Bandit's Hope

by Marcia Gruver

  "Miss Mariah, you sure?" Dicey blinked her confusion. "It ain’t like we got us a full house. Who gon’ eat all that?"

  Mariah sidestepped to the mirror again to wind a coil of hair at the base of her neck. "They’ll come. I’m praying hard for guests."

  "You praying for miracles."

  "We need one," Mariah said over her shoulder. "The coffers are on their last breath. In the meantime, we have meat in store and a man on the roof working up a healthy appetite."

  Dicey rolled her eyes. "Ain’t nothin’ healthy ’bout the way he eat. For a tall, skinny man, he got a reckless hunger."

  Mariah’s fingers stilled on her hair. "You really think he’s too thin? I don’t find him the least bit skinny."

  Dicey cocked her head to the side and grinned. "Uh, huh. It’s like that, is it? Jus’ how does you find him?"

  Tugging her eyes from the mirror and the slow flush crawling up her neck, Mariah turned. "Miss Vee’s been reading to you from those trashy dime novels again. Now, where did she get off to?"

  "She tending that old man. He finally decide to wake up."

  "He did? Oh, Dicey, why didn’t you say so?"

  Dicey cocked her hip. "I jus’ did."

  Mariah hurried down the hallway to what she’d come to think of as the sickroom. Pausing at the door, she cautiously peered inside.

  Miss Vee had a chair pulled up to the bed, her back and shoulders rounded as she leaned to feed her patient spoonfuls of what appeared to be oatmeal.

  Otis Gooch sat up in bed, dutifully opening his mouth. He gummed the cereal with pursed lips, smacking disgracefully.

  "Last bite," Miss Vee said then wiped his mouth as if he were a child. Standing, she placed the bowl on the nightstand.

  Mariah slipped up from behind and caught her hand, stretching to whisper in her ear. "Forgive me?"

  Miss Vee’s rigid body relaxed. Her fingers twined with Mariah’s and squeezed. "Look, honey. Our patient’s on the mend."

  Mr. Gooch lay propped against two pillows, a weak but contented smile on his face. "If my head didn’t hurt so fierce, I’d swear the Almighty sent two ministering angels to escort me home." He chuckled. "But I reckon I’m still earthbound. If’n I was in heaven, you wouldn’t be covered in muck, little missy." The man peered closer. "Though I’m thinking this one might be one of your angels, Lord, muddy or not. She sure looks like one."

  Mariah smiled down at him. "No angel here, sir. Just a flesh and blood woman, uncommonly prone to frailties and faults." She glanced over her shoulder. "Just ask my dear friend."

  Mr. Gooch winked. "Honey, you’ll do just fine."

  He held out his trembling hand and Mariah took it, settling in Miss Vee’s vacated chair. The bony fingers felt fragile in her grip, and the wrinkled, paper-thin skin softer than silk to the touch.

  "I can’t tell you how grateful I am," he said. "You folks are like the Good Samaritan come to life right out of the scriptures."

  Mariah shook her head. "Not at all. We’re just the innkeepers. The real Samaritans were the men who brought you here and left without telling us their names. They saved your life."

  He frowned and tilted his head. "One of them a red-haired fella? I seem to remember someone …"

  Mariah patted his hand. "You must mean Mr. McRae. He’s a guest here." She glanced at Miss Vee. "At least he was until we hired him on. He works for us now, so you’ll be seeing him again."

  "Well, that’s good because I—" He grimaced, and his wobbly hand rose to his temple. "I want to thank him, too."

  Miss Vee touched Mariah’s shoulder. "Come along, sugar. We’re tiring him."

  Standing, Mariah stepped aside to let Miss Vee move closer to the bed. She pulled the extra pillow from behind Otis’s head, easing him down. "You rest up, now. I’ll brew a cup of feverfew tea for that headache."

  Wincing, he shaded his eyes against the light. "I don’t want you ladies fretting about the cost of my keep. I can pay you for your trouble. You can count on that." Struggling to sit up again, he waved his skinny arm. "I have money. Lots of it. My whole life savings is"—he strained forward, craning his neck to search the room—"s–somewhere."

  His bleary gaze focused on a point across the room, and he lifted one bent finger. "There he is. That’s the man I was talking about."

