The Bride's Prerogative (60 page)

CHAPTER 30

I
sabel lay awake for a long time after she and Libby returned from the Dooleys’ house. She couldn’t help thinking about her future.

Did she really love Griffin Bane? Or did she only long for someone to help her escape from Papa’s ranch? The burly blacksmith would never be her intellectual equal. He wasn’t the smartest or the cleanest man in Fergus, though the other men respected him. He lived in a little room behind the smithy, which she suspected resembled a hovel inside. When he came to church, his clothes often smelled of sweat and horses. Did she really want a life with a man like him? Had she long ago given up finding a true soul mate and manufactured affections for one of the town’s more prominent bachelors? When she made herself be honest, some of his habits and traits repelled her.

And what of Papa’s accusation? Had he really caught her staring at Dr. Kincaid? The physician was handsome. In truth, she had never considered that he would find her attractive, but she might have looked regretfully his way a time or two. The doctor had the education, good manners, and refinement that Griffin lacked. Most likely, he would marry one of the town’s prettier girls. Isabel wouldn’t know what to do if a man like him looked her way.

Only when she turned her troubles over to God would her agitated mind stop racing from one concern to another. Her loneliness must matter very little in the Lord’s eternal plan, yet she thanked Him for the friendships she had lately formed with Libby and the other women in town. If her destiny was to remain single, then she could survive that. Surely she and Papa could work toward congeniality. At last she drifted off to sleep with a whispered prayer on her lips.

On Wednesday morning, Libby loaned her a clean shirtwaist and stockings. Isabel dressed and gathered her things, prepared to leave for the ranch.

When she ventured out to the kitchen, Libby was making a pot of oatmeal.

“Breakfast is ready.” Libby smiled cheerfully as she ladled the thick mush into two bowls. “The tea is brewing, and I’ve applesauce as well.”

They chatted together like schoolgirls. Isabel told her hostess about the new literature books she hoped the school board would buy for her older students, and Libby mentioned the shipment of textiles and spices she expected Oscar Runnels to bring her later in the day. They went downstairs together after breakfast.

“Are you sure you want to go home now?” Libby asked. “You could stay a bit longer if you like. I could have Florence watch to see when your father opens his office.”

“I’ll have to face him sometime.” Despite her brave words, a weight had settled on Isabel’s chest. “I’ll need to do some cleaning today and tend the garden. Best I get an early start.”

“Yes.” Libby stood uncertainly for a moment. “Would you like to go out the back?”

“It won’t matter which door I use.”

They walked to the front entrance together, and Libby turned the lock. She stood on tiptoe to undo a hook higher on the door frame, then turned to face her departing guest.

“Come anytime, my dear. I mean that. And not only of necessity—come whenever you wish for some company.”

Isabel smiled and held out her hand. “Thank you. It comforts me to know there’s a place I can retreat to, but I must work this out with Papa.”

Libby clasped her hand and opened the door. “I’ll be praying for you. Godspeed.”

Isabel stepped out into the early morning coolness. A breeze from the valley swept up Main Street.

“Isabel!”

Her father’s harsh shout spun her around toward the Wells Fargo office. She gulped and stood her ground. He strode up the boardwalk toward her. She was glad that Libby had stopped in the act of closing the door and stood a couple of feet behind her.

“Where have you been?”

“I stayed with Mrs. Adams last night.”

His steely eyes narrowed to slits. “I have never in my life known you to do something like this.”

Isabel’s heart thudded. She put her hand to her roiling midsection. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t suppose you would notice if I didn’t return home.”

“Not notice?” His voice rose, and Maitland Dostie, opening the telegraph office across the street, glanced their way. Cyrus looked past her and focused beyond. “Libby Adams, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a hand in this.”

Libby stepped out onto the boardwalk beside Isabel. “In what, Cyrus? Having a friend over for a visit? I suggest that unless you want the entire town discussing why Isabel spent the night with me, you save your comments for later. You won’t get much sympathy if you berate your daughter in public.”

Isabel couldn’t take her eyes off her father’s face. It went from mottled gray to deep red. His lips twisted as he stared, and at last he blinked.

“I shall see you later,” he barked at Isabel. “And I shall expect my supper on time.” He stalked into his office and soundly shut the door.

Isabel swallowed hard.

Libby stepped closer and slipped an arm about her. “You’re shaking, dear. Come inside. I’ll fix you another cup of tea.”

“No, I must go now. I don’t want to give him another opportunity to dress me down here on Main Street.”

