Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He threw his arms outward. “What’s got into you fellas? Sam, Athol buys his bread from you for the restaurant. Athol, Sam eats half his meals in your dining room. You help each other. You’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. Why do you wanna fight each other?”

  Their glowers faded into sheepish grins. Athol looked at Sam, who looked at Athol. They both shrugged.

  Sam scratched his cheek. “Reckon he made me mad, sayin’ I had a skinny rump an’ orderin’ me to get out o’ here an’ not come back. Made me mad an’…an’ it shamed me. In front o’ the ladies.”

  Athol hung his head. “Guess I came on harder’n I should’ve when I seen you up here, all dandied up for courtin’.” He blushed as red as the paint on the new hammer handles. “Seemed like you was cheatin’, gettin’ a jump on the rest o’ us who are wantin’ wives, too. An’ I reckon I kinda wanted to show off for ’em. Let ’em see they was safe…with me.”

  “Well, it’s all over now.” Sam fiddled with his ripped lapel. “Don’t guess I’ll be doin’ any more courtin’. ’Cause o’ our tussle, I ain’t even got a nice coat to wear to Sunday service.”

  Athol fingered his puffy chin. “Come on down to the kitchen. We’ll make use o’ some o’ my tincture of arnica. Then I’ll go with you over to Otto’s, see if he can’t stitch up them tears. I’ll even pay the tab.”

  Sam brightened. “You will?”

  “Sure. Got some extra jinglin’ change comin’ since these two women are rentin’ my rooms. Might as well use it to square things with you. Have we got a deal?”

  Sam stuck out his hand and the two shook hands, somber. Then they broke into matching grins, lopsided from their swollen lips. They ambled off, arms slung across each other’s shoulders. The moment they rounded the bend, Mack folded his arms over his chest. He peered at Mrs. Bingham out of the corner of his eye.

  “Ma’am, I’m not one to tell somebody else how to run their business, but I need to know something.”

  She tilted her head and rested one fist on her hip. “What is that?”

  “Do you really intend to bring a passel of brides to Spiveyville?”

  “Yes. I most certainly do.”

  “When?”

  She opened the reticule dangling from her wrist and placed her derringer inside. “I cannot give a definitive date. Much depends on the progress of the gentlemen in this town.”

  Miss Grant, who hadn’t budged from her spot at the head of the hallway, gave a loud, scornful sniff. Both Mrs. Bingham and Mack looked at her. Her sunburned face glowed even redder. “Forgive my rude expulsion, but I do not understand how you can begin to use the term gentlemen when referring to the men of this town.”

  He bristled. Had she just insulted him?

  “Why, they’re nothing but odious oafs! You claimed they were good hearted, Mr. Cleveland, but I would call them uncouth and completely uncivilized.”

  Mack could argue, but what good would it do? The snooty little gal had made up her mind already. Probably even before she arrived in town. He turned a frown on Mrs. Bingham. “What did you mean by their progress?”

  She smiled and chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, now, Mr. Cleveland, you mustn’t run ahead of me. All will be made clear at this evening’s meeting. Which reminds me…” She took a step toward Miss Grant and extended her hand. “The threat has passed, Abigail. Come along now so we can organize the information for our gathering with the fine people of Spiveyville.”

  Miss Grant didn’t budge. “I’ve changed my mind. These men are beyond help. I cannot subject myself to more leering grins and offers of courtship.” She shuddered and shifted to face Mack. “Mr. Cleveland, may I prevail upon you to drive me to Pratt Center? I need to return to Newton as quickly as possible.”

  Her regal head held high, Mrs. Bingham strode across the planked floor. “To what are you returning?”

  “Your house.”

  “For what purpose?”

  The younger woman wrung her hands. She chewed her dry lip for a moment, her wide brown eyes fearful. “I’ll assist in interviewing potential brides.”

  “Marietta is quite capable of handling that task unaided until my return, at which time I will resume the responsibility.”

  “Then I’ll…I’ll…” Tears winked in her eyes. She blinked fast and hard. “Let me go back, please? I’m sure there is something I can do that will be helpful for your business.”

  Mrs. Bingham shook her head. “You’re needed here, Abigail, as we’ve already discussed.”

  “But I cannot—”

  “You can, and you will.” Mrs. Bingham gripped Miss Grant’s elbow and steered her toward the room at the end of the hall. As they moved past Mack, the older woman sent him a tense smile. “Thank you again for your assistance, Mr. Cleveland. Please alert the sheriff about this morning’s unpleasant encounter. Perhaps he would be wise to post a man at the restaurant doors to prevent future uninvited intrusions.”

