CHAPTER 19

School was finally out, and Isabel reveled in her freedom. On the Monday after the closing program, she rode into town with her father. She asked him to let her out before he turned off Main Street to leave the wagon at the livery stable. She was determined to avoid a face-to-face meeting with Griffin Bane at all costs.

Since her regrettable outburst at the smithy, she’d only seen him across the room at church and at Bitsy’s wedding. He hadn’t acknowledged her presence, and she’d done all she could to stay out of his line of vision. As far as she could tell, word of the incident had not reached her father, but she still held her breath every time he came home from town.

She walked to the emporium and entered. Libby looked up from arranging new merchandise in the linens section. “Good morning. It’s a pleasure to see you in here on a weekday.”

Isabel approached her, smiling. “Thank you. Since I’ve six weeks until the summer term begins, I thought I’d pick up some sewing notions. I want to make over a couple of Mama’s summer dresses.”

“A bittersweet task.” Libby walked with her to the fabric section. “New items for your wardrobe, but constant reminders of your departed loved one.”

The door opened, and Ralph Storrey came in.

“Excuse me,” Libby said. “If you need any help, I shan’t be far.” She turned to greet Ralph. “What can I do for you today, sir?”

“Did you get any more barbed wire?” the rancher asked. “I’ve strung all I had, and I’m a thousand feet short.”

“Yes, I did. It’s on the back porch, where Josiah unloaded it for me. Do you want to drive your wagon around back, and I’ll meet you out there?”

Ten minutes later, she returned to the store through the back room and jotted something in her ledger. Several other customers had come in while she was gone. Florence was weighing out dry beans for Bertha Runnels. Isabel had found all the items on her list and had stopped to examine the selection of buttons.

Libby made her way between the tables and shelves of merchandise. Isabel looked up as she approached.

“I think I’ve found what I need, but these darling silver buttons caught my eye.”

“They can make an older dress look new.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Isabel slid them into her basket. “There. I suppose I’m finished, except for a pound of coffee for Papa.”

She waited while Libby measured it for her.

“Any more word about your uncle?” Libby asked.

“No.” Isabel glanced around at the other shoppers and back to Libby. “I haven’t heard a word since that one visit. Papa doesn’t talk about him. Our dinner conversation is rather strained.” She had tried to put Uncle Kenton out of her mind these past few weeks, and her father hadn’t spoken his name once. The entire connection with the ex-convict had a sordid feel, and she wished she could erase the memory of the night he’d come to the ranch.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Libby said. “Do you want this on your father’s account?”

Isabel hesitated. “The coffee only. I’ll pay for the notions.” She wished she could talk to Libby again. They hadn’t had much of a conversation since Libby had come to the schoolhouse to apologize for encouraging Starr and Trudy to match up Rose Caplinger and Griffin. When Libby had explained how it came about and assured her they meant no harm, Isabel was able to forgive the three ladies.

Rose swept into the emporium, followed by Trudy.

“Ladies,” Libby said in greeting. Rose smiled cordially, but Trudy wore a downcast expression.

Isabel accepted her change from Libby and picked up her market basket. “Good day, ladies.” She didn’t think she could remain long in the same room with Rose and not feel the pangs of jealousy rise again. The young widow was an outsider who would never understand Griffin, a man who’d grown up in the West. So far Isabel had seen no evidence that Rose had looked Griffin’s way any more intently than she looked at other men. Apparently the plan had fizzled. But she still didn’t want to be around the woman.

“I’ll see you this afternoon,” Trudy called after her.

Isabel stepped onto the boardwalk then flattened herself against the emporium’s door. A short way up the street, Griffin was leaving her father’s office. She stood still, her heart pounding, until he turned northward toward the livery stable without seeing her.

She felt the irony of the situation. Ten days ago, she’d longed for him to notice her. Now her cheeks burned in shame at the thought, and she was glad he’d gone the other way.

“How may I help you, Mrs. Caplinger?” Libby asked.

“Do you have any dye?”

“Yes, I have a good selection of colors.” Libby led her down the room. “The newer line from the Fossett Company seems to hold better than the old ones. Emmaline Landry dyed a set of curtains with the scarlet, and she said they came out beautifully.”