“Then let me at least have Florence go with you. She’ll be here any moment.”

Isabel shook herself and gathered the edges of her shawl close. “No, I’ll be fine. The walk will give me time to calm down.” She reached deep and hoisted a smile for Libby. “I cannot thank you enough. I shall see you tomorrow afternoon at the shooting club.”

She walked up Main Street without looking back. Folks were stirring. Charles Walker and one of his employees stood talking on the front porch of the feed store. Terrence Thistle was hanging the “vacancy” board on the bottom of the sign in front of the Fennel House. Isabel trudged past the smithy without looking toward it and continued on, out of town toward her father’s ranch.

The road wound slightly uphill, and she took her time. About halfway home, she paused to admire the blue Jacob’s ladder flowers growing on the slope. Probably the kitchen in the ranch house was a mess. Certainly Papa would not have cleaned up from her meal preparations last night. She doubted he’d called one of the men in to do it either.

Hoofbeats drummed in the distance. She shaded her eyes and looked northeast, in the direction she’d been walking. Between the hills, a cloud of dust sprang up, moving toward her as the sound increased. Over a rise in the road, several horsemen thundered. She stepped quickly off the way, into the grass. The five horses tore down the road, but as the leader came even to her, he pulled in his mount.

“Whoa!”

The others halted around him. “You’re the Fennel woman.”

She opened her mouth and coughed at the dust hanging in the air. “I … yes.” He looked slightly familiar. “You’re coming with us.”

She stared at him and backed up a step. “I most certainly am not.”

He nodded to one of the others. As the second man dismounted, she recognized him. He’d been at the box social.

She backed up again and tripped over a stone. The cowboy grabbed her arm as she stumbled and jerked her forward.

“Come on.”

“No. Leave me alone.”

A click drew her gaze back to the leader, and she froze. He had a pistol cocked and aimed at her. “Do what we say, Miss Fennel.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

The man holding her arms shoved her toward the leader’s bay horse. The mounted man kicked off his near stirrup then leaned down and extended his hand. “Hop up behind me.”

“No, I—”

The man holding her slapped her so hard she recoiled and doubled over. He lifted her bodily and swung her up behind the leader. Her cheek stung, and she nearly tumbled over the far side of the horse. She grabbed for something to steady her and caught the back neck edge of the man’s vest. The horse pranced beneath her, and she gasped.

“Take it easy, lady,” the rider said. “This horse will be fine if you sit still.”

Her skirts had hiked up nearly to her knee on the off side, and the other men were staring and smirking. She tugged with one hand but couldn’t free up enough fabric to cover her calf.

“Sit still,” the man in front of her said, more sharply.

She caught her breath and froze stiff, one hand still on his vest.

“That’s better. Champ usually doesn’t mind an extra load. How much do you weigh?”

“You insolent—”

“Stow it or we’ll have to gag you.” He returned his pistol to his holster.

The man who had lifted her climbed onto his horse. “She don’t weigh much, Wilf. No meat on her bones.”

Isabel tried to glare at him, but tears filled her eyes. Wilf. She was riding behind Wilfred Sterling, the man Libby had beaten out of third place in the shooting match.

And that other scoundrel, the one who had manhandled her—he was Button, the second-place winner from the horse race. Both Uncle Kenton’s men. And Kenton was angry at Papa.

Sterling jerked his head and said to one of the others, “Go on, Chub. Make sure old Fennel gets the message.”

The one he spoke to wheeled his dun cow pony and galloped toward Fergus. The other four horsemen headed up the road. A few minutes later, they passed the lane to the Fennel ranch. None of their hands were about. These ruffians must be taking her to the Martin ranch. Wonderful. A ten-mile canter behind Sterling’s saddle. She looked down at the ground. The grass and stones flew by at a pace that made her feel dizzy. Staying on the horse seemed preferable to falling off and breaking her scrawny neck. But Uncle Kenton had better have a good explanation.

CHAPTER 31

T
he Tinen ladies were among Libby’s first customers of the day. Minutes after she opened shop, Starr and her mother-in-law, Jessie, entered the emporium, with five-year-old Hester hanging on to her grandmother’s hand.

“Good morning. It’s delightful to see you ladies.” Libby stepped from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

Starr darted a glance at Jessie and smiled with a flush creeping up her face. “Arthur’s over to Mr. Walker’s buying oats, and we’re here for flannel and such.”

“Flannel?”

“That’s right.” Jessie grinned.

Libby turned toward the yard goods section. Florence, who was pricing a new shipment of tinned crackers, nodded and smiled at the Tinens as they passed her.