  Miss Vee and Mariah turned toward the door, but no one was there. They gave each other knowing looks.

  "Well, I’ll be." The poor man seemed confused. "The fella’ disappeared. Just like that." He blinked at Mariah. "Why’s he all wet?"

  Squeezing past Miss Vee, she gripped his shoulders and urged him against the bed. "Just rest, Mr. Gooch."

  Grinning, he waved her off. "I ain’t never been mister nobody, honey. Call me Otis."

  Moaning, he relaxed as if suddenly spent, and then his eyelids flew open again. "Say, did I ever thank you nice girls for helping me?"

  "I’ll fetch that tea," Miss Vee said, backing away. She motioned for Mariah to follow and hurried from the room. In the hallway, she pulled Mariah toward the kitchen, whispering in a low voice. "I swear, that old man is a caution. Do you reckon he was already crazy, or can a bump on the head bring on insanity?"

  Mariah bit back a smile. "Shame on you, Viola Ashmore. How can you speak so harshly about such a kindhearted old gentleman? I don’t think Mr. Gooch is crazy." She shrugged. "A bit peculiar perhaps."

  "A bit?" Miss Vee clutched her arm. "One minute he’s talking to God like He’s perched at the foot of the bed, the next he sees Jesus peeking around the corner."

  "Is that really so bad? We should all be having more talks with God."

  "Maybe so, but he’s seeing things that aren’t there and forgetting the rest."

  Mariah glanced behind them and shushed her. "Mr. Gooch has a nasty bump on the head. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a few days." She frowned. "I’m more concerned about the other thing he said."

  "What other thing?"

  "Didn’t you see? He was searching for his money." Mariah pressed her fists to her temples and groaned. "Evidently, his attackers robbed him of all he had." Hot tears stung her eyes. "The poor old soul. He said it was his life savings."

  Miss Vee shook her head. "It’s a pitiful shame, that’s what it is."

  They reached the entrance to the kitchen, and Mariah followed her inside. Tiller glanced up from the table where he sat draining a tumbler of lemonade.

  Dicey stood over him, ready to pour another glass as soon as he finished. "It must be blazing hot on that roof," she said, fanning him with a dishcloth. "This poor man be drenched in sweat."

  Tiller had stumbled into Otis Gooch’s room, looked fate in the eye, then tucked tail and ran.

  The old man had recognized him. Pointed him out. Instead of numbering his days at Bell’s Inn, Tiller could count his stay in minutes, maybe seconds, depending on what Otis told Mariah.

  His hand shook as he raised his glass for another long swig of the tart drink. Looking everywhere but straight at them, he waited for the ruckus sure to come.

  Climbing off the roof after he made the repairs for Mariah felt good. For the first time in years, he’d used his hands for something useful. Leaving meant she’d be back in the same rough patch where he’d found her, burdened with a broken-down inn. And he’d be back on the Trace, running from what he’d become.

  Funny how the work he wasn’t sure he should take on suddenly seemed like the most important job in the world.

  "Miss Mariah, why you still sashaying around in them filthy clothes?"

  Tiller stole a peek out of the corner of his eye. Dicey was right. Mariah wore the same dirty dress, the mud splatter dried to light patches and her hem a stiff gray circle around her feet.

  He might’ve smiled if his situation weren’t so dire. He’d never seen a woman so opposed to wearing shoes.

  "I’m going up now to change, but lest I forget"—she tapped his shoulder—"Mr. Gooch would like to see you when he wakes up."

  Tiller’s heart
sped up and his mind raced. So, that’s how much time he had, as long as it took an old man to take a nap.

  Odd how Mariah didn’t sound angry. Maybe she handled things differently than most.

  He scratched his head, trying to think. Could it be that Gooch didn’t tell them what he knew, so he could run Tiller off himself?

  Miss Vee chuckled, the sound grating on his taut nerves. "He wants to thank you, Tiller." She shook her head. "Again."

  His puzzled frown bounced between them. "For what?"

  The women laughed.

  "He thanks us over and over for helping him," Mariah said. "Each time he wakes up, he repeats himself again. Poor soul can’t remember a thing."

  The mirth disappeared from Miss Vee’s face. "I’m telling you, Mariah, he’s worse off than we thought, and that whack on the head could be the cause." She pointed toward Otis’s room. "The old codger has lost his memory right along with his good sense."

