Beneath a Prairie Moon

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Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 5

by Kim Vogel Sawyer


  As she chewed the first flavorful bite, Mr. Patterson returned with two dingy-looking cloths, a plain white mug of steaming coffee, and a tin cup of frothy milk. He put the items on the table without a word and disappeared again. He didn’t emerge from the kitchen until both women had finished their soup, eaten a biscuit apiece, and emptied their cups. To Abigail’s great relief, the milk tasted like milk. She enjoyed every cold sip, and she informed him so when he picked up her cup.

  His face streaked pink. “I didn’t make the milk. The cow did all the work.”

  Abigail had no idea how to respond to such a statement, so she merely nodded and brushed a few biscuit crumbs toward the center of the table.

  Mrs. Bingham dabbed her mouth with the cloth, dropped it over her bowl, and rose. “Thank you for a delicious supper, Mr. Patterson. Abigail, shall we go see how the men are progressing in readying our accommodations?”

  Abigail had no desire to enter a room previously occupied by what Mother would have called a “soiled dove,” but given their lack of options, she had little choice but to agree. “Yes, I—”

  The thud of feet on the stairs cut off the remainder of Abigail’s reply. The preacher and Mr. Cleveland thumped into the room, both wearing cobwebs in their hair. A little cloud of dust seemed to hover around them, and Abigail felt a sneeze coming on. She quickly pressed the end of her nose to prevent the sneeze from escaping.

  Preacher Doan chuckled. “Athol wasn’t exaggerating when he said those rooms hadn’t been cleaned for a while. But he was wrong about them not being used. Some nonpaying critters had made themselves at home. We knocked down a good two dozen spiderwebs and cleaned out some mouse nests.”

  Abigail’s stomach began to churn. Spiders? And mice? If the webs and nests had been removed, did that mean the vermin were gone, too? How would she be able to rest, fearing that such loathsome creatures lurked in the corners?

  The preacher’s smile never dimmed. “But the rooms are as clean as we could get them on such short notice. You ladies will probably want to give them another going-over tomorrow. Most likely when you open the shades to the morning’s sunshine, you’ll discover we left behind as much as we cleared.”

  Mrs. Bingham released a delicate sigh. “Preacher, you and Mr. Cleveland have been much too kind. We are so appreciative of your efforts on our behalf, aren’t we, Abigail?”

  Abigail forced her lips into a wobbly smile. “Yes. Thank you for…trying.”

  The two men exchanged a glance that seemed to hold hidden meaning. Then the preacher beamed his bright smile at Abigail and Mrs. Bingham. “We started to clean the rooms right at the top of the stairs, but my wife is partial to east-facing windows, so we cleaned the two looking out over the alley. You’ll find a door at the end of the hall. It’ll take you to an outside staircase into the backyard, where there’s a, well…” He scratched his temple. “What you ladies would probably call the ‘necessary.’ ”

  The information was pertinent. In all honesty, Abigail had wondered about the personal accommodation but hadn’t known how to ask. But to have it so casually stated caused her face to burn anew.

  Without warning, the preacher’s expression turned serious. “Keep the outside door locked when you aren’t using it, and it would be in your best interest to never venture out alone. Stay together.”

  Mrs. Bingham curled her fingers around Abigail’s elbow. “Are you intimating we could be in some sort of danger?”

  He frowned. “Intimating?”

  “Implying,” Mrs. Bingham said. “Giving us a hint.”

  “I’m not hinting about anything. I’m saying it right out. Single ladies are a rarity in these parts, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.” The preacher folded his arms over his chest. “You might have a good reason for showing up here without the brides the men were expecting, but I have to warn you it could lead to unpleasantness. The fellows in Spiveyville respect women, but they’re lonely and impatient and apt to be impulsive, as Miss Grant already experienced with W. C. Miller.”

  Mrs. Bingham huffed. “Yes. That young man certainly needs a lesson in propriety. He’s fortunate that he responded to Mr. Cleveland’s intervention. Otherwise I would have made use of the weapon my dear departed husband insisted I carry as a safeguard.”

