The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,137

through Dripping Springs in March had been willing to marry them then, but Orville had deemed it unseemly that the ceremony be performed by a man who’s job it was to sentence criminals to hang. It was his fault that she and Harley were still living apart.

Even though Harley was still holding up his end of the bargain by coming to Sunday dinner every week like clockwork, and calling on Fannie every Wednesday night to play whist, she didn’t feel as if his heart was in it. Personally, Fannie didn’t like whist. She thought it a bit boring and much preferred poker, but was not allowed to play a game of chance.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Orville mumbled, and started out the door.

“Father, wait,” Fannie called.

Now Orville was thoroughly pissed.

“What it is now?”

Fannie held out her hand. “I’ll be needing some money.”

Orville muttered beneath his breath as he dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins and dropped them onto the table, ignoring Fannie’s outstretched hand.

“If you need more, just charge it,” he said, and slammed the door behind him as he left.

His rudeness was, for Fannie, the last straw. If she had been born a son instead of a daughter, he wouldn’t be treating her this way. Even Harley Charles was casual about her feelings, assuming that her opinion, if she dared to have one, was not worth consideration. Orville wanted her out of the house but wasn’t willing to go out of his way to help make it happen, and Harley cared so little about her that he was making no attempt to hide his indiscretions with the women at the saloon. These were supposed to be the two most important men in her life and neither one of them cared a flip about her feelings.

She got up from the table and began carrying the dirty dishes to the dish pan, when she suddenly stopped. She looked down at the cups in her hand, then back at the table with the sorghum smears and biscuit crumbs and put them back where they’d been. Her father didn’t seem to think what she wanted was important. She wondered what he’d think when he came home for supper and found breakfast dishes still on the table and nothing cooking for the evening meal.

“That’s what’s wrong,” she muttered, as she tucked the wayward strands of her hair back into the tidy bun at the back of her neck, and scooped the coins her father had given her from the table and dropped them into her pocket.

She might not be pretty, but she wasn’t dumb. She had a skill that she was willing to match against any man in Dripping Springs, but putting it into action was going to take a lot of nerve—maybe more than she had. However, if she didn’t try something, she was going to hate herself for the rest of her miserable, lonely life.

Her heart was pounding as she headed for town. Mrs. Patton, the gunsmith’s wife, waved at her from the back yard where she was hanging a load of laundry on the clothes line.

“Good morning, Fannie,” Mrs. Patton called. “Going shopping?”

“No, ma’am,” she answered, and kept walking forward, even though her heart was starting to pound and her hands had begun to sweat.

She turned the corner and stepped up onto the sidewalk with purpose, hesitating briefly as she glanced across the street to Grigg’s Saloon. There were a half-dozen horses tied to the hitching rail in front, and a couple of teams pulling wagons in front of Mercer’s Mercantile. She recognized Muriel Foster’s husband, Richard, who was carrying a fifty-pound sack of flour on his shoulder to the wagon. Two of the Foster children were playing with a puppy in the back of the wagon. Their laughter and the puppy’s playful yips drifted across the distance, warming Fannie’s heart.

That’s what she wanted—a family of her own, including the pups. She looked back at the saloon. If she followed through on this impulsive stunt, she might be putting every dream she ever had in jeopardy. Then she sighed. Therein lay the problem. If something didn’t change, they would forever be dreams, and not the reality she so desperately desired.

Firming her resolve, she took a deep breath, patted the handful of coins in her pocket, stepped off the sidewalk, and headed toward Grigg’s Saloon.

Myron Griggs had been born in Philadelphia. The fourth son of a well-to-do cotton broker, he’d been expected to go into the family business as