  Tiller raised his head. "Mr. Gooch can’t remember?"

  Ignoring him, Miss Vee took a sugar spoon from the counter to scratch up under her mound of red curls. "You reckon we should fetch Doc Moony after all?"

  Mariah’s body tensed and her hands fisted. If she’d been drinking from a cup, the inn would be short another piece of china. "Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. Not just yet. Let’s give him a chance to heal. He’s bound to be as good as new in a day or so."

  With a strained laugh, she clutched the skirt of her dress and stared at the smear of grass stains. "For heaven’s sake, I need to get out of this silly thing."

  "Been telling her that all mornin’ long," Dicey pointed out.

  As Mariah rushed up the winding stairs, Tiller wondered why she’d picked that particular moment to listen.

  FIFTEEN

  Mariah stripped off her dress then splashed her mud-freckled legs and sweaty face with cold water. Going downstairs to heat more would take too much time from her mission.

  After washing off, she fumbled with the strings of a clean petticoat and barely laced her corset. Pulling on her stockings and a clean frock, she hurried out the door.

  Five paces from the stairs she remembered her blasted shoes and ran back to slip them on. Taking the steps by twos, she raced across the parlor, not slowing until she reached the door to Otis Gooch’s room.

  In the light of Miss Vee’s fears, she had to see him again to reassure herself that he was all right. If not, did she have the courage to call Dr. Moony?

  Outside the door she spun, pressing her back to the wall. Mother, what have you done to me?

  "Who—who’s out there?"

  There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

  Mariah drew a deep breath and pasted on a smile. "Only me, sir," she trilled, edging into the room. She approached the bed, her trembling hands behind her back, praying Miss Vee was wrong. "Am I disturbing you?"

  Otis seemed groggy, the effects of the feverfew tea. "Not at all."

  He struggled to sit up, but Mariah hustled to his side and touched his shoulder. "Please don’t rouse yourself. I won’t stay long."

  He smiled. "Stay as long as you like, missy. I’m grateful for the company." With a shaky finger, he pointed to the bowl and pitcher on the dressing table. "You wouldn’t mind wetting a rag, so’s I could wash my face?"

  Mariah hopped up." Of course not." Dipping a cloth in the steaming bowl, she wrung it out and handed it to him.

  Otis buried his face in it and moaned. Concerned, she bent over him, but he emerged with a toothless grin. "There. Don’t that feel better? I was getting a mite crusty." When he finished washing, including his neck and ears, he returned the rag with a contented sigh.

  Relieved to see him acting so spry, Mariah sat back in the chair and crossed her arms.

  Watching her, Otis leaned back and crossed his, too. "Whatever you’re itching to say, you might as well get it said."

  She launched forward, resting her hands on her knees. "How are you, Mr. Gooch? I mean, how do you really feel?"

  His brows knitted. "Well, my headache seems lessened today." He reached for his bandage. "Still hurts to push on my wound, but I expect that’s normal."

  "Do you believe you’re on the mend?"

  Otis shrugged. "I ain’t no doctor, little lady, so I’m not smart enough to say." He motioned her closer. "But I had me a talk with God, and He reminded me I’m in good shape either way." He pursed his lips and winked.

  Mariah tilted her head. "It’s interesting that you should mention a doctor because I was wondering—"

  "If you’re asking if I’m about to breathe my last, the answer is no. I’m too miserable to die." He gazed around the room. "And too hungry. Got any more of that oatmeal?"

  The burden lifting from around her heart, she reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. "We can do a whole lot better than oatmeal, if you think you’re up to it."

  He rubbed his stomach. "I’m up to it, all right."

  "How does a bowl of beans and a link of venison sausage sound?"

  He sat up straighter and rubbed his hands together. "With a square of buttered corn bread?"

  She preened. "The best in Mississippi, or so I’ve been told."

  His eyes lit up, the twinkle so bright it chased Mariah’s fears to the shadows. "Fetch me them vittles," Otis said. "See if I don’t make quick work of them."

  Laughing, she patted his hand. "Give us a while to get it ready, and we’ll give you a chance to prove yourself."

  Plain tired of running.