  Abigail gawked at her employer, too stunned to speak.

  Both men’s eyebrows rose high. Mr. Cleveland’s gaze dropped to her reticule. “Are you packing a pistol?”

  She nodded, her expression demure. “A nickel-plated Remington over-under model, and I assure you, gentlemen, I know how to use it.”

  Abigail gripped her throat. Her pulse pounded beneath her fingertips. “Mrs. Bingham, it terrifies me to think you carry a loaded pistol.”

  The matchmaker aimed an amused look at Abigail. “An unloaded pistol is useless.” She lifted her chin and faced the men. “There are unsavory men in cities, too. As I promised Howard I would, I have kept my derringer close at hand since the day I buried him, and I will inform the men at tomorrow’s meeting of my intention to prove my sure aim if one of them chooses to accost either Abigail or me.”

  An errant thought tripped through Abigail’s brain. If she had a nickel-plated Remington in hand, she wouldn’t need a hickory stick. A giggle built in the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard lest it escape.

  Mr. Cleveland grimaced. “I’m sorry W. C. scared you, ma’am, but you’ve got to remember the men’ve already waited almost two months to hear from you. Now it appears it’s gonna be a while before their brides come.” He looked to the preacher.

  The preacher gave a grim nod. “Our sheriff got called to the county seat this morning to testify about some cow stealing over in Granger. He’ll probably be back tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest. Until then, carry your derringer if it makes you feel more secure, but it’d be wise for you two to keep an escort with you.” He clapped his hand on Mr. Cleveland’s shoulder. “Mack’s hardware store is right next door. He’s a trustworthy escort. You can depend on Athol Patterson, too. Or, if you’d rather, you can ask Mack or Athol to fetch me.”

  “As I said, you’re very thoughtful, Reverend. Thank you.” Mrs. Bingham tightened her grip on Abigail’s arm. “And now, if you’ll excuse us—”

  Mr. Cleveland stepped into their pathway. “Ma’am, before you head upstairs, I need to take Miss Grant over to Doc Kettering’s office for some aloe.”

  Abigail drew back slightly. “I’m fine.”

  Mr. Cleveland scowled. “Miss Grant, you’re a city gal, but haven’t you ever had a sunburn?”

  Mother had always insisted upon keeping the cover up on their carriage or making use of a parasol so her skin remained creamy white, and Abigail had always followed Mother’s example. “No. Never.”

  “Then I have to tell you, it’s gonna hurt worse later than it likely hurts now.”

  Worse? She gingerly touched her cheek, and fresh tingles stabbed like stings from a dozen hornets. She winced.

  “Aloe will help.” Sympathy tinged the man’s tone, although not a hint of it showed in his stormy blue eyes. “Don’t be stubborn. Let me take you over to the doc.”

  Stubbornness held no part of her reluctance. She could never traverse a dark street with a man other than her father or husband, yet to say so would seem petty and critical. Especially after the preacher had just declared Mr. Cleveland a trustworthy escort. Which was the greater breach of etiquette—to speak the bald truth or to allow him to escort her under the moonlight to the doctor’s office? Why didn’t Mrs. Bingham explain?

  She glanced at the matchmaker and discovered the woman’s eyelids were drooping. Her grip on Abigail’s arm, too, had become stronger, as if she relied upon Abigail to hold her upright. The older woman needed to rest after their long, wearying days of travel.

  “Mr. Cleveland, I appreciate your kindness in seeking to alleviate my discomfort.” Oh, how
it hurt to speak, every movement pulling at the tender skin on her cheeks. Why hadn’t she covered herself with a handkerchief when she’d had the opportunity? “But it’s been a very trying day, and both Mrs. Bingham and I need our rest. Would you kindly allow us to retire to our rooms now?”

  His entire frame stiffened and he set his lips so tightly they slipped into hiding beneath his mustache. But he stepped aside.

  “Thank you again for readying our rooms, Preacher Doan and Mr. Cleveland. Mrs. Bingham and I will see you tomorrow evening at the church for our meeting with the”—she gulped—“prospective grooms.”

