Bandit's Hope

by Marcia Gruver

  Tiller tossed the hat at Nathan’s feet. "You owe me thirty dollars."

  Nathan grinned, his brown eyes dancing. "That shouldn’t be a problem, once we split the take. The old buzzard was sitting on his life savings. Under his seat there was a fortune in—"

  Tiller’s hand shot up. "Spare the details."

  Pushing long strands of his black hair behind his ears, Nathan smirked. "Ignorance makes you innocent, is that it? You don’t seem to mind when you’re sitting around patting a full belly."

  With a devilish grin, he drew back and kicked. The Stetson sailed in the air, landing upside down in the cold, gray ashes of the campfire. "Tiller boy, the cost of new headgear seems a small price to pay for a lily-white conscience."

  Tiller tensed. "Nate, that’s enough."

  Nathan slapped his shoulder. "After ten years, you’re still not cut out for this game." He leaned close to Tiller’s face. "Don’t think I didn’t see what you tried to do back there."

  Warmth crawled up Tiller’s neck. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "Oh, I think you do."

  Noticing his hands wringing like a washerwoman’s, Tiller clenched them and slid them along his trouser legs. "They didn’t hurt that old man, did they? I mean … he was all right when you left?"

  Nathan gave a harsh laugh. "He’ll have a sizable knot on his head, but I expect he’ll live."

  Tiller scowled at the rugged face he knew so well. "They hit him? Why’d they go and do that?"

  Nathan shrugged. "Reckon he asked for it. Or else Hade got one of his urges to hurt something. I didn’t hang around to see." He jerked his thumb at Tiller. "I lit out after you."

  Propping his sizable foot on the log, he leaned to study Tiller’s face. "While it’s just you and me, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask."

  Less than eager to hear, Tiller cocked his head. "Well, go on. Get it out of your system."

  Nathan’s brows rose. "I’m wondering how that mind of yours works, is all. How you can twist the truth around to suit you." His smile turned cold. "Don’t you get it, pardner? You may not wear a bandanna or wave a gun, but your part in this operation still makes you a thief." He paused to spit, his mocking gaze pinned to Tiller’s face. "The way I see it, owning up to what you are is better than what you looked like just then."

  Tiller scowled. "And what’s that?"

  "Instead of the raider who robbed an old man on the Trace, you’re the coward who rode off and left him."

  TWO

  Mariah beat the sunrise to the house, but just barely. The surrounding forest blocked her view of the horizon for most of the way home, but the glowing sky over the treetops meant the first bright sliver of the sun would soon appear.

  Casting a nervous glance at the inn, she wheeled the rig into the barn and leaped to the hay-scattered floor. Grunting from the effort, she wrestled Sheki free from his harness, a worrisome task with the stubborn beast straining his neck for the feed bucket.

  Mother did well to name him the Choctaw word for buzzard. The greedy animal nuzzled for every morsel in his trough and never missed a chance to scavenge for a bite of grass.

  Sheki pawed the ground and nickered softly. Mariah patted his freckled back and smoothed his white mane. "You’re ready to eat, aren’t you, friend?"

  Urgency surged in her limbs at the reminder of food. For the cost of a night’s stay at one of the last working stands left on the Natchez Trace, her father promised his lodgers a fine, hearty breakfast. She’d inherited the promise, if not the inn, and had less than an hour to fulfill her end of the bargain.

  Mariah left the horse eagerly chewing a mouthful of oats. Sidling up to the barn door, she made a quick check of the house before stepping outside and heading up the path.

  God was with her. Early morning gloom still cloaked the first floor, despite the glimmer of a lamp burning in a back room upstairs. Up front, Miss tasseled shade was blessedly dark.

  She had to rush. Before long, Dicey Turner would trudge out of the woods beside the house, dragging her apron as well as her behind, dreading the workday before it started. Rainy Boswell would come, once the dew dried, to cut the grass.

  Crossing the yard, the nagging dread returned to tug at Mariah’s spirit. With Father’s death, she could lose all claim to Bell’s Inn—what should be her rightful inheritance and the only home she’d ever known. It would take a miracle for a Choctaw man in Mississippi to hold on to such valuable property. A miracle wouldn’t help a lone, half-breed woman.

