Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011)

by Jacquie Rogers

  “Aunt Grace, will you please come and sit with us?”

  “No,” her mother answered. “Grace is helping me. Git on with you!”

  Daisy sighed, but dutifully took her post in the sitting room. Aunt Grace’s humor would have been a welcome addition. Everyone knew she couldn’t cook a lick, so her mother clearly wanted Daisy to do the flirting stuff.

  Knowing the ritual well, she chose to sit in a chair, rather than on the sofa, so that Mr. Ideal Farmboy could not sit next to her. Her remote demeanor had been quite effective on the other prospective grooms her parents had foisted upon her.

  But this time she was especially nervous, and she barely had time to blot the beads of dew from her forehead before her unwanted guest entered the room.

  And enter, he did. The fellow was big as a moose, and handsome enough to turn the ladies’ heads in any town this side of the Atlantic. She quickly averted her gaze from his strapping body, thick brown hair, and strong jaw in case he noticed and came to the wrong conclusion. She had to wonder why such a specimen as he was actually wife-shopping. Not to worry, though, Sarah would turn his head. Besides, Sarah needed someone other than the nefarious Mr. Flynn to set her cap for. Just where was she?

  “Daisy,” her mother announced, “please meet Mr. Patrick Dugan.” She gave Daisy the mother’s eye that meant don’t make a fool of yourself or you’ll hear from your father. “Mr. Dugan, my daughter, Daisy.”

  “How do you do, Miss Gardner?”

  Daisy gulped. “Very well, thank you.” Since her mother still watched, she offered her hand, and he kissed it in a courtly way. Yes, Sarah would definitely be smitten by this man. They’d make a good match, and have strong, beautiful children.

  “I’ll finish getting the food on the table, now, while the two of you get acquainted.” Her mother ducked out of the room, leaving Daisy stranded with Adonis. Holy smoke! She felt like a cornered rabbit, and the coyote was closing in fast.

  Motioning toward the sofa, Daisy said, “Please sit down, Mr. Dugan, and make yourself comfortable.”

  As he did so, she wondered what to say next, since she’d already used her complete repertoire of niceties in the first minute of their meeting.

  Weather. Weather was good.

  “It’s a very nice day,” she said tentatively.

  He smiled. “Right nice.” He looked away from her, seeming as uncomfortable as she felt, dressed in his Sunday best. From the looks of his large, callused hands, she deduced that he would be much happier in waist overalls with a Boss of the Plains tipped low on his forehead. He settled back on the couch, then sat up straight again. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. But he made no attempt whatsoever at conversation.

  She sighed. There had to be some noise coming out of this room or her keen-eared mother would give her the deuces. Daisy avoided looking directly in the farmer’s eyes. When she did sneak a peek, he averted his gaze. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to court her any more than she wanted him to.

  Oh, where was Sarah! Her beauty would most assuredly distract the man, and Daisy’s parents couldn’t fault her for not reeling in a fellow who was smitten by her own best friend. The plan was a good one, but wouldn’t work unless Sarah arrived sooner rather than later.

  The grandfather clock ticked, the minute hand creeping toward high noon—three minutes until the moment of the ultimate showdown when she’d have to act flirtatious to a man she didn’t want. Gadfreys! Even if the fellow lived within five miles of civilization, she wouldn’t consider him. Why, he had blue eyes. The marshal’s brown eyes were much more, well, appealing. She shivered.

  “You cold?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. “No.” She cast a glance his way, hoping he didn’t notice the flush that warmed her cheeks at the slightest thought of the marshal. Dugan seemed unaware. Good.

  Ah, but now she had the perfect opportunity to get some sort of polite discussion going—best stick to the weather. “It’s uncommonly hot for a June day, don’t you think?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No, it’s generally hotter by now.”

  She contained a smile. Of course he’d find her unsuitable now, because a farm wife would most certainly need to be aware of the weather trends. Settling back in her stiff-backed chair, she watched the clock’s pendulum sway back and forth in a hypnotic cadence. Every second that passed was one second less she’d have to spend with this so-called prospective husband. Handsome or not, rich or not, he just wouldn’t do.

