Bandit's Hope

by Marcia Gruver

  Ellie grinned. "Things will change when they’re courting age, Hoop. You’ll stay fit chasing suitors from your door."

  He frowned. "No lop-eared boy will come closer than shotgun range. Not a second time, at least."

  Wyatt slapped him on the back. "Best keep a good stock of shells around the house. As pretty as your two gals are, half the boys in Hope Mills will be plucking buckshot from their behinds."

  Hooper hefted his pack and nodded toward the sun. "Let’s get going. We should’ve been on the road two hours by now."

  Ellie pulled away from Wyatt to straighten Hooper’s collar, an obvious excuse to search his eyes. "Do you think we’ll have any luck this time?"

  Hooper ran his hand along the back of her head. "We have a good lead. If Tiller’s alive, we’re bound to stumble onto more information." He squeezed her shoulder. "Don’t fret, Ellie. We’ll search Mississippi until we find him."

  TWENTY-TWO

  The blustery weather seemed the right setting for the storm brewing within the walls of Bell’s Inn. Since Tiller opened his eyes, the house had echoed with deafening silence. The kind wrought by the mutual cold shoulders of quarreling women.

  If not for their angry steps on the stairs and their scornful snorts as they passed in the hall outside his room, Tiller would swear no females lived in the house—until a ruckus commenced in the kitchen.

  His stomach growled, but with the alarming clatter of dishes and the banging of pots and pans, he didn’t dare venture out to fill it. He worried about the poor men who’d paid to spend another breakfast with Mariah and Miss Vee. He doubted Mariah’s biscuits were worth blundering into that skirmish.

  Another glance past the curtains at the swirling cloud bank drew his concerns to a more pressing matter—whether or not they’d wind up running for cover. He didn’t relish spending the morning huddled in the cellar with Mariah and Miss Vee. Considering the whole house didn’t seem big enough for their spat, he’d sooner take his chances with a twister.

  Lightning flashed outside his window, filling the yard with brilliant light. The peal of thunder that followed and the way it shook the house made the cellar seem like a good idea after all.

  Braving the tempest in the kitchen was unavoidable. He had to warn the women.

  Tiller snatched his hat from the hook on the wall, reliving for a moment how he’d swiped it right off Nathan’s head. Pushing aside the prickly memory, he swept out the door and down the hall.

  At the kitchen door, he took a deep breath and boldly stepped inside. Gloom hung from the rafters like cemetery fog. Just as he feared, the poor lodgers hunkered over their plates picking at their food in silence, their wary eyes skittering between Miss Vee and Mariah.

  Formidable, stiff-shouldered Miss Vee scoured a cast iron skillet so hard she’d soon wear through the bottom. Scowling, straight-backed Mariah scrubbed the silver off her utensils, tossing them on the counter with a loud, careless clatter. Dicey lurked inside the dim pantry, staring out with frightened eyes.

  Mr. Lenard, the wretched fellow who’d requested more biscuits, nibbled on the corner of one, frowning like a man forced to eat sawdust. Bickering women could sure ruin a man’s day.

  Noticing Tiller on the threshold, his face lit up as if he’d spotted a lifeline. "Look, boys. Here’s our fish fryer. How are you this morning, son?"

  Tiller nodded. "I’m fine, sir. At least for now." He lifted the curtain from the back door to peer out. The oak tree seemed to reach for him, pleading with wildly waving limbs for a rest he couldn’t give. It wouldn’t do for a tree that size to be split by lightning or hurled by the wind. If the big oak fell on the house, there’d be nothing left to repair. "Hasn’t anyone noticed it’s blowing up a powerful gale?"

  All three women glanced his way.

  "There’s been a little thunder and wind," Miss Vee said. "I just figured it for another rainstorm."

  Tiller’s somber gaze moved from her to Mariah. "If we’re lucky, rain is all we’ll get."

  Mariah opened the wooden blind over the sink with her thumb. "It’s that bad?"

  Dicey crowded beside her to peek out. "Mercy sakes, them pines swaying right for us."

  "It’s not the pine I’m worried about," Tiller said. "If the wind kicks up a notch, that oak will be joining us for breakfast."

  Dicey tried to smile, but her chin wobbled. "Mista’ Tilla’, you funnin’ us."