  In the desperate early hours at Father’s bedside, the answer had come. Despite the body she’d rolled into a hidden grave, her father could not be dead.

  Whatever it took, Mariah would keep the proprietor of Bell’s Inn alive in the world’s reckoning until she found a suitable man to marry. What an English father could not do for her, even in death, a pale-faced husband could.

  She had plenty of would-be suitors among the sons of her tribesmen, those who stayed behind after the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek and the exodus of her people. Handsome young braves who vied for her attention.

  There were even some who’d caught her eye, such as Christopher and Justin Jones, the sons of the tribal physician. Either brother would make Mariah a fine husband. Each had made his interests known, but they couldn’t change the biggest mark against them. Indian blood coursed through their veins.

  As she mounted the rickety steps, a loose board moaned beneath her feet and paint chips from the rail came off in her hand. The two-story house was a far cry from its humble beginnings, a lean-to run by her grandfather, strewn with bearskins for the lodgers to sleep on. Still, it needed some upkeep.

  Minding the inn kept Mariah too busy for outside chores, and most of the jobs were too much for her to tackle. Another reason to find someone to marry as soon as possible.

  She’d find a husband with a strong back and feeble mind, an item in ready supply in her opinion. With such a man in tow, no one would question her claim to Bell’s Inn, and she could go on running things the way she had since Mother died.

  Mariah knew just the man.

  Gabriel Tabor had made his interest known by less than subtle glances. One crook of her finger, and he’d be down on one knee pleading for her hand.

  Unfortunately, Gabe was coarse and dimwitted. Distasteful traits at best, but he was the only eligible man around for miles.

  Tiptoeing across the wobbly porch, she eased through the door, cringing when the hinges squealed. A little oil was in order, a matter she’d make time for after breakfast.

  She eased off her boots and started for the stove, but her fleeting image in the speckled mirror stopped her cold. Backing up, she peered into the wavering glass. In the hours since finding her father’s body, grief had aged her, stress etching lines in her youthful face. Shock and sorrow had washed the woman in the glass as white as her English ancestors.

  Mariah gazed at her high cheekbones and the bump at the bridge of her nose. Odd how a nice dress and upswept hair disguised the truth. Barefoot, dressed in riding britches and a cotton shirt, there was no denying her Indian roots.

  "You’re a chameleon," she whispered, fingering her long black braid. "One day the lady of the manor, the next an Indian princess. Can’t you decide who you want to be?" Thanks to her parents, Mariah was both, stuck in between two vastly different worlds—the Pearl River clan of the Choctaw Indian and her blue-eyed British relations.

  The ugly name "half-breed" pressed at her lips. She’d had it whispered in her direction all her life and loathed the sound of it.

  "Mariah?"

  She whirled, clutching her chest.

  By the dim glow of the lantern gripped in Miss Vee’s dimpled hand, her tall red curls seemed to hover on the stairs. Turning sideways to maneuver the narrow passage, she took the last two steps to the kitchen and held up the light. "Did I startle you? I’m not surprised, with all thiscreeping about before dawn." Frowning, she tugged her dressing gown tighter. "What have
you been up to?"

  "I— "

  "Where’s your father?" Miss Vee interrupted, leaning to peer past Mariah. "Did you leave him in the barn?"

  Jolted, Mariah nearly choked. "Y–you saw me take him?"

  Miss Vee’s ginger head came up. "I saw an empty room when I stepped inside to check on him, and the wagon just pulled into the yard. I can add two and two all by myself."

  Weak with relief, Mariah hurried to change the subject. "I’m pleased you’re finally home, Miss Vee. We’ve missed you something terrible."

  "John, too?" She beamed. "Oh, I’m glad. I’ve sorely missed you both. I came as soon as I could."

  "I heard you come in last night."

  Her thinning brows peaked. "Impossibly late, I’m afraid. I hope I didn’t disturb your poor father."

  Mariah hid her twisting hands behind her back. "No, ma’am. You didn’t disturb him." That much was achingly true. "How are things in Natchez?"

  Miss Vee waved her hand. "Natchez never changes."

  "And your sister?"

