old and people were beginning to label her an old maid. Never a woman to lay claim to great beauty, her bargaining power as a marriage candidate for Harley Charles, the last decent single man in Dripping Springs, was waning by the day. Her attraction for him had been her strong back and wide hips, the same physical attributes he looked for in his breeding mares. Fannie wasn’t kidding herself that Harley was smitten by whatever charms she could lay claim to. She was all too aware that he’d been willing to overlook her rather homely features because of the fine dowry her father was offering.
Harley had finally proposed almost a year ago and the wedding had been set. Four weeks before the ceremony, the preacher had suffered a heart attack during a rather virulent tirade from the pulpit and died in front of the entire congregation. While Fannie was sorry for the preacher’s demise, she was even sorrier for herself. No preacher meant she was not going to become Mrs. Harley Charles, anytime soon. What was worse, she was hearing rumors that Harley was seeing one of those women down at Griggs Saloon. Even though she didn’t really hold him accountable for succumbing to his manly needs, she feared that the longer he had to wait for her, the less likely he might want to become her husband.
The pressure of it all had finally boiled over last night during a fit of pique with her father. She’d told him that if he didn’t find a preacher to marry them before the month was out, that she wasn’t going to marry anyone at all. Ever.
The ultimatum had been a low blow and she knew it.
For several months now, her father, Orville, had been courting Henrietta Lewis, a local widow, and Fannie suspected he’d been counting on her moving out to clear the way for a new wife. Since her mother’s death, Fannie had been the ‘lady of the house’ and Orville was wily enough in the ways of women to know that he couldn’t bring a second wife into his house, and unseat his daughter’s place, without a whole lot of friction.
Now, Fannie sat silently at the breakfast table, watching her father sop up the remaining sorghum molasses in his plate with the last of the biscuits. He had a way of eating that she absolutely abhorred, yet as the daughter of the house, knew it was not her place to correct her father’s table manners. Still, as she watched him push two halves of a biscuit through a well of dark cane sorghum, then slap them together before stuffing them into his mouth, she couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Lewis had ever seen him eat.
His silence regarding her complaints was getting on her nerves. She wanted answers. She wanted action. She wanted out of this house before what was left of her dried up and blew away.
“Father.”
“Whttt?”
Fannie sighed, ignoring the fact that he was talking with his mouthful.
“I am going to do some shopping this morning. Is there anything you need that I should add to the list?”
“Shvvvvng ssop.”
Fannie frowned. “I’ll add shaving soap to the list. Should I expect you home for the noon meal?”
“Hmm ummp.”
“Dining with Mrs. Lewis, then, are you?”
Orville blushed and then nodded. It didn’t seem right that his daughter be discussing his relationship with Henrietta, especially since Henrietta had started letting him feel her breasts. Of course, Fannie didn’t know he was doing it, but it still seemed awkward. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood abruptly, taking one last swallow of his coffee to wash down the biscuit and sorghum.
“Father.”
Still bothered by Henrietta’s breasts, and Fannie’s curiosity in the same thought, he was more abrupt than usual.
“What?”
“Are you going to the shop now?”
As barber and sometimes dentist, Orville was never at a loss for customers, and hated to keep them waiting. He glanced at his pocket watch before dropping it back in his pocket.
“Yes. What did you want? It’s almost seven o’clock and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be late.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He frowned. “If you’re bringing up the issue of finding a preacher again, then I simply don’t have the time.”
“No, I wasn’t talking about me.”
“Then what?” Orville muttered.
She pointed. “You have molasses in your mustache.”
Fannie hid a grin as her father yanked out a handkerchief, then hurried to a mirror. Good. He was not only bothered, but embarrassed, as it should be. That hanging judge who’d come