Read The Bride's Prerogative for Free Online Page A

boards. Lumber was in high demand here.
    He came to the jail and pulled gently on the reins. Scout obliged by stopping. Ethan gazed toward the weathered building. No smoke puffed from the chimney, and from outside, the jail looked like one more abandoned house.
    Scout shook his head and nickered.
    “Take it easy, fella.” The saddle leather creaked as Ethan lowered himself to the ground. He felt old today. He was only twenty-nine—at least, he thought it was twenty-nine. That or thirty. But he felt like an old man.
    Was it because Bert Thalen was fixing to be an old man, and now Ethan had to take the old man’s place? The town had always had an old sheriff. Ethan remembered Sheriff Rogers from back when he was a kid. Rogers had supposedly been the first sheriff, elected when the young town erupted with gold seekers. Then Rogers retired, back in ‘70, and the town elected Bert in his place. Bert had quit placer mining by then and taken up ranching. He must have already been over forty then.
    Ethan tied his horse to the hitching rail and looked up at the gray sky. “All right, Lord, I guess I’ve got to be sheriff. But I don’t have to be old, do I?”
    He strode purposefully toward the jail, refusing to enter like a doddering oldster. He flung the door open. The dim interior smelled of ashes and scorched beans. A pan with crusted-on food sat on the cold stove. The door of the single cell was open, just as it had been yesterday. Inside, a wooden bunk was attached to the far wall, which had a small barred window. A straw tick and a chamber pot were the only other amenities.
    Ethan glanced around the outer room. Across from the stove stood Bert’s desk and a chair. In one corner, a stool sat beneath several posters tacked to the wall. Hanging from a nail was a large key Ethan assumed went to the cell door. A kerosene lantern hung from the ceiling. Another window—also barred—shed a little light on the surface of the desk. A few sheets of paper and a tin can holding a pencil lay on the scarred desktop.
    He walked four paces to the door of the small back room. Bert’s bunk—where Ethan would probably spend more nights than he wanted to—took half the floor space. On the bare board floor beside it, a dark, irregular stain marked the spot where Bert’s smashed head had rested. A shelf held two cups, two tin plates, assorted silverware, a bullet mold, a can of kerosene, and a tobacco tin. In one corner, a mismatched china bowl and pitcher sat on a low stand, and near it on the wall, a grayish towel and one of Bert’s flannel shirts hung from pegs.
    Ethan felt the small room closing in on him. His ranch house, with two snug bedchambers, a loft above, and a huge, open kitchen and sitting room, would make three of this jailhouse. He inhaled deeply and recalled Gert’s words to him at the school. He wouldn’t have to stay here unless he had prisoners.
    “Thank You for that, Lord.”
    Yesterday the old sheriff had lain on his back, here by the bunk, with his feet sprawled right about where Ethan stood. He stepped aside quickly, then gave himself a mental kick in the backside. He couldn’t avoid the spot where Bert died forever. He’d have to sleep in the dead man’s bunk.
    “At least I can wash the bedding and clean up that bloodstain.” He stepped forward, deliberately planting his boots where Bert’s body had lain on the planks, and yanked the crazy quilt off the bunk. Beneath was only another straw tick. A small pillow covered with a linen case lay at one end, and he shook the pillow out and wrapped the case up in the quilt. Dust filled the air and set him coughing. If it ever warmed up outside, he’d empty out the tick and the pillow and fill them with new straw.
    Bert probably never dusted or swept this place. Ethan had yet to see a broom, though there must be one somewhere. He walked back into the outer room, seeking the tools he needed. A bucket half full of water sat between the stove and the wood box. He