  Two minutes. What could she say now? He certainly wouldn’t be interested in fingerprinting, and she doubted he’d ever read Honey Beaulieu’s adventures. But everyone liked fireworks—that could be a safe topic, and she’d find out if she had to contend with him over the holiday. “How do you usually celebrate the Fourth of July?”

  He looked out the window, then back at her. “We go to Silver City for the fireworks.”

  Good, he wouldn’t be in Oreana, and she sure wasn’t going to mention the picnic and celebration lest he think she wanted him to come. She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt to hide her irritation at her parents. How could they put her in such a predicament? Another glance at the clock showed her she had more than a minute and a half to go. Ninety-four seconds. Might as well be ninety-four hours.

  She stood, and he stood as a well-mannered man should do. “Oh, no, please be comfortable.” Like that was any more possible for him than is was for her. “I’ll just check on the status of dinner. Mama always serves promptly at noon.”

  Escaping into the kitchen, she leaned on the wall and sighed.

  Aunt Grace spied her first. “Didn’t you like your young man?”

  Her mother ignored Grace’s question and spooned creamed onions into a serving bowl. “You set an extra place at the table,” she said in a tone more accusing than questioning.

  Daisy nodded and acted non-chalant. “Sarah’s coming by.”

  “You should be in the sitting room with your guest.”

  “Uh, I’m checking to see if I should seat him at the dinner table now.”

  Her mother heaved the serving bowl on the worktable. “What hogwash, Miss Daisy Gardner!” She jammed her fists on her hips. “And I emphasize the Miss. There’s not one single reason why you shouldn’t find young Mr. Dugan to be an attractive husband. His father, your father, and I all agree that the two of you would make a good match. But you have to cooperate. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “After all, how can you know if you like someone if you don’t give him a chance?”

  Because he’s stuck out on a farm, that’s why. “I’m being nice to him.”

  “There’s nice, and then there’s nice.”

  Obviously, she’d have to be more resourceful about warding off this travesty. But she would not marry a farmer, and that was that.

  She watched her mother stir the gravy. Actually she was whipping the stuffing out of it. Daisy knew she’d better put on a good show, because her mother seldom worked herself into such a lather. This was not a good sign. “I thought Mr. Dugan’s father was coming, too.”

  “Apparently he got himself a better offer from one of the widow ladies. Too bad. I thought he might be a good match for Grace.”

  Aunt Grace scowled. “I had one man. That was enough.”

  Daisy breathed easier. At least she only had to contend with her own parents. And Adonis. Why couldn’t he have been ugly or something?

  The clock began to chime. Game time.

  Forrest burst through the front door. “No, Winky, you can’t come in!”

  Daisy peeked around the doorjamb just in time to see a man following her brother, hat in hand. Gadreys, the marshal! Her heart skipped a beat or two. What was he doing here? She groaned, knowing he’d think the wrong thing—that Patrick Dugan was courting her. She needed a plan, but her mind went blank. The clock stopped chiming.

  “Daisy, for Pete’s sake, get in there and tend to your guest. I’ll have your fathe
r and brother come in the sitting room, then we’ll gather around the table for our meal.” She gestured toward the door with a spatula. “Go!”

  She hurried into the sitting room. “It’s meal time, Mr. Dugan. Please meet my younger brother, Forrest.”

  The boy offered his hand and the farmer shook it.

  The marshal’s gaze locked with hers, sending her stomach aflutter all over again. She quickly turned her attention toward Mr. Dugan. “And this is Oreana’s marshal, Sidney Adler. Marshal, this is Patrick Dugan.”

  The two men shook and nodded at one another. Then each stepped back, as if sizing up his opponent.

  Forrest broke the silence. “Ma said that Daisy couldn’t take food to the marshal anymore. He has to come to the house and eat with the family now.”

  Mr. Dugan looked at her, half smiling.

  “He was, uh, wounded, and…” She pivoted and headed toward the dining room. “As soon as Dad and Sarah get here, we’ll eat. Go ahead and sit down.”