  Tiller braced his hands on each side of the washstand and leaned to stare at his ashen face in the mirror. The green striped walls of the cozy room, more like home than any place he’d slept in years, closed in around him, urging him to make a decision.

  If Otis Gooch planned to accuse him, he’d just as soon have it done. Waiting for the gallows floor to drop from beneath him had his stomach twisted in knots. The old man had asked to see him, and it seemed like the perfect time.

  "March down to that room," Tiller ordered his reflection. "Take a front row seat, and give Otis a good long look to be certain."

  If the old man sat up and pointed the finger, Tiller had two options worked out in his mind. He could apologize. Lay his hand on the Bible Mr. Gooch set such stock in and swear he’d mended his ways. He’d confess that meeting him on the road had triggered a change of heart. He’d throw himself on Gooch’s mercy and promise to repay every cent if only he’d keep his mouth shut to Mariah. If that didn’t work, he’d deny the charge and swear the man’s injury had addled his mind.

  Tiller stilled as the second idea turned to soot and sifted away, leaving him nowhere to hide. What was happening to him? How could he consider confronting his doom? He must’ve fried his own brain on that blasted hot roof.

  "Like I told you before," he said to his image, "I’m plain tired of running."

  He dried his face so hard his whiskers chafed, threw the towel in the laundry bin, and smoothed back his hair. A haircut and shave were in order. He’d ask one of the women first thing in the morning … if he was still around.

  With the slow easy pace of a man who’d made peace with his fate, Tiller strolled down the hall to the last room on the left and peered inside. Clutching the doorpost, he drew back and stiffened to bolt.

  "This is my lucky day," Mr. Gooch crowed. "Two visitors at once. Come in here, boy. Don’t be shy."

  Too late to escape, Tiller gritted his teeth and shifted back into sight. "How do, sir."

  Mariah peered over her shoulder. "You’ll be happy to hear Otis is much better today."

  Sweating like Judas on judgment day, Tiller’s courage waned. "I’ll come back later. I don’t want to barge in."

  Otis waved his scrawny arm. "You ain’t barging into nothing, and that lintel don’t need you to hold it up. Get over here."

  The urge to duck his head tugged at Tiller’s chin. No sir. No more hiding. He raised it high instead and strode to the foot of the bed.

  The closer he
came, the wider Mr. Gooch’s welcoming smile.

  Tiller tried to smile in return, but his lips felt like wood. "How are you feeling, sir?"

  "A sight better than yesterday, thank ye. I was just telling the little missy here that I’m feeling mighty hungry." He quirked his brows. "That’s a good sign, ain’t it?"

  Mariah’s merry laugh eased the tightness from Tiller’s shoulders. "You’re making up for lost time, I suppose."

  Mr. Gooch nodded. "I don’t remember the last thing I ate until those few paltry spoons of oatmeal."

  Mariah squeezed his knobby hand. "Poor man." Her tone hardened. "Heaven knows how long those ruffians left you lying there helpless."

  Tiller’s stomach flipped, squashing his resolve. His shuffling feet itched to race for the door.

  "I’ve been pondering that myself," Mr. Gooch murmured, scratching his balding head. "Do you suppose the men who brought me here could be the same gang who ambushed me to start with?" He bobbed his head. "You know, riding for help once their consciences started throbbing?"

  Mariah spun with a little gasp. "Do you suppose Otis could be right, Tiller? Did we entertain the very devils who beat and robbed him?" Her pretty brow creased. "By the grace of God we didn’t wind up sharing his fate." Realizing what she’d said, her hand rushed to her mouth. "Oh, Otis …"

  All the starch seemed to drain from his wasted body. His shoulders slumped against the headboard, his watery gaze fixed on the ceiling while he stared down the awful news. "They got my money?" He flinched. "My horse and wagon, too?"

  Her fingers pressed to her lips, Mariah nodded. "You had nothing when they brought you here. I’m so sorry."

  Staring overhead, he gnawed the inside of his cheek. "Well, sure they took it. I’m a fool to think otherwise." He touched his head. "That’s why they gave me this knot." He cut his eyes to Mariah. "Don’t feel bad, little missy. I’d have figured it out for myself once my head cleared."

  Regret twisted his features. "It took me the better part of my days to save that stash. All gone in a wink."