They reached the bolts of fabric, and Libby fanned out a red and gray plaid suitable for a man’s shirt. “We just got this in.”

Jesse held up a hand in protest. “Oh no. It’s not for Arthur. Something for someone … er … younger.” She cast a glance in Hester’s direction.

“That’s right,” Starr said. “We’re making a … a layette.”

“Oh!” Libby hugged her. “How wonderful.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Starr giggled. “Of course we haven’t …” She jerked her head toward Hester, who walked slowly along the aisle, touching each bolt of cloth.

“She doesn’t know yet,” Jessie whispered loudly.

“Ah. Well, I’m very happy for you all.” The little girl would be tickled to know she had a brother or sister coming, but some people waited to tell the siblings just before the new baby’s birth. Libby had always thought that if she had children, she would tell them earlier so they could enjoy the anticipation with her. But that wasn’t likely ever to happen. She shook off the thought and took a step to her left. “May I suggest this yellow print, or this new pale green plaid? Of course, it has a little pink stripe in it, but I think either … either could wear it.”

Starr giggled. “Yes, I think so, too. I’ll take a yard and a half of each.”

“Oh look!” Jessie had opened the button drawer. “These little mother-of-pearl hearts are darling.”

Libby’s throat tightened as she carried the bolts of flannel to the counter. She didn’t know why God hadn’t seen fit to give her and Isaac children. They’d been married more than a decade, and she’d never lost hope until the day Isaac died, leaving her a widow of thirty-three years, childless, with a thriving business and an ache in her heart.

She measured out the flannel and folded each piece. As she jotted the amount on her slate, Florence and the Tinens approached.

“And I’ll want some hooks and eyes,” Starr said. “Hester was born in summer, so I expect I’ll want a new woolen dress for winter this time around, or I’ll have nothing to wear to church when it turns cold.”

“Would you mind totting this up?” Libby asked Florence softly.

She succeeded in ducking into the back room before her tears spilled over. Why did this yearning hit her now? She’d thought she was beyond the sharp grief for Isaac, but lately she’d longed for the babies she’d never had. To hold an infant in her arms. Was it because she’d turned thirty-five this year and her chances had faded? Of course, Starr would let her hold her new baby. She pulled out her bleached muslin handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Perhaps she needed a drink of water.

Her sobbing overtook her as she reached the cupboard near her desk. She sank into the chair and buried her face in her arms to muffle the sound of her weeping. Florence came to her a minute later and touched her back lightly.

“Dear Mrs. Adams, what is it? Can I help?”

Libby raised her head and sniffed. “No, but thank you. And I’m sorry. Did anyone hear?”

“I don’t think so. The Tinens left, and I came looking for you. I wanted to ask what price you want on the large biscuit tins.”

Libby wiped her face. “Oh dear. I shall have to look it up. But first, I believe I’ll run upstairs and wash my face.”

“Take your time,” Florence said with a sad smile.

Libby quickly crossed the store, avoiding the gazes of the few customers browsing her wares, and mounted the stairs to her empty rooms.

Ethan left the McDade brothers cleaning out the barn and rode in to town. He stopped to leave his horse with Griff at the livery and strolled over to the jail. After a quick look-in, he went to the Dooleys’ back door. Hiram answered his knock.

“I’ve been thinking on it,” Ethan said, “and I believe I ought to go and see Cyrus if he’s sober now.”

“He was here last night. After you and Trudy left.”

“Do tell.”

“Yup. Says he’s short on cash and wants to sell the old Logan ranch.” Hiram reached for his hat. “I’ll go with you.”

Trudy came to the parlor doorway. “Hello, Ethan.”

His pulse picked up, but he reminded himself of his errand. “Hi’s going with me over to the Wells Fargo for a bit. I want to sound Cyrus out about his brother-in-law and maybe this hole-behind-the-barn business, too.”

“All right.” Trudy glanced over her shoulder. “Rose hasn’t come down yet. I was going to see if she’d talk about her outing with Smith, but I haven’t had the chance yet. I’ll put the coffeepot on, and maybe you’ll get a chance to talk to her, too, when you come back.”

Ethan and Hiram walked across the dusty street. A wagon was hitched before the feed store, and one of Oscar Runnels’s mule teams trudged southward out of town. The O
PEN
sign hung in the emporium’s window.

In front of the Wells Fargo office, Cyrus Fennel’s big roan was hitched to the rail. Ethan passed the horse and mounted the boardwalk. His boots thudded on the wood. The door was open, so he walked in.

