Trudy laughing as she tied an apron around the sheriff’s waist. Hiram smiled and went to his comfortable chair.

A few minutes later, Trudy came to the doorway.

“We’re going to walk down toward the river and back.”

Hiram lifted a hand in salute. He wouldn’t worry about her in Ethan’s care. Besides, it was too chilly for them to stay out late.

The back door shut on the laughing pair, and he sat in the comfortable quiet of the house, sanding the wood he held. He was happy for Trudy. She’d come as a gangly sixteen-year-old girl, powerless to help him in his fresh grief. Over the last nine years, she’d grown into a beautiful woman. She’d held off potential suitors until Hiram had wondered if she would remain a spinster for his sake.

Then he’d realized she was waiting for Ethan. For a long time, Ethan Chapman had glided along in self-made isolation, ignoring everything but his own hurt. Last summer the town council had thrust sheriffhood upon him. And he’d finally sat up and taken note of the town and Gertrude Dooley.

Hiram’s contented smiled soured when he remembered the telegram. Rose Caplinger was as unlike her younger sister, Violet, as a buzzard was unlike a swallow. She might be handsome—Hiram couldn’t really remember—but she had the sharpest tongue in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. That he recalled quite clearly. More than once, she’d been informally censured in the neighborhood for gossip. She had none of Violet’s gentle spirit and always sought the limelight for herself. If Rose wasn’t the center of attention, then the day was not worth living.

He looked about the room once more, regretting the extra work her visit would cause Trudy and the intrusion into their happy existence. What would happen to his peace when Rose arrived?

Isabel had the coffee scalding hot and the eggs nearly set in the pan before her father came to the kitchen. As he did every weekday morning, he appeared for breakfast fully dressed in the clothes he would wear to town. He was a somewhat snappy dresser, as men’s fashions went in Fergus. With the Reverend Phineas Benton and Dr. James Kincaid, he completed the roster of men who wore a coat and tie every day.

He pulled a watch from his trouser pocket and consulted it before taking his seat. “Seven-oh-four.”

“Are you sending out both coaches today?”

“Yes indeed. Winter’s back is broken, and the line is open for business in both directions.” He flapped his napkin out and laid it in his lap.

Isabel filled a plate with eggs, two leftover biscuits, and two sausage patties, and placed it before him. “Papa?”

“Yes? That looks good.”

“Thank you. Papa?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me about Uncle Kenton.”

“Kenton?” Her father looked up at her briefly with a small frown. He picked up his fork. “What about him?”

“Well … where is he?”

“He left last evening.”

“Obviously, but where did he go?” Isabel turned to get him a mug of coffee.

“Oh, I believe he’s traveling about. He said he may come back again after a bit. You’ll see him again, I’ll warrant.”

She set the steaming mug beside his plate and took her seat opposite him.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

She waited until he looked into her eyes.

“Why have I never heard of Uncle Kenton until last night? Mama told me many times that she never had a brother—only her and Leola.”

Her father coughed and covered his face with his napkin for a moment. When he revealed it again, he looked rather blotchy and uncomfortable.

“My dear, I can only tell you the truth.”

“Please do.”

He sighed and returned the napkin to his lap. “You’re grown up, and you deserve to know it. The fact is, I advised Mary to tell you years ago—certainly by the time you turned twenty-one. But no, she wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me? From her brother?”

Papa cleared his throat and toyed with his fork. “Yes, actually. She didn’t want you to ever know about his … his past. And she thought that as long as we were in the West and he was in the East, you would never know about him and the disgrace he brought on her family.”

Isabel stared at him. Her mother had never hinted at disgrace or regret concerning the Smith family. She’d spoken with longing about her parents and her childhood home, the happy days with her sister until the frail Leola sickened.

“I … don’t understand.”

Her father gave a big sigh and reached across the table for her hand. “It pains me to tell you this, my dear, but your Uncle Kenton spent several years in prison.”

Isabel swallowed hard and wished she’d poured herself some coffee. “What for?”

“It’s just as well if you don’t know the details. Your mother was mortified by the scandal, and her family rarely talked about Kenton. She figured you’d be happier not knowing he existed.” Papa ate his eggs, and Isabel watched him, unsatisfied.

After a moment’s silence, she got up and fixed her own plate, though she didn’t feel like eating. The memories badgered her as she sat down again and nibbled at her food. She didn’t recall much about her early years, though there had been a farm in Nebraska. When she was seven, Papa left her and Mama there and came ahead of them to Idaho Territory, prospecting for gold. A year later, he’d sent for them, and they’d ridden the train as far as they could. Papa had met them in Salt Lake City and brought them to the boom town of Fergus, where by then, he ran the assay office.

Isabel ruminated on her father’s words. She had a criminal for a relative: a man who’d done something so dire her father wouldn’t even name the deed. What else did she not know about her family?

Her father took a second watch from his vest pocket and opened the case.

“Would you like more coffee?” she asked.

“No, I think I’ll leave now and stop at the sheriff’s before I open the stagecoach office.” He stood and reached for his hat. “Want me to drop you at the schoolhouse?”

It was early yet. Though she could use some extra time to prepare in the classroom, Isabel had her domestic chores to think of, too. “Thank you, but I’ll stay and do the dishes first. Oh, and Papa, I’ll be going to the shooting club after school.”