  Forrest ran to the table ahead of the rest of them. He pointed at the head of the table. “Dad sits there, Ma sits at the other end, and Aunt Grace sits beside her. I’m by Dad. Marshal, you can sit by me. Daisy’s across from me.” He wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Dugan, I guess you’ll have to be by my sister. Sorry, you have to sit by a girl.”

  The dirt farmer chuckled, but the marshal glowered at the floor. She wondered if he really didn’t care for Mr. Dugan sitting beside her, or if the marshal just didn’t want to be there at all. He hadn’t seemed any more friendly than absolutely necessary. That, she wouldn’t leave to chance. He had seemed impressed that she had found Mr. Flynn’s identity, and he’d be even more impressed when she found evidence to support her theory that Flynn was the culprit who had shot him.

  The door opened again, and this time her father came in.

  “Where’s Sarah?” she asked her dad.

  “Watching the store. Someone has to watch it if we’re all eating at the same time.” He went to the kitchen to wash up—and probably smooch with her mother. They were embarrassing that way. Daisy didn’t know another soul whose parents were constantly hugging and the like.

  Of course, if her mother felt the same way Daisy did when the marshal kissed her, then she could understand. But her parents were nearly fifty years old. They couldn’t possibly have such sensitivities, and her dad surely didn’t put his hand where…

  “Daisy, be seated so your guests can sit.” Her mama’s face was slightly flushed as she entered the dining room. From the heat in the kitchen, most certainly.

  Both the marshal and Mr. Dugan started for her chair to seat her, but Mr. Dugan, who was closer, beat the marshal to it. She sat primly, wishing this infernal meal was nothing but a distant memory. Sarah had failed her, and now she had the marshal to contend with, too. He couldn’t help but get the wrong impression. Oh, bother!

  After her father sat, he said, “I’ll say Grace.”

  They all bowed their heads and listened to the short prayer, but Daisy silently prayed that Mr. Dugan would disappear. When he finished, her mother picked up the meat platter and passed it to Mr. Dugan. “Help yourself.” While the food was passed around the table, she said, “It’s certainly a nice day, isn’t it?”

  Here we go again. She’d said the exact same thing earlier, with no success whatsoever at making small talk.

  “Sure is,” Forrest piped up. “I went out on my first patrol this morning, too. Marshal’s gonna give me a junior deputy badge, aren’t you, Marshal?”

  The marshal had just taken a bite of beefsteak, so nodded rather than spoke. But when he glanced up, Daisy’s gaze caught his, sending deep heat swirling around her insides. Such a wonderful sensation! She wanted more, and she was certain that when the fingerprinting kit arrived, he’d be as impressed with her as she was with him. Maybe he’d even kiss her again! She smiled, lowered her gaze, and tried to ignore that warm tingling that settled deep down inside whenever she thought of his arms around her, his mouth on hers.

  Taking a deep breath and composing her features, she asked, “Dad, when is the freight wagon due in today?”

  “Oh, mid-afternoon, I suppose. Why?”

  “I thought you might need some help at the store, so I wanted to make sure I was here.”

  “You’ll be here. Right here.” He sounded pretty sure about that.

  “Guess what?” Forrest asked. “I saw the Widow Courtney kissing on old Deputy Kunkle this morning. Blech!” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “And right on the ol’ lips, too!”

  “Forrest!” The dining room resounded with a chorus of voices.

  Forrest slumped in his chair. “What? She done the kissing, not me.”

  Mr. Dugan laid his bread on his plate. “Mrs. Courtney, you say?”

  “Yup. The mean old biddy who...uh...” Forrest glanced at the marshal, then made a thorough study of his plate.

  “Ran your dog off her yard.” The marshal finished for the boy.

  Daisy saw something wasn’t right. Not at all. She’d have to investigate, because Forrest had obviously gotten himself in another predicament and the marshal was covering. She made a mental note to have a subtle conversation with the marshal, and Mrs. Courtney, too, if necessary. But she’d wait until she solved the Mike Flynn case.

  The marshal studied his plate as closely as Forrest had. Must be mighty interesting plates. She smiled, and studied hers.