  Mack

  Mack waited until the women disappeared around the bend at the top of the stairs before blasting a snort. “That is one mule-headed woman.”

  Preacher Doan shrugged. “It’s her choice to go see Doc Kettering or not. You can lead a horse, or in this case a thoroughbred filly, to water—”

  “—but you can’t make her drink. I know, I know.”

  The men snagged their jackets from the backs of chairs and sauntered onto the porch. While they’d been upstairs swatting dust from the furniture and remaking beds, dark had fallen and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. Mack jammed his arms into his jacket and looked up and down the quiet, gray-shrouded street. He couldn’t recall seeing the town so dark before, and it took a minute for him to figure out the reason. Sheriff Thorn was out of town, so no one had lit the oil lamps hanging from poles on the corners. Maybe he’d light them before he turned in. Those two women would need to be able to find their way to the outhouse.

  A soft nicker met his ears, and he remembered he’d left his wagon and horses in the middle of the street. Putting up his team and wagon, lighting the lamps…He had work to do before turning in, so maybe it was best the little filly had refused his offer to take her to Doc Kettering.

  He moved to the edge of the raised boardwalk. “Well, Preacher, I guess I oughta—”

  “You had a long drive with the ladies.” The preacher’s serious voice chased away Mack’s intentions. “What do you think…about them?”

  Mack pushed his hands into his pants pockets and chewed his mustache. “They’re both real proper. The older one, Mrs. Bingham, is a lot friendlier than Miss Grant.” Mrs. Bingham had said the travel made Miss Grant cranky. Would she be less grumbly after a night of rest? He hoped so. A gal as pretty as her needed to behave pretty, too.

  “I meant what you think about the reason they’re here.” Mack couldn’t make out the preacher’s face in the deep shadows, but he heard the worry in his tone. “Do you think there really is a bevy of brides waiting to come to Kansas?”

  Mack couldn’t say for sure. He didn’t want to think the women were swindlers. Especially women as well dressed and well mannered as these two. But looks could be deceiving. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll know more after the meeting tomorrow evening.”

  “I think I’ll bring Medora to the meeting, too. She’ll probably say she needs to grade papers.” The preacher’s wife served as the town’s schoolteacher even though she’d never had a lick of training, and everyone sang her praise. “But she’s always been a good judge of character, so I want her there.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” Mrs. Doan wouldn’t get stuck on the attractive outside of the women the way men tended to do.

  Preacher Doan gave Mack a clap on the shoulder. Dust filled Mack’s nostrils. Both men coughed, and the preacher backed away, waving his hands in front of his face. “I better give my clothes a good brushing before I go in the house or Medora will think I’ve been rolling in the street.” He headed up the boardwalk, glancing over his shoulder. “Thanks for helping get those rooms clean.”

  “Thanks for helping get the men under control.”

  The preacher’s laughter rolled.

  Mack turned toward his store. If he intended to light the lamps, he needed some matches. His horses snorted, and he called, “I’ll get to you. Be patient.” The lamps came first. The horses third. Because there was something else he needed to do in between.

  Six

  Helena

  Despite the musty smell of the pillowcase, despite the lumpy mattress, despite the strange surroundings, Helena had fallen asleep the moment she reclined. But a sound—the scuff as quiet as a whisper in church—brought her fully awake. She instinctively slid her hand under the pillow and found her derringer. She tossed aside the cover and swung her feet to the floor. Her robe lay across the foot of the bed, and she slipped it on while tiptoeing across the creaky floorboards to the door. Holding her breath, she cracked it open, gun held at the ready.

  A shadowy figure bent over in front of Abigail’s door. Was he peeking through the young woman’s keyhole? Helena pulled back on the hammer, and at its light click, the man straightened, his back to her.

  “I only have one shot, but I promise I will make it count.” Helena kept her voice low, unwilling to wake Abigail and frighten her, but she injected a firmness in her tone to let the man know she meant business.

  He put both hands in the air and turned slowly until he faced her. Pale light from the lantern mounted shoulder high on the wall near the staircase at the end of the hall touched his face.