  "I wish I was." He met Mariah’s frightened stare. "Is the root cellar fit for company?"

  She looked dazed. A white ring of fear lined her mouth. "I honestly don’t know. I haven’t been down there in so long." Drying her hands on her apron, she tugged the strings and laid it aside. "What will we need?"

  Tiller shrugged "Water, I suppose. A lantern or two." He opened the door, and the wind rushed in, wildly billowing curtains, tablecloths, and the ladies’ skirts.

  "Shut it, Mista’ Tilla’, please!" Dicey screamed, stooping to the floor and covering her head.

  Ignoring her shrill cries, Tiller held Mariah’s gaze. "I’ll go down and check things out. Wait here unless I call you."

  She nodded.

  "Hold up, son." Mr. Lenard wiped his mouth and stood. "I’ll go with you."

  Miss Vee stood on tiptoe to pull down a candle and a box of long matches. "Take these. You’ll need them."

  Mr. Lenard fisted them and scurried out the door on Tiller’s heels.

  Tiller had spotted the cellar doors from the roof when he made his repairs. Clutching his hat, he ran to that side of the house. With his free hand, he latched onto the handle and motioned for Mr. Lenard to take the other side. They pulled together, and dirt sifted like flour into the dark hole in the ground.

  Tiller went first, feeling his way down the slanted ladder. Before ducking inside, he paused for another quick look at the storm. The sky held a greenish cast, and the peaks of the tall, dark clouds were churning.

  Mr. Lenard stood above him staring at the fearsome sight, his clothes flapping around his large frame. He glanced at Tiller with an ominous shake of his head.

  Tiller descended into the darkness, batting away spider webs and crumbling dirt dauber mounds from the rungs. At the bottom, he moved aside for Mr. Lenard, who sprang to the ground and turned his back on the drafty opening to light the candle. Shielding the flame with his palm, he held it aloft.

  Evidently, the cellar had gone unused for some time. Tiller supposed the women preferred the comfort and convenience of their roomy indoor pantry. Looking around, he couldn’t say he blamed them.

  The musty smell of damp earth rose with every footfall, mixed with the pungent odor of spoiled onions and rotted potatoes. A long abandoned termite nest took up one corner, explaining the crumbling boards he had replaced throughout the house.

  A raised platform along one wall stood off the dirt floor about two feet, stacked with crates and assorted old canning jars filled with blackened food. Mr. Lenard bent over the shelf and dripped wax to set the candle. "Over here, son. Help me clear this ledge. If the boards are sound, it’ll make a good place for the women to sit."

  Together, they filled the crates with the ruined preserves and other assorted rubbish and set them in the opposite corner.

  Tiller dusted his hands. "With a couple of quilts for padding, this should do fine."

  Smiling, Mr. Lenard opened his mouth to answer, but a strong gust doused the candle, plunging the corner into darkness.

  They made their way to the dim square of light atop the ladder and climbed outside to a shower of hail.

  "This is bad," Tiller shouted. "We’d best hurry." He bailed for the house with Mr. Lenard on his tail.

  Halfway to the porch, a muffled roar hauled them to a stop. Tiller stared in disbelief as the boiling black clouds pitched a monster to the ground. The twister seemed a hundred acres wide. He couldn’t tell how close, but it surged toward them, a black devil on a ruthless path.

  "Let’s go!" he cried, but Mr. Lenard had already run ahead.

&
nbsp; A line of anxious faces awaited them inside the kitchen. With the memory of what he’d just seen spurring him on, Tiller wasted no time. "Dicey, fetch all the quilts you can carry. One of these men will help you. Miss Vee, take the others and open as many windows as you can.

  Mariah, bring lanterns, oil, and plenty of matches. Now hurry!"

  Covering her ears, Dicey backed into Miss Vee, her wild gaze darting from face to face. "What’s that noise I hear? What’s out there?"

  Miss Vee gripped her arm and thrust her forward. "Doomsday. Unless you want it to get you, you’ll do like you’re told."

  With a high-pitched squeal, Dicey shot out the door and skidded toward the guest rooms.

  Frightened people scattered in every direction, leaving Tiller and Mr. Lenard alone in the kitchen. "How can I help?" he asked.

