The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,141

and opened the windows beside their dining table. A tired breeze stirred the curtains just enough to let them know it was there. “What time is Harley coming?”

Fannie stopped. “Oh, it isn’t Harley. I haven’t seen him in days. Have you?”

Orville was so taken aback by the news that it wasn’t Harley they would be entertaining that, for a moment, he forgot to ask who was coming.

“No, I haven’t seen Harley, but I’m sure he—”

“He’s been keeping regular company with the whores at Myron Griggs’ saloon.”

Orville gasped. Not only was he shocked that she’d used the word whores, but that she knew of Harley’s indiscretions.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

Fannie turned and faced her father, then pointed at him with the carving knife she was holding.

“Harley Charles doesn’t care for my feelings because he doesn’t care for me. He asked to marry me because he wants your money.”

Orville didn’t know what stunned him most—the fact that Fannie was pointing a knife at him, or that she’d figured Harley out. What she didn’t know, and what he hoped to God she never discovered, was that Orville was the one who’d promised Harley money if he’d take Fannie off his hands.

“Even so, you have to—”

Fannie’s chin jutted as she pointed the knife in Orville’s face.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Fannie said.

Orville suddenly remembered he was the boss in this house and raised his voice into a stern shout.

“You will lay down that knife and remember your place,” he said. “You are my daughter, and as long as you stay under this roof, you will do as I say.”

Fannie blinked back tears, determined not to let her father’s anger stop her.

“That’s just it, Father. I am doing what you say. If it wasn’t for you, Harley and I would have already married. You’re the one who called off the wedding. You’re the one who wouldn’t let that judge marry us. So if you don’t like what’s happening, you’re the one to blame. Now stop shouting at me. I have to finish cooking this chicken, and then change into fresh garments before my company arrives.”

Orville’s frown deepened. “Your company? Exactly who is it who’s coming to supper?”

“Myron Griggs. Shall I set a place at the table for you, or are you going back to Henrietta’s again?”

Orville stared. “Griggs? Myron Griggs who owns the saloon?”

Fannie pretended to study the question, when she already knew the answer.

“Why yes… I believe he does own his own business which makes him quite the entrepreneur. I do so admire a man who shows initiative in this respect, don’t you, Father?”

“Yes… no… I won’t have it,” Orville sputtered.

Fannie stared at the chicken, pretending to misunderstand his remarks.

“I’m sorry, Father. Did Henrietta fix you chicken for dinner at noon? If I’d known, I would have chosen another course for us. As it is, it’s too late to fix another meat.”

In frustration, Orville grabbed a pot holder and threw it across the kitchen.

“I was not referring to the chicken. It looks fine.”

Fannie beamed. “Good. It’s almost done. You might want to wash up. Mr. Griggs will be here at six.”

“No. I won’t have it.”

Fannie shrugged. “Sorry. It’s chicken or nothing. Of course you could revisit Henrietta again. Maybe she’s serving up something besides what you had at noon.”

Orville blushed before he thought. Henrietta had served something different up at noon all right, but it had nothing to do with food. Then he remembered the point he’d been trying to make.

“I was not talking about chicken,” he shouted.

“Good,” Fannie said, and then gasped when there was a knock at the door. “That must be Mr. Griggs now.”

She handed Orville the knife and dashed out of the room before he could stop her. She knew her father well enough to know that he was basically a coward, and once Myron Griggs was inside their house, manners would forbid any sort of bad behavior.

Fannie was smiling when she opened the door.

Myron took one look at her and found himself dumbstruck. He still couldn’t believe he’d never noticed her in this way before. He took off his hat and combed his fingers through his hair.

“Evening, Miss Fannie, something sure does smell good.”

Fannie beamed. “Come in, come in,” she said. “It’s just fried chicken and apple cobbler.”

Myron groaned. He hadn’t had anything but steak, eggs, and beans in so long he had almost forgotten there were other kinds of foods.

“I’m at your mercy,” he said, as he entered the house and let Fannie hang his hat