  "Still weak, but on the mend. When I got your wire saying your father had taken ill, I left at once." She stretched her chubby neck to see over Mariah’s shoulder. "Where is John, honey? He needs me."

  Pity surged in Mariah’s heart. The chance to nurse Father, to hover at his bedside, would’ve meant so much to Miss Vee. She’d loved him for years, a fact that everyone knew but Father.

  When Mother died two years ago, the feisty widow turned up on the steps of Bell’s Inn, suitcase in hand, to offer him comfort and consolation. Blind to her motives, he hired her on the spot as a chambermaid. She patiently made beds and scrubbed floors, waiting for his mourning to end. Father never seemed to notice her yearning glances across the breakfast table. Now he never would.

  Mariah’s breath caught on a strangled sob, and she cleared her throat to mask the sound.

  Distracted, Miss Vee shuffled to the window to search the yard. "I don’t see him. Shouldn’t he be in bed?" The concern shining from her faded green eyes made the secret even harder to bear.

  "Father’s not out there, Miss Vee. He’s gone." Pain squeezed her chest. Would she survive such heartrending deception?

  "Gone?" Miss Vee pushed away from the window. "I don’t understand." Luckily, she was too upset to notice Mariah’s brimming tears.

  Mariah blinked them away and cleared her throat. "Yes, ma’am. To … a place where he’ll be well again. Healed once and for all."

  Miss Vee’s shoulders sagged and her face soured. "But I rushed home to nurse him back to health." Her brows drew together. "What sort of place?"

  "Umm … well, the reverend told us about it. He assured us Father will be much better off there."

  Red splotches tinged Miss Vee’s cheeks. "Better off than in my care?" She sniffed and shook her head. "I assure you, Mariah, no one else will afford John Coffee Bell more tenderhearted compassion."

  Mariah couldn’t help but smile. You’re mistaken, dear lady. There’s One other, and my father rests in His hands. So far, she hadn’t told a lie, but it was time to change the subject. "Run up and put on some clothes while I start breakfast. We have guests this morning. You don’t want to meet them on the stairs in your dressing gown."

  Miss Vee absently clutched her bodice. "No, I—Mariah, are you certain John is all right?"

  "Gracious, don’t fret so," Mariah called on the way to light the stove. "Father will be just fine. I … saw him off to his destination myself."

  "I see." She touched her plump bottom lip. "He took the train then. Did he say when he might return?"

  Mariah shooed her with an apron. "Go along now, and don’t worry." She turned away and made a wry face. "It won’t do Father a speck of good to worry yourself sick."

  Heavy footfalls overhead stifled the persistent woman’s next question and sent her scurrying to the foot of the stairs. She paused on the squeaky bottom step and turned. "Mariah, how did John look when last you saw him?"

  Mariah cracked another egg into the bowl, stirring briskly with her fork. There’d be no turning back, with the eggs or the scheme. Both were too far along to unscramble. She smiled brightly over her shoulder. "I’ve never seen him more at peace."

  The roiling fear cooled in Miss Vee’s green eyes, and her fuzzy chin rose on a sigh. "Good." She nodded firmly. "That’s good to hear." As she lumbered out of sight, her final words tumbled down the stairwell behind her. "Still, it’s a crying shame. No one on earth could tend that man better than me."

  Tiller’s body went as stiff as the pine log where he sat, and a rush of hot air fired through his nostrils. He slapped the fallen tree so hard the notched bark stung his palm. "I know you didn’t call me a coward, old friend, since that would make you a careless fool."

  He struggled to his feet and pressed his heaving chest close to Nathan, his breath coming in labored gasps. "Take it back fast, and I won’t bust your mouth."

  Before Nathan could react—or Tiller make good on his threat—the gang rode into the clearing like a raiding muster of crows, their spirited shouts and cackling laughter echoing off the trunks of the loblolly pine.

  Hade Betts, the rowdy band’s leader, slid off his saddle and gathered his reins. "McRae," he announced with a grin on his face, "you’re one talented liar, son. You had that old badger so fixed on your yarn we were cuddled in his lap before he saw us coming."

  Tiller shot Nathan one last challenge with hooded eyes and stepped away. "I’d thank you for the compliment, Hade, but I’m not sure lying is an admirable skill."

