Read Online The Bride's Prerogative by Susan Page Davis - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Page Davis
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wiping up a spill on the polished surface of the bar. “Ted, set up a glass for the sheriff.” He turned back to Ethan. “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”
Ethan stepped forward. “No, thanks.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Jamin slapped his temple as if he were the most forgetful old codger in Idaho Territory. “You’re on official business.”
Ethan didn’t contradict him, but they both knew he’d never darkened the door of the Nugget since it opened last summer. Jamin probably knew he never drank liquor. Morrell was sharp. Ethan figured he knew which men in town imbibed and which didn’t, and which ladies liked a nip now and then as well.
“Just stopping in to tell you to call on me if you need any help keeping the peace,” Ethan said. His right eye tried to twitch. He stared hard at Morrell, determined not to blink.
“That’s kind of you, Sheriff.” Morrell pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket, consulted it, and put it away. “You’re welcome here anytime. Mr. Tibbetts and I were just discussing how badly this town needs a doctor. Isn’t that right, sir?” He looked to the dust-covered rancher leaning on the bar for confirmation.
“We sure do.” Tibbetts upended his glass and drained it. When he set it down, the bartender refilled it without asking.
Ethan nodded. “Can’t argue with you there.” If they’d had a doctor when Bert was killed, the doctor could have looked at the dead man’s wound and maybe known right away poor Bert had been murdered.
“A physician would be a fine addition to the community.” Morrell settled again with one elbow resting on the bar.
“Need a bank, too,” called a man who sat at a small, square table holding a half dozen playing cards in one hand. Ethan recognized him as one of Cy Fennel’s stage drivers.
“Yes, indeed,” Morrell said. “That’s another thing that would help this town grow.”
“How about a preacher while you’re at it?” Tibbetts blinked at Jamin. “That’s what my missus is always sayin’. We need us a preacher.”
Jamin started to laugh then sobered. He flexed his shoulders. “Your missus may be right, Jim.” His eyes narrowed.
Ethan wondered what the saloon keeper was thinking. When a town got a church and a minister, it usually forced restraint on its houses of entertainment. Surely Morrell didn’t favor that.
Ethan glanced around. Besides Tibbetts and the poker players, only two other customers and the girl at the piano kept Morrell and the bartender company. The night was young, of course, but it gave him satisfaction to think Bitsy Shepard had kept the greater part of the saloon traffic despite the new competition.
Thoughts like that always muddled Ethan, since he knew deep down that any saloon was bad. As a nondrinking citizen, he’d avoided both and ignored their existence. But as sheriff, he’d need to make his presence felt and even cooperate with the owners to keep things from getting out of hand. Saloons being legal, he had to live with the facts.
But that didn’t mean he had to linger.
“Have a nice evening.” He nodded to Morrell.
“Come again, Sheriff.”
Oh, I will
, Ethan thought as he strode toward the door.
I surely will
.
As the door swung shut behind him, he heard someone say, “I dunno if the new sheriff’s man enough for the job.”
He stood still for a moment on the steps, fighting the urge to charge back in there. But he wouldn’t know who the speaker was, and besides, that wasn’t the way to prove him wrong. Only time and diligence would do that. He walked on toward the jail.
On Monday afternoon Libby took off her apron and hung it behind the counter. Finally the air held the warmth of May and the promise of summer. She wouldn’t need a wrap today. She’d chosen a large needlepoint handbag in which to carry her pistol and a supply of ammunition. She reached for a crisp green calico poke bonnet that would be perfect headgear for a spring day.
“Florence, I’ll be back by
Ethan stepped forward. “No, thanks.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Jamin slapped his temple as if he were the most forgetful old codger in Idaho Territory. “You’re on official business.”
Ethan didn’t contradict him, but they both knew he’d never darkened the door of the Nugget since it opened last summer. Jamin probably knew he never drank liquor. Morrell was sharp. Ethan figured he knew which men in town imbibed and which didn’t, and which ladies liked a nip now and then as well.
“Just stopping in to tell you to call on me if you need any help keeping the peace,” Ethan said. His right eye tried to twitch. He stared hard at Morrell, determined not to blink.
“That’s kind of you, Sheriff.” Morrell pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket, consulted it, and put it away. “You’re welcome here anytime. Mr. Tibbetts and I were just discussing how badly this town needs a doctor. Isn’t that right, sir?” He looked to the dust-covered rancher leaning on the bar for confirmation.
“We sure do.” Tibbetts upended his glass and drained it. When he set it down, the bartender refilled it without asking.
Ethan nodded. “Can’t argue with you there.” If they’d had a doctor when Bert was killed, the doctor could have looked at the dead man’s wound and maybe known right away poor Bert had been murdered.
“A physician would be a fine addition to the community.” Morrell settled again with one elbow resting on the bar.
“Need a bank, too,” called a man who sat at a small, square table holding a half dozen playing cards in one hand. Ethan recognized him as one of Cy Fennel’s stage drivers.
“Yes, indeed,” Morrell said. “That’s another thing that would help this town grow.”
“How about a preacher while you’re at it?” Tibbetts blinked at Jamin. “That’s what my missus is always sayin’. We need us a preacher.”
Jamin started to laugh then sobered. He flexed his shoulders. “Your missus may be right, Jim.” His eyes narrowed.
Ethan wondered what the saloon keeper was thinking. When a town got a church and a minister, it usually forced restraint on its houses of entertainment. Surely Morrell didn’t favor that.
Ethan glanced around. Besides Tibbetts and the poker players, only two other customers and the girl at the piano kept Morrell and the bartender company. The night was young, of course, but it gave him satisfaction to think Bitsy Shepard had kept the greater part of the saloon traffic despite the new competition.
Thoughts like that always muddled Ethan, since he knew deep down that any saloon was bad. As a nondrinking citizen, he’d avoided both and ignored their existence. But as sheriff, he’d need to make his presence felt and even cooperate with the owners to keep things from getting out of hand. Saloons being legal, he had to live with the facts.
But that didn’t mean he had to linger.
“Have a nice evening.” He nodded to Morrell.
“Come again, Sheriff.”
Oh, I will
, Ethan thought as he strode toward the door.
I surely will
.
As the door swung shut behind him, he heard someone say, “I dunno if the new sheriff’s man enough for the job.”
He stood still for a moment on the steps, fighting the urge to charge back in there. But he wouldn’t know who the speaker was, and besides, that wasn’t the way to prove him wrong. Only time and diligence would do that. He walked on toward the jail.
On Monday afternoon Libby took off her apron and hung it behind the counter. Finally the air held the warmth of May and the promise of summer. She wouldn’t need a wrap today. She’d chosen a large needlepoint handbag in which to carry her pistol and a supply of ammunition. She reached for a crisp green calico poke bonnet that would be perfect headgear for a spring day.
“Florence, I’ll be back by
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