  She gave a start. “Mr. Cleveland?” The preacher had said they could trust this man. Her confidence in the preacher plummeted. She kept the gun aimed at his broad chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nothing bad. Honest.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Miss Grant wouldn’t go see Doc Kettering, so I brought…” He bounced his elbow in an awkward gesture.

  Helena glanced down. A clay pot holding an odd, spiky plant sat on the floor beside his feet. Understanding eased through her and she removed her finger from the trigger. “Aloe?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He shifted in place, his hands in the air. “By morning her stubbornness will likely be worn out and she’s gonna want something for her sunburn. So there it is.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Cleveland.” Especially considering how prickly Abigail had behaved toward the man. Somehow she needed to find a way to dismantle the wall of snootiness the young woman used to defend herself against hurt. “But couldn’t you have waited until morning? You’re very fortunate I chose to ask questions before I made use of my weapon after the preacher warned us to stay alert.”

  He grimaced. “I reckon I didn’t expect to get caught out here.” Hands still high, his gaze never lifting from the derringer, he took a slow step forward with his heels dragging on the floor. “You…have that loaded and ready?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “You’re an unusual woman, Mrs. Bingham.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “The only other woman I ever met who carried a pistol was Wilhelmina Wilkes. She robbed a whole church full of people and came within inches of stealing my uncle’s life savings after she answered his advertisement for a bride.”

  Although his voice—a mere rasping whisper—held little emotion, she glimpsed pain in his eyes. Sympathy sent her apprehension away. No longer threatened, she uncocked the hammer, dropped the pistol in her pocket, and folded her arms across her chest. “I assure you, I am not Wilhelmina Wilkes, and I have no intention of swindling your friends. Given your experience, you have no reason to trust my words as true, but if you come to tomorrow evening’s meeting, perhaps your worries will be eased.”

  “I’d be welcome even though I didn’t ask to be matched with a bride?” He sounded dubious, but he let his arms drift to his sides and settled his weight on one hip in a relaxed pose.

  “Everyone is welcome.” An idea struck as if from heaven above, and she smiled. “As a matter of fact, if you’d be kind enough to spread the word tomorrow about the meeting, perhaps other townspeople—even those who are already married—would enjoy taking part in what Abigail and I have planned for the bac
helors of Spiveyville.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Exactly what is it you’ve got planned, Mrs. Bingham?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head, chuckling. “You must wait like everyone else until tomorrow evening. But for now…” She covered a yawn. “Thank you for bringing the aloe plant, Mr. Cleveland. I’m sure Abigail will be most appreciative when she discovers it.”

  He glanced at the closed door, frowning. “I hope so. Don’t much like to think of anybody hurting.”

  Clearly, Mr. Mack Cleveland was a considerate man, the kind of man she wanted for her brides. Did his resistance to marriage stem from his uncle’s unfortunate experience, or did something else hinder him from seeking her services? Her curiosity would have to be sated another time because sleep now beckoned.

  She stepped backward over the threshold and closed the door. The darkness of the room enveloped her, and she groped for the key. With a twist of her fingers, she secured the lock. Then she pressed her ear to the door. As she expected, retreating footsteps spoke of Mr. Cleveland’s departure.

  She made her way to the bed, returned the pistol to its place beneath her pillow, and lay down. She didn’t rouse again until slivers of sunlight sneaked between the cracks in the shades and invited her eyelids to open. Groaning, she pushed to her feet and stretched. The need for the outhouse made itself known, and she quickly donned her robe. The little necessary sat near the bottom of the outdoor staircase, shielded by overgrown bushes, so she could make the trek in her robe and slippers.

  The morning air held a chill, but pleasant aromas—coffee and fresh-baked biscuits, no doubt coming from Mr. Patterson’s kitchen—reached her nostrils. She inhaled the inviting scent while descending the warped stairs, careful not to drag her hem over the deposits of dried bird droppings and tobacco stains, then held her breath during her quick venture into the outhouse. Its inside smelled nothing like coffee and fresh-baked biscuits.

 

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