“Colorfastness is especially crucial in apparel,” Rose said.

“Oh, are you dyeing some clothing?”

“Feathers,” Trudy said with a woeful grimace. “She’s going to make hats.”

Libby looked at Rose and smiled. “This town could use a few more hats, and some of yours are delectable.”

“Why, thank you. I’ve decided it’s my calling.”

“Oh? Are you saying you make your own hats? The pink one you wore to the wedding was exquisite.”

“Thank you. Yes, I have a natural talent for it. And I’ve decided to stay here in Fergus and ply my skill as a trade,” Rose said.

Libby looked anxiously at Trudy, who shrugged, a perfect imitation of Hiram’s favorite gesture.

“No slight to your merchandise,” Rose went on, “but I think this town needs a decent millinery shop.”

Libby’s love of fashion struggled against her loyalty to the Dooleys. “What a lovely idea. Of course, I have to stock a wide variety of merchandise, and I only carry a limited selection of ladies’ hats and bonnets. But … do you think there are enough ladies with spending money in this town to support such a shop?”

“I believe women are willing to pay for the best. When they find superior items that flatter their looks, they’re happy to turn over their savings.”

“Well, you may be right.”

“I’ve mailed an order for supplies.” Rose picked up a roll of lace edging and peered at it. Her lip curled, and she laid it down. “Feathers, netting, and embellishments.”

“I wish you success,” Libby said.

Trudy brought a one-pound bag of salt and laid it on the counter. She turned away, toward the spice shelves.

“I perceive that in this town, widows are required to support themselves,” Rose said.

Libby felt her face color. “I would rather say that in this town, women of any marital status are able to support themselves if they so choose and if they are willing to work hard.”

“Well, it seems my brother-in-law does not look for a closer relationship.” Rose frowned. “No matter.”

Indeed, Libby thought. To an untrained eye, she supposed Fergus might look like a fertile hunting ground for husbands. Several solvent widowers and bachelors made their home here. Without even trying, she could name a dozen, from Cyrus Fennel and Dr. Kincaid to the ranch hands and miners who populated the valley.

Rose probably considered her prospects quite good, even though Hiram wasn’t interested. At least she’d finally deciphered that message. She’d been blessed with a pretty face and figure, and she could be charming when she wished. Unfortunately, a lot of the men in town already knew she could also be a harridan. Libby expected most of them to avoid Rose, if only out of sympathy for Hiram. But some gentleman might place more value on her looks than her personality and offer for her in spite of her acid tongue. And God could work the impossible, after all. Rose might, with divine intervention, change her ways.

Libby’s pity collided with the knowledge that she hadn’t prayed faithfully for Rose. Guilt seeped through her. The woman needed her friendship and her prayers. Instead, she had schooled her features to neutrality whenever Rose was around and had harbored her private dislike of the interloper.

On impulse, she smiled and leaned toward Rose. “Mrs. Caplinger, I know Trudy has invited you to our shooting circle, but I want to extend my invitation, as well. We’d love to have you join us on Mondays and Thursdays if it suits you.”

“Hmm.” Rose eyed her suspiciously. “I’m not sure that it would suit me. But I’ve heard so much about it, I might try it once. We shall see.”

Trudy paid for her salt. Rose didn’t buy so much as a spool of thread. Libby wasn’t sure whether she should feel insulted. Apparently Rose planned to order her supplies for her millinery venture directly from the manufacturers and bypass the emporium. Fair enough. A dozen questions leaped to her mind. Where would Rose set up shop? Would she continue to live with the Dooleys? She decided to let the questions go until she had a private audience with Trudy. As the two women left her store, Libby thanked God for apparently solving Hiram’s problem without the Ladies’ Shooting Club’s involvement.

Ethan hurried across the street toward the post office. Peter Nash never sent for him without reason. The summons had come by way of Peter’s son, who’d popped in at the jailhouse and said, “Sheriff, my pa wants to talk to you,” and left.

When he mounted the steps to the Nashes’ front porch and opened the post office door, Ethan saw that Peter was deep in conversation with a stranger.

“Oh Sheriff, you’re here. Thanks for coming.” Peter gestured to the man, who wore spurs, work pants, and a cotton shirt. A wide leather belt slung around his waist carried a holstered gun and dozens of rounds of ammunition.

