pretty in all my life. If one drop of rain touches that hat, I’ll gun the raindrop down.”
She smiled at his witticism, lifting the hat to fluff her curls, and said, “Now, wouldn’t you just know it would rain.”
“It’s just misting a little, ma’am. Not enough to get your shoe tops wet if your ankles stick out from under the buggy top.”
Somewhat shyly they both stood and talked for several minutes about the weather, of its danger to the health of her mother’s chickens and the possibility that the dry gulch behind the house might overflow and flood the hen houses. Between them they tugged and stretched the subject of the rain in a pleasant, conversational taffy pull until the widow reentered the parlor.
“My, what a handsome matched pair you two make,” she said, breaking the spell. “But breakfast is ready.”
G-7 caught dissonances in the older woman’s voice as she complimented the two, a subtle conflict of interests which Ian must have detected.
“Mrs. Stewart, I just got to stand here, flatfooted, and tell you, you got a daughter no woman in Wyoming can compare with but her mother.”
“Oh, bother!” Mrs. Stewart stammered. “You flatter me, but I can’t say I don’t like it. Now, come and get it. I’ve fixed a man-sized breakfast for a real man: scrambled eggs, flapjacks, smoked bacon, sausage, souse meat, red-eye gravy, grits, hot buttered biscuits with jelly and jam, and all the coffee you can drink. It ought to hold us till after we get back from church. Then I’m going to fix you the best fried chicken dinner you ever tasted.”
He had forgotten that respectable girls were chaperoned, but, strangely, her reminder did not disturb him. He stood back to let the contrast in feminine pulchritude precede him into the kitchen-dining room, comparing the sway of Miss Stewart to the bounce of Mrs. Stewart.
Only one flaw marred the grandeur of the colossal breakfast. In the formal atmosphere of a courtship, Ian found the terms of address, “Miss Stewart” and “Mrs. Stewart,” somewhat tongue twisting.
Mrs. Stewart righted the matter. “Heck, Ian. Just call her Gabe and me Liza. I feel like I’ve known you for twenty years, or maybe I feel like I’d have felt meeting you twenty years ago.
“But, mother,” Gabriella protested, “it wouldn’t be proper for Brother Winchester’s congregation to hear me called Gabe. I can’t let those people get too familiar, since I have to birch their children, sometimes twice a day.”
In the hour of breakfast, Ian found that Brother Winchester, the Methodist preacher, was also the mayor of Shoshone Flats during the weekdays and that people had been looking forward all week to his sermon, “What Heaven Is Like,” because Brother Winchester was so good at giving his congregation hell. Ian also learned that Brother Will Trotter’s body was being kept on ice and his funeral delayed until Wednesday because of a church picnic on Tuesday which all the non-Mormons in the valley would attend.
Liza had heard of Ian’s gunfight with Billy Peyton and offered him the protection of her chicken ranch. “I got a long bore shotgun, and if the Mormons come, I’d be a lot more help than Sheriff Faust. If you want to put up here with us and go to the picnic Tuesday, I guarantee you’ll be safe with me.”
Although Ian planned to leave Monday, he reflected on Liza’s invitation that he stay here with “us” and be protected by “me.” Maybe Liza figured if he stayed here over Monday, while Gabriella was in town running the restaurant, she might beat her daughter’s time with Ian. Strangely, the idea intrigued him, though not enough to divert him from his purposes.
“Thank you, Liza, but I ain’t scared of Mormons. Anyhow, I ain’t educated enough to hide out with a schoolteacher and her mama.”
“Ignorance, that’s for me,” the widow said. “I never read a book in my life, excepting one Gabe made me read about a woman with a house full of
She smiled at his witticism, lifting the hat to fluff her curls, and said, “Now, wouldn’t you just know it would rain.”
“It’s just misting a little, ma’am. Not enough to get your shoe tops wet if your ankles stick out from under the buggy top.”
Somewhat shyly they both stood and talked for several minutes about the weather, of its danger to the health of her mother’s chickens and the possibility that the dry gulch behind the house might overflow and flood the hen houses. Between them they tugged and stretched the subject of the rain in a pleasant, conversational taffy pull until the widow reentered the parlor.
“My, what a handsome matched pair you two make,” she said, breaking the spell. “But breakfast is ready.”
G-7 caught dissonances in the older woman’s voice as she complimented the two, a subtle conflict of interests which Ian must have detected.
“Mrs. Stewart, I just got to stand here, flatfooted, and tell you, you got a daughter no woman in Wyoming can compare with but her mother.”
“Oh, bother!” Mrs. Stewart stammered. “You flatter me, but I can’t say I don’t like it. Now, come and get it. I’ve fixed a man-sized breakfast for a real man: scrambled eggs, flapjacks, smoked bacon, sausage, souse meat, red-eye gravy, grits, hot buttered biscuits with jelly and jam, and all the coffee you can drink. It ought to hold us till after we get back from church. Then I’m going to fix you the best fried chicken dinner you ever tasted.”
He had forgotten that respectable girls were chaperoned, but, strangely, her reminder did not disturb him. He stood back to let the contrast in feminine pulchritude precede him into the kitchen-dining room, comparing the sway of Miss Stewart to the bounce of Mrs. Stewart.
Only one flaw marred the grandeur of the colossal breakfast. In the formal atmosphere of a courtship, Ian found the terms of address, “Miss Stewart” and “Mrs. Stewart,” somewhat tongue twisting.
Mrs. Stewart righted the matter. “Heck, Ian. Just call her Gabe and me Liza. I feel like I’ve known you for twenty years, or maybe I feel like I’d have felt meeting you twenty years ago.
“But, mother,” Gabriella protested, “it wouldn’t be proper for Brother Winchester’s congregation to hear me called Gabe. I can’t let those people get too familiar, since I have to birch their children, sometimes twice a day.”
In the hour of breakfast, Ian found that Brother Winchester, the Methodist preacher, was also the mayor of Shoshone Flats during the weekdays and that people had been looking forward all week to his sermon, “What Heaven Is Like,” because Brother Winchester was so good at giving his congregation hell. Ian also learned that Brother Will Trotter’s body was being kept on ice and his funeral delayed until Wednesday because of a church picnic on Tuesday which all the non-Mormons in the valley would attend.
Liza had heard of Ian’s gunfight with Billy Peyton and offered him the protection of her chicken ranch. “I got a long bore shotgun, and if the Mormons come, I’d be a lot more help than Sheriff Faust. If you want to put up here with us and go to the picnic Tuesday, I guarantee you’ll be safe with me.”
Although Ian planned to leave Monday, he reflected on Liza’s invitation that he stay here with “us” and be protected by “me.” Maybe Liza figured if he stayed here over Monday, while Gabriella was in town running the restaurant, she might beat her daughter’s time with Ian. Strangely, the idea intrigued him, though not enough to divert him from his purposes.
“Thank you, Liza, but I ain’t scared of Mormons. Anyhow, I ain’t educated enough to hide out with a schoolteacher and her mama.”
“Ignorance, that’s for me,” the widow said. “I never read a book in my life, excepting one Gabe made me read about a woman with a house full of
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