  Tiller tugged his sleeve. "Come with me."

  They raced down the hall to Otis’s room. Curled in his usual position, face to the wall and his rear jutted over the mattress, he slept like a carefree baby.

  "Can you believe this?" Tiller asked Mr. Lenard.

  They shared a quick smile.

  Tiller shook the bed. "Otis, wake up."

  Mumbling, he waved them away.

  Tiller took his arm and gently pulled him over. "On your feet or carried, Otis? It’s your choice. We have to get you to safety."

  Startled awake, he blinked up at Tiller. "What’s the trouble?"

  Bracing his back, Tiller helped him to his feet. "Twister. A big one headed right for us."

  Mr. Lenard took his other arm. "There ain’t a minute to spare, old-timer. Let’s get you underground."

  The roar closed on the house, rattling the walls. The churning rumbled like madly rushing water one minute, howled like an angry, squalling beast the next. Mariah’s heartbeat thundered.

  The wild-eyed parties finished their appointed tasks and met at the back door awaiting orders from Tiller. Motioning over his head, he and Mr. Lenard led the way with Otis’s skinny legs dangling between them. Mariah and the others followed, cowering like children.

  Halfway to the cellar, overwhelming curiosity drove her to raise her head. Fear like she’d never known brought her to a standstill.

  The twister bore down on them, a moving explosion. Wide at the top, engorged, it narrowed to a whirling cloud of debris at its base. In the distance, a herd of panicked deer darted out of its course, leaping and soaring to escape.

  The hail had stopped, but rain pelted her like a shower of bullets. The wind shrieked, whipping past her eyes until they stung. A force tugged at her body, her hair, her clothes, as if the nightmarish, spinning top sought to draw her, to feed on her along with everything in its path.

  Mariah steeled herself, but the pull was too strong. Terrified, she stumbled forward, longing to cry out for God’s protection. To her shame, she didn’t feel worthy. When had she stopped praying?

  In a rush, Tiller’s arms engulfed her from behind. Digging in his heels, he held her while the twister danced just over the Pearl.

  Breathless, her gaze darted to him. "It stopped moving?" The wind ripped the words from her mouth, and she didn’t think he heard.

  His throat rose and fell. "I think so," he shouted in her ear.

  "Is that possible?"

  Tiller laughed. "It must be. It’s happening right in front of us." He tugged on her arm. "It won’t last. Let’s go."

  Bowing into the wind, she let him drag her to the cellar. Clinging to his comforting arm, she swung her legs over the top of the ladder.

  Tiller stood over her, his hair whipping, his shirttail beating wildly. Reaching past her, he handed the oil and lanterns down to Mr. Lenard.

  As Mariah’s head cleared the opening, Tiller lowered the door.

  Startled, her hand shot out to stop him. "What are you doing?" she shrieked. "Come inside."

  "I’ll be back."

  "No! Where are you going?"

  He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "The horses. I have to turn them out."

  Sheki! How could she have forgotten him?

  In the moment where she almost forbade him to save her horse, her feelings for Tiller became clear. She lowered her lashes, certain her love for him shone from her eyes.

  Tiller glanced over his shoulder, the set of his jaw grim. "Get inside," he yelled. "It’s on the move again." He shouted something else before he ran, but building pressure in Mariah’s ears muffled his voice.

  Mr. Lenard climbed up beside her to help close the doors. Her muscles strained from the effort, and still the handle jerked up repeatedly, nearly pulling her arms from the sockets.

  One of the other men tugged her down and took her place. Between the two, they managed to force them shut, blotting out the meager light and some of the noise.

  Miss Vee met her at the bottom rung. "Honey, please forgive me. I can’t die at odds with you." Her voice shook with fear. "If we survive this, I promise never to meddle again."

  Mariah forced a wobbly smile for Miss Vee’s sake and leaned into her, so frightened for Tiller she couldn’t speak.

  A lantern flashed to life in the corner. Then another, casting long flickering shadows on the floor. Miss Vee wrapped a quilt around Mariah’s wet, shivering body and led her to a nest of blankets spread over a low storage shelf.

  Crawling across on her knees, Mariah pressed her back to the wall, her gaze fixed on the overhead doors. She covered her ears to drown out the hideous moaning wind and prayed. For Tiller, Sheki, and the lives of those around her.

