The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,140

handsome one. And just for the record, I think Harley Charles is an ass, and your father, a fool. Now, if you’re certain I cannot help you further, I will be getting back to my work.”

Fannie’s mouth was open. She knew because there was just the faintest taste of grit on her tongue from the dust in the air. However, she couldn’t find the good sense to respond to what he’d just said.

Frustrated and embarrassed by what he’d just said, Myron headed back to the saloon. His hands were on the swinging doors when he suddenly stopped and turned around.

“Miss Fannie?”

“Hmm?”

“Exactly what kind of a job did you expect to get here?”

Unconsciously, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“I’m quite adept at cards. I was hoping you would allow me to play poker in your saloon.”

“Poker?”

She nodded. “I am proficient in several styles of the game.”

“Poker.”

A slight frown creased Fannie’s brow. “Yes, Mr. Griggs. Poker. Are you hard of hearing?”

He grinned. Not only was Fannie Smithson a handsome woman, but it would seem she had her fair share of grit.

“No, ma’am, my hearing is just fine.”

“Well then,” she said, and started to walk away, only this time it was Myron who spoke up.

“Miss Smithson… Fannie?”

“Yes?”

“How would you feel if I was to call on you this evening?”

Now it was Fannie’s turn to be stunned.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, may I call upon you this evening?”

“Call on me?”

He nodded.

“This evening?”

He nodded again.

Fannie blushed. “I’m spoken for.”

“I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

Unconsciously, Fannie touched the third finger on her left hand. It wasn’t the first time that the thought had occurred to her, either. Harley had asked for her hand in marriage, but he’d never given her an engagement ring, and after the preacher’s demise, he’d quit speaking of their impending marriage at all.

“I don’t have one,” she muttered.

“Then what do you say?” he asked.

“About what?”

He sighed. “Now who’s hearing is defective?”

She glanced toward the upper floor of the saloon, imagining the sleeping trollops in their beds of sin, and tried to imagine what he expected of her.

Myron could tell she’d been taken aback, but she couldn’t be more surprised than he was when he’d asked to come calling.

“So, Fannie Smithson, what do you say?”

She pointed to the second story of the saloon.

“I am not as those women are,” she stated.

He frowned. “Of course, you’re not. I would never have assumed you to be so.”

“Then sir, I must ask, what are your intentions?”

Myron looked at her dark eyes and the sturdy cut of her chin and shoulders and grinned.

“It’s like this Miss Fannie, it’s just occurred to me that I have been wasting a lot of years by not seeing your charms before this and… well… I reckon I intend to send Harley Charles begging.”

Her eyes widened and then she stifled a smile.

“Is that so?” She hoped that the heat she was feeling did not show on her face. “If you would care to have supper with us, I expect it will be done around six.”

He tried to imagine who he would get to tend bar and then knew it didn’t matter.

“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.”

Fannie smiled.

“Until six,” she said, and started backtracking toward home as fast as her feet would take her. She had a kitchen to clean and a house to put to rights. She didn’t know what her father was going to say about the owner of the saloon eating a meal in their home, but for once she didn’t care. Myron Griggs had shown her more interest and kindness in the last thirty minutes, than her father or Harley had ever done. She paused once as she reached the corner of the sidewalk and looked back. To her surprise, Myron Griggs was standing in the doorway to the saloon, still watching her go.

He waved.

She hesitated briefly, then lifted her hand and waved back.

Then stunned by what she’d just done, she turned around and ran the rest of the way home.

Hours later, Orville Smithson came home, found Fannie in the kitchen taking a dried apple cobbler out of the oven and with chicken frying on the stove. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the meal.

“This looks like a fine meal, daughter. What’s the occasion?”

“Company is coming to supper,” Fannie said, and turned the chicken in the frying pan before adding a small stick of wood to the stove. “Would you mind opening the window a bit, Father? It’s getting hot in here.”

“Certainly,” Orville said,