The Whippoorwill Trilogy - Sharon Sala Page 0,142

on the coat rack in the hall.

Then he saw Orville walk into the hallway and knew that they’d been arguing. Probably about him. He nodded.

“Orville… haven’t seen you in a while. Heard you’re keeping company with the Widow Lewis.”

Fannie turned and looked at her father as if he was a stranger. She hadn’t known he’d frequented the saloon but she did now.

“Well then,” she said. “Since you two are old friends, I’ll go dish up the food. Supper will be ready in about five minutes.” Then she pinned her father with a look that left him both nervous and startled. “Father… perhaps Mr. Griggs would like a sherry before dinner?”

“Yes, of course,” Orville muttered, then waved Myron into the sitting room as Fannie disappeared.

“Nice house,” Myron said, and then pointed toward a gilded mantle clock. “My mother has one of these back in Philadelphia.”

Orville’s complaint died on his lips as he turned around.

“You are from Philadelphia?”

Myron nodded. “Born and raised. Youngest of four sons. Father expected me to go into the business with him, but frankly, there were already too many Griggs in the company as it was.”

Orville eyed Myron curiously, wondering what else he hadn’t known about the man who sold liquor and women on a daily basis.

“What business was your father in?” Orville asked.

“Not was in. He’s still in business,” Myron said. “Cotton, actually. The family owns and operates a dozen cotton mills along the coast as well as the cotton exchange in Philadelphia.”

Orville’s mouth dropped. “Your family is well-to-do?”

Myron grinned. “I suppose so, but then one never really thinks of one’s family in that way, you know. After all, your mother and father are just that. Nothing less. Nothing more. Don’t you agree?”

Orville nodded. Not because he necessarily agreed with the man, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find the good sense to form a sentence of complaint.

“About that sherry?” Myron asked.

Orville frowned. “To hell with sherry,” he muttered, and took a bottle of whiskey from the sideboard and poured two generous shots into two glasses. He handed one to Myron then took the other for himself.

Myron lifted his glass in a toast. “To Fannie,” he said.

Orville stared a moment, then shrugged. “What the hell,” he muttered, and the glasses clinked. “To Fannie.”

They didn’t know she was standing in the doorway, or that her heart skipped a beat when she heard them toast her name.

“Supper is ready,” she said.

Myron downed his whiskey neat and then headed for her with a smile. He offered her his elbow.

“Miss Fannie, may I escort you to the table?”

Fannie smiled primly. “Yes, thank you.” She looked back at Orville, who had yet to taste his drink. “Father, are you coming?”

“Yes,” he said, and once they were gone, not only drank his whiskey, but refilled the glass and emptied it again.

Hard Luck And Honeymoons

Harley Charles ran a comb through his mustache, grooming it carefully until it curled just right at the ends. Satisfied that he looked every inch the handsome gentleman he perceived himself to be, he still turned from one side to the other, admiring his reflection in the mirror. Judging himself fit, he settled his hat at just the right angle and headed for the door.

He’d put in a hard day out on the range with his two hired hands, separating bull calves that were to be castrated from the herd. The summer had been hot and dryer than normal, and the dust, mingled with the scent of blood and bawling calves, had been wearing. Even so, he’d spent the day looking forward to riding into Dripping Springs. There was a woman named Lola at Griggs Saloon who set his teeth on edge in a very nice way.

Just thinking about what awaited him in town made him lengthen his stride as he hurried out the door. It occurred to him only after he was mounted up and riding away that it was Wednesday night—the night he normally spent with Fannie Smithson. Now he was torn between duty and desire. He didn’t want Fannie, but he wanted Fannie’s dowry, and to get it, he’d sold his soul to Orville Smithson, the devil in disguise. Orville had paid him a thousand dollars to propose with a promise of ten more when they were wed. He figured any woman, no matter how homely, was worth that much money. And once he had the money in hand, he was going to sweet-talk Widow Taggert into selling her land to him, which would double