  To plead for the safety of the inn entered her mind, but the words never formed in her heart. If the tornado ripped Bell’s Inn from the face of the earth, the promise would go up with it, along with the burden she carried. Good riddance to all, as long as it spared those she loved.

  Dicey yelped and hid her face when the doors sailed open.

  Mariah’s spirit soared to meet Tiller on the stairs.

  This time it took all the men to shut out the storm. Then Tiller beat a path to her side. Clearing the platform on one knee, he pulled her close as if he knew she needed his strength.

  She’d been wrong about her dandelion seed. The first strong wind hadn’t whisked him away. Instead, it blew him straight into her arms.

  The cellar groaned and rattled as the house danced over their heads. A deafening crack brought shrill screams from Miss Vee and Dicey. Mariah clung tighter to Tiller’s chest.

  The twister sucked one of the doors free and spun it away. With a wrenching squeal of metal, the second spun crazily on one hinge before it shot straight up in the air. The tempest raged overhead, a leering black wolf belching threats down a rabbit hole.

  Sheltered in Tiller’s arms, Mariah gazed in terrible awe as the world spun past in a dizzying blur.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Faster than it came, the twister was gone. The danger had passed, but Tiller couldn’t turn loose of Mariah. His jaw ached from clenching, and his muscles bunched in knots.

  But for the groan of settling boards and a quiet sniff from Dicey, eerie silence filled the cellar. The square patch of sky overhead was deathly still.

  No one seemed able to move—until Dicey began to wail.

  Miss Vee patted her back. "Now’s not the time to cry. It’s over. We made it."

  Tears wet Dicey’s rounded cheeks. "I ain’t bawlin’ for me." Her frantic gaze darted over their faces. "I’m worryin’ ’bout my daddy."

  Understanding dawned in Miss Vee’s eyes. "Don’t fret, honey. I’m sure he’ll be fine."

  "But it’s headed our way, and we ain’t got no root cellar." Wriggling to the edge of the platform, she struggled to her feet and started for the ladder. "I gots to run home and see."

  "Wait," Tiller called. "It could be dangerous."

  She stilled and turned, wringing her hands. "What you mean by dangerous?"

  He ducked his chin at the opening. "There’s no telling what we’ll find up there. Let the menfolk go first. We’ll have a look around,
and then I’ll walk you home to check on your pa."

  She retraced her steps and settled obediently on the rim of the shelf.

  Realizing he still held Mariah, Tiller glanced down. "Are you all right?"

  Her face tilted up, trust shining from her eyes. "I think so."

  A smile twitched his lips. "Let me know when you’re sure."

  She ducked her head and nodded. "I’m sure."

  He gave her a little squeeze then released her to let her sit up. Gazing around in the flickering light, his eyes lit on Otis. "How are you faring, sir?"

  Otis chuckled and pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulders. "Missing my bed and my hearth. And this empty belly’s asking for lunch."

  Dicey spun to gape at him. "How you gon’ eat after all this?"

  Otis beamed. "Hand me a drumstick, and I’ll show you."

  Miss Vee snorted. "Let’s pray there’s still a kitchen left to fry a drumstick."

  Tiller heaved himself off the ledge. "Who wants to go up top with me and find out?"

  Mr. Lenard and his troop stood one at a time, shaking the dust off their clothes. Two of the older men looked a bit shaky.

  Tiller nodded at them. "I’d be obliged if you’d wait here to keep an eye on the women."

  He didn’t have to ask them twice.

  First at the ladder, Tiller climbed, dreading what he might see. The loud crack they’d heard could’ve been anything, but his money was on the oak. He hoped it hadn’t split Bell’s Inn down the middle when it fell.

  His anxious gaze cleared the opening. Groaning, he couldn’t believe the devastation.

  A blanket of debris covered the backyard in a patchwork of mismatched rubble. Brightly colored quilts tangled with splintered tree limbs. A feather pillow peeked from under a wagon wheel. Shredded wallpaper and cracked lumber mixed with twisted tablecloths, busted frames, and shards of china dishes. Large sections of walls, ceilings, and broken gables scattered the grounds, along with a ripped-out kitchen sink.