“This here’s Wilfred Sterling,” Peter continued. “He says he’s Frank Peart’s nephew.”

Ethan stepped forward, scrutinizing the man. He hadn’t removed his hat, but even so, Ethan recognized him.

“Sterling?” Ethan studied him carefully.

“That’s right.” The man made no offer to shake his hand.

“If you’re Frank Peart’s kin, why didn’t you say so earlier? Oh, and don’t think I don’t know you. You’re one of the rascals I ran out of the Spur & Saddle a couple of weeks ago.”

“Just been getting settled in at my new job.”

Ethan noted that he had his pistol back—Cyrus had taken the two cowpokes’ guns away with him when he’d paid for the damage at Bitsy’s. “At the old Martin ranch.”

Sterling returned Ethan’s gaze from beneath long lashes. “That’s right.”

“I’ve been inquiring all over the country, with some help of other folks here in town. Everything we’ve gotten back says Frank Peart has no living family.”

“Guess they missed me.”

Ethan nodded, more skeptical than ever. “And exactly how are you related to Frank?”

“My ma was his sister. She married and moved upstate. Hadn’t seen her brother for nigh on thirty years.”

“Uh-huh. And she’s deceased now?”

“That’s correct.”

Ethan scratched the back of his head. He’d received replies from New Jersey indicating Frank Peart had indeed had a couple of sisters, but both were deceased.

“I’m not sure you have a legal claim to Frank and Milzie’s land. But you’ll have to go to Boise and do a lot of paperwork if you plan to try to inherit it. They’ll expect you to prove your relationship to Frank. Can you do it?”

Sterling’s eyebrows lowered and his mouth tightened. “How’m I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not an attorney. But I’ll tell you right now, you can’t just squat on the Pearts’ land and call it yours.” Ethan wasn’t sure what would happen to the land, but he had an impression the government was going to take it back. Not that the old mine was worth anything. But as sheriff of Fergus, he wouldn’t let just anyone waltz in and lay claim to it. Especially someone he suspected of lying.

“We’ll see about that.” Sterling stomped out, his spurs scraping the porch steps.

Ethan closed the door the cowboy had left open. “So, Mr. Nash, was he here to pick up some mail?”

Peter shook his head. “Sending some.”

“Where to, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Well, since you’re the law …” Peter produced two envelopes and laid them on the counter. “Can’t let you take them, but you can see them, I guess.”

Ethan looked down at the letters. “Hmm. Written by two different people, I’d say.”

“He told me one was from his boss.”

Ethan bent down to decipher the addresses. “Pennsylvania. And Massachusetts.”

“That’s right,” Peter said.

“Reckon I’ll send some wires to the authorities in those towns, if Fergus can stand the expense, Mayor.”

“Feel free, Ethan. I don’t like that fellow.” Peter scooped up the letters.

“Right. Thanks for sending your boy over for me.”

Ethan stepped outside. Cyrus Fennel must be in his office now. Time for another parley.

He waited on the boardwalk while Cyrus sold a stagecoach ticket to a salesman who’d stopped overnight at the Fennel House. The man talked on and on about his recent travels. At last he came out and headed across the street toward the boardinghouse.

Ethan stepped into the office. “Morning, Mr. Fennel.”

Cyrus had begun to rise from the chair behind his desk but sank back into it.

“Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

“You expressed an interest in buying the Peart place. I just wanted you to know there’s a fellow in the area who claims to be Frank’s heir.”

“Really?” Cyrus shrugged. “Thanks, but I’m not so much interested anymore.”

“That right?”

Cyrus opened a wooden box on his desk and took out a cigar. “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of selling off some of my property outside of town.”

Ethan watched him in surprise. Cyrus usually held on to real estate like it was his life’s blood. If he ever sold a piece, he made sure he took a very good profit.

Cyrus lit the cigar and took a couple of puffs. “I’m having a little cash flow problem.” He grimaced. “Had some family needing a little help. So I can’t buy any more land just now. But thanks for letting me know.”

“All right.” Ethan turned back outside into the brilliant sunshine. Odd. Very odd. And the coincidence of one of the hands at a ranch Cyrus owned claiming to be Frank’s nephew—that was even odder.