  Her dad cleared his throat—a sure sign he wanted the conversation back on track. “So, Patrick, how’s the farm coming along?”

  “Fine, Mr. Gardner. We bought another twenty head of Holsteins, which brings the milking herd up to fifty. Had to hire another five men to milk ‘em. We’re supplying a goodly portion of Silver City now.”

  “Good, good.” Her dad picked up the gravy bowl and offered it to Mr. Dugan. “Have some more gravy on those spuds. My wife makes the best gravy in the territory.”

  “I believe I will,” and reached for the proffered bowl.

  Forrest pointed his fork at Mr. Dugan. “Are you going to marry my sister?”

  The room went silent at Forrest’s gaff.

  “’Cause Dad said that she couldn’t marry the marshal, and she’s getting awful old.”

  Aghast, Daisy looked at the marshal, his brown eyes peering directly into her own. He seemed hurt, but that was probably her own wishful thinking that he’d want to marry her. Well, he certainly would once he found out how much help she could be to him.

  And then she was going to drown her big-mouthed little brother!

  “Forrest,” her mother said as she stood, nearly knocking her chair over backwards. “Come into the kitchen, right now!”

  “Dang,” the boy muttered. “I s’pose I won’t get no dessert now.”

  “Any,” she corrected.

  “That’s what I thought.” He picked up his plate and glass, then with his head down and a disgruntled expression, followed his mother into the kitchen.

  Several uncomfortable moments of silence filled the room. Finally, the marshal said, “I’ll have a little more of that steak, Mr. Gardner. It’s mighty tasty.”

  “Sure.” Her father passed the meat platter, seeming to be as happy as anyone else that the quiet had been broken. “My woman’s quite a cook, isn’t she?”

  The two younger men nodded their agreement.

  “So’s how’s the store doing?” Mr. Dugan asked.

  “Good, good.” Her dad took the platter back, then offered it to the farmer. “What with all the miners and the ranchers around here, someone’s always needing something, and Gardners’ Mercantile is the only store between Silver and Boise City that has a full line of goods.”

  Seldom had Daisy been happy to listen to small talk, but this was one of those times. She would get through this disaster no matter what, without the marshal thinking she’d committed herself to another.

  “Must keep you busy,” the farmer replied.

  “Sure does,” her father said. “Grace c
ooked up a barn dance tonight. It’s at Jonas Howard’s Livery, seven o’clock.” His tone sounded more like an order than an invitation.

  “We’ll have lively music and lots of sweets,” Aunt Grace said, smiling at Daisy instead of the man she addressed. Daisy hid her grimace with a weak smile. Dinner was bad enough—not a dance, too.

  “Sounds like a good time,” Mr. Dugan said as he spooned sugar into his coffee. “Dad and I’ll be there.”

  Daisy swallowed her meat in one lump. She couldn’t go to that dance! Why, the only reason they were having it was so she could be with Mr. Dugan, she was sure if it. She searched the marshal’s face for reaction, but got none. The lump stuck in her throat, causing burning pressure. She didn’t dare invite him, but would he come? She prayed so, but somehow, she doubted he would. If only she had her fingerprinting kit.

  Where was that freight wagon?

  Cole listened to Gardner and Dugan talk about business, but his thoughts were all about Miss Daisy, all gussied up and pretty as an angel. An auburn tendril had escaped her slightly lopsided bun and rested on her cheek. Oh, how he wouldn’t like to brush it behind her ear—or better yet, kiss. Lordy, what was he thinking? And in her own parents’ house, too.

  He hadn’t felt so out of place since he had to be Thomas’s best man—when his brother married the woman who should have been his. He should never have gone to the Gardners’ despite what Forrest had told him. From the boy’s earlier innocent remarks, he now knew that the Gardners had planned this meal to get Miss Daisy and Patrick Dugan acquainted in a marriageable sort of way.

  Dugan was a strapping fellow, too. Probably every woman in the territory wanted him. Miss Daisy didn’t seem all that much at ease, though. Cole sure as hell didn’t. He knew damned good and well that the Gardners hadn’t been expecting him, no matter how welcoming they acted.