“What do you want?” Cyrus sat at his desk with a ledger before him.

Ethan forced a smile. “How are you doing, Mr. Fennel?” Cyrus frowned. “I’m busy.”

Busy with a headache
, Ethan thought. “Kenton Smith has begun to mix with the townsfolk, and I’d like you to tell me a little more about him.”

“Like what?” Cyrus studied the ledger, moving the point of his fountain pen back and forth above the pages.

“Like where he was in prison, and what for.”

That got him. Cyrus jerked his chin up and started to rise. “What do you—”

A crash of breaking glass drew their attention to the small back window of the office. It had shattered inward, throwing slivers all over the floor. A white object thunked on the pine floor.

Cyrus and Ethan stared at the rock wrapped in paper. Before Ethan could move, Hiram had slid from behind him and retrieved it. He placed it in Ethan’s hand.

“Give me that!” Cyrus grabbed it and tore away the string that held the paper in place about the stone.

“That’s a dangerous way to get mail,” Ethan said.

Cyrus ignored him and smoothed the paper out on his desk. He bent over it, his bushy eyebrows pushed together like two colliding trains. After a moment, he shoved away from the desk and pushed past Ethan, grabbing his hat from its hook on the wall near the door.

Ethan stared after him. “Fennel!”

Cyrus untied his roan, leaped into the saddle, and galloped northward.

“Ethan.”

He turned in the doorway. Hiram was studying the paper on the desk.

“It says, ‘If you want to see your daughter alive again, repay your debt. Fast.’ “Hiram looked up at him. “Sounds like someone’s got Miss Isabel.”

Ethan snatched the paper up, glanced at it, and headed for the door. “Come on. Get Hoss and meet me at the livery.”

Hiram sprinted home and toward the barn behind the house. Trudy was inside the chicken yard and turned to stare at him. He dashed inside and grabbed Hoss’s tack. When he headed for the barn door, Trudy blocked his path.

“What’s going on?”

“Miss Fennel. Someone sent her papa a note. Sounds like she’s been snatched, and they want money.”

“Isabel? Kidnapped?” Trudy gaped at him.

“Lemme out.”

She stepped aside, and he hurried to the corral gate and whistled. Hoss and Crinkles trotted eagerly toward him.

“Why would anyone do that?”

“It’s ‘cause her daddy’s so rich. And he might owe someone money. He asked me last night if I wanted to buy a piece of land. Said he needed cash. And now he’s got a threatening note asking for payment.” As he puffed out the words, Hiram threw the saddle with its blanket on Hoss’s back and reached under the horse’s belly for the cinch. “Go get my rifle.”

“If I do, I’m getting my pistol, too. You might need me.”

“Ethan and I can handle it.”

Trudy ran into the barn, not the house. Hiram shook his head and tied the cinch knot. He grabbed the bridle he’d draped over the top fence rail and fitted it over Hoss’s ears. The gelding refused to open his mouth for a few seconds, and by the time Hiram pried it open with a finger tucked in at the side of Hoss’s jaw, Trudy came flying from the barn with her saddle and bridle.

“By the time you get our guns, I’ll have Crinkles saddled,” she said.

“You’re not—”

“Am, too.”

“No, you’re—”

“Hush! My Colt’s in the pie safe.”

He stared at her. She was already tightening her cinch. Hiram heaved out a big breath and trotted to the kitchen door. His rifle stood in the corner, but he knew for a fact that his sister had carried her new pistol up to her room each evening. Where she’d kept it during the day, he hadn’t given much thought. Now he knew. She stashed it close by, where she could look at it anytime she wanted. He pulled it out of the pie safe and ran for the door.

She’d mounted and led Hoss to the back stoop. Hiram bounced into the saddle and handed her Colt across to her. He slipped his Sharps into the scabbard on the saddle and gathered the reins.

At the livery, Ethan sat astride Scout, ready to go. His eyes narrowed as they rode up. “Trudy, you can’t come.”

“Can, too.”

“Save your breath,” Hiram warned him.

Ethan exhaled and shook his head slightly. He said no more but turned Scout toward the road and set out at a canter. Hoss and Crinkles managed to keep pace. When they’d nearly reached the lane to the Fennel ranch, Hiram spotted a couple of men working on the fence that bordered Fennel land.

Ethan trotted Scout over to the fence and stopped.

“Is Mr. Fennel here?”

“Nope,” said the weather-beaten hand known as Brady. “He left for town this morning, same as always. Took his roan.”