  Hade’s jowly face crinkled with glee. "Dodge the praise all you like, but I call it a gift. Your tales get taller each time I hear one. Especially when there’s a woman involved."

  The men chuckled with Hade. Climbing down from the stolen rig, a beat-up satchel under his arm, young Sonny Thompson slapped his skinny leg. "Ain’t it the truth? And this time he gave the gal"—he tipped his hat at Tiller—"excuse me, his wife a name."

  "Lucinda McRae, with her loving arms stretched wide and her big doe eyes filled with tears." Laughing, Hade wrapped one arm around Tiller’s shoulders and shook him. "Where do you get your wild imagination, boy?"

  In a flicker, Tiller was seated at Uncle Silas’s feet in a misty Scuffletown swamp, listening to stories about a ten-foot giant who picked his teeth with railroad ties and fed Carolina lawmen to gators. He shrugged away the painful memory. "Can’t say where I get my stories. I reckon they just come to me on the spot."

  Sobering, Hade wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "For a second there, you had me believing. Poor fellow, left all alone on your wedding night. I was starting to feel sorry for you." With a loud snort, he bent over howling again.

  Tiller gave in to a grin. "That’s all right, Hade. Sometimes, I believe it myself. I get to feeling a little sad when I remember I’m telling a yarn."

  Overcome by Tiller’s remark, Hade eased his broad behind onto a nearby stump, his potbelly shaking.

  Nathan sauntered over, a knowing smile on his face. "Tiller boy, I’m wondering if all your talk of marriage lately might be wishful thinking. Maybe you have it in mind to find some pretty little gal, get hitched, and settle down to a respectable life."

  A scowl erased Tiller’s grin. He shot Nathan a glare, wondering what had come over him. "What are you saying, Nate?"

  Nathan shrugged. "You’re not planning to split trails with us, are you?"

  Sonny squatted in front of Hade and laid open the satchel at his feet, delight on his rawboned face. "Don’t worry. Tiller ain’t going nowhere. Not while we’re pulling in this kind of loot."

  Grinning, Hade leaned over to pull out a double handful of bills, the bundles tied up with string. "It’s been slim pickings lately, boys, but cast your eyes on the fruit of our patience. Belly up and get your share."

  The bright-eyed gang gathered around, their faces lit with anxious greed.

  Licking his fingers, Hade counted out equal piles, the thrill in his voice building to a pitch a
s the stacks got taller.

  "Wooeee!" Sonny cried. "Would you look at that?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Tiller, you struck a wide vein this time."

  The blissful men jostled closer with outstretched hands to get their share while Hade divided the spoils. Reaching deep into the bottom of the bag, he brought up a leather-bound book, its pages crimped and worn. Opening the cover, he smiled and cleared his throat. "’This Holy Book is the property of Otis Gooch of Tallahatchie County, Mississippi.’" Beaming, he tossed it into the doused campfire where it landed in a smoky cloud of white ash. "Much obliged, Mr. Gooch. We’ll spend your money wisely." He cocked his head. "Well, quick anyways."

  The camp erupted in riotous laughter.

  Chuckling, Hade lifted his chin at Tiller. "Come get your money. I gave you the extra five dollars."

  Hade’s wide smile blurred into the traveler’s toothless grin.

  Cursing, Tiller whirled for his horse.

  "Hey, where you going?" Hade spun on the stump. "Come take your split. You earned every cent."

  Ignoring him, Tiller swung into the saddle. "What I’ve earned is some time off. I’m going away for a few days."

  Nathan smirked from the ground. "What about your cut?" He snatched the wad of cash from Hade and held it up to Tiller. "A man on a spree could have a high time with this kind of dough."

  Tiller plucked Nathan’s slouch hat from his head and put it on. "I’ll take this to even our score for now. You keep the money. Share it with the boys." He nudged the horse with his heel. "Lay it on those ashes and use it for kindling. I don’t rightly care."

  Sonny pushed to his feet and came to stare up at Tiller as he passed. "Where you going, Tiller? When will you be back?"

  "I can’t answer those questions, Sonny. I don’t know myself."

  "Kin I come?" He waved a wad of cash in both hands. "We could have us a high old time down in Natchez."

  "Not this time."