  She ushered Miss Grant through the doorway and snapped the door closed behind them, but not before Mack got a glimpse of the young woman’s pitiful, helpless expression. An uncomfortable weight settled on his chest—half worry, half…unexplainably…sympathy. What did Mrs. Bingham expect from Miss Grant? And why did he care?

  Helena

  Behind the privacy of the closed door, Helena planted her hands on her hips and gave Abigail her sternest frown. “Young woman, I am sorry you received such a fright this morning, but you and I have an agreement. I expect you to honor your word and see the commitment through to completion.”

  Tears spilled down Abigail’s cheeks, and she grimaced. She dabbed at the moisture with her wrists. “When I agreed, I didn’t realize—”

  “That the men were grievously loutish?” Helena took a handkerchief from her top drawer and pressed it into Abigail’s hand. “Here, use this. And stop crying. The salt in your tears will only aggravate your sunburn.” She waited until the girl gingerly dried her cheeks, then continued in a firm tone. “You’re not unintelligent, Abigail. Have I ever resorted to such means with any prospective grooms in all the years of my matchmaking business? That in itself should have told you how desperately these men need gentling.”

  Abigail’s lower lip quivered. She wadded the handkerchief in her hands. “They’re grown men, Mrs. Bingham, not children to be molded and influenced. And they’re so…so…” She pulled in a shuddering breath. “You’ve been so kind to me. I appreciate it, and I want to repay you. But…”

  Helena waited, but Abigail fell silent, her head low. Helena emitted a soft sigh. The only reason Abigail wanted to help in this venture was because there were no other options available to her. Helena found no joy in Abigail’s sorry position. The Lord in heaven knew she’d been dealt an unfair blow by her father’s abhorrent decision to cheat his business partners and abscond with thousands of dollars. What young man of influence would court the daughter of a known criminal? But why couldn’t she lay aside her ridiculously high expectations and accept the hand of a poor but honest, hardworking man?

  Why, Helena’s dear Howard had been born to poor but virtuous parents who had the foresight to send him to school each day and then on to higher education, where he studied law and became a well-respected and contributing member of society. He hadn’t possessed more than two nickels to rub together when they met, but she’d known instantly she would be safe with him. Security didn’t come only through a large bank account. Apparently Abigail hadn’t discovered that truth yet. And Helena wasn’t the girl’s mother. It was not her job to teach Abigail such life lessons. She would need to uncover them on her own.

  Abigail sniffed and wiped her eyes again. “Trying to teach these men to be mannerly, moral gentlemen is as useless as trying to teach a bird to swim or a fish to fly.”

  Helena smiled. “Are you familiar with the mallard duck, Abigail?”

  The girl’s
face creased in silent query, but she nodded.

  “And the Canada goose?”

  Again, a puzzled nod.

  “Were you aware that both of these species of birds are quite adept at swimming?”

  Abigail shifted her gaze aside and crunched her lips together.

  “There is also an amazing sea creature called the Atlantic flyingfish that bursts from the ocean and glides for a distance of more than six hundred feet. It’s truly an incredible thing to watch.” She cupped Abigail’s chin and turned her face until their gazes met. “I am not asking the impossible of you. If a feathered mallard can swim and finned Atlantic fish can fly, then you, dear, can teach uncouth men to behave like civilized creatures.”

  More tears wobbled on her eyelashes. “I can?”

  Helena laughed and moved away from the girl. “Simply being in your presence will be a lesson in itself. The shortage of women on the plains has allowed these men to fall into boorish habits. But the presence of a lady will stir them to more appropriate behavior.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Abigail might not appreciate being used as bait, but this morning’s melee had convinced Helena a competition would intrinsically arise between the men, each eager to claim the attractive young woman as their prize. “Because I’ve learned a great deal in my lifetime about the confusing yet completely irresistible creature known as a man.”

  She lifted the letter she’d crafted to Marietta and tucked it in her reticule. “Let’s see to our errands, hmm? The post office and the general store. A poke bonnet can’t cost much. Then you and I will go over my lesson notes. Once you see what I intend, you’ll discover you are more than adequately equipped to conquer this assignment.”

  Ten

  Abigail

  As he’d promised, Sheriff Thorn arrived at the restaurant at a quarter past seven. He didn’t offer his elbow to either Mrs. Bingham or Abigail, but he did open the doors for them. A token gesture of chivalry since the pair of doors swung on hinges and didn’t even require the twist of a knob.

  Dusk had fallen, but Abigail wore her new poke bonnet anyway. None of the bonnets on the shelf in the mercantile were remotely close to attractive, but she’d located a cluster of wax cherries in the bottom of a crate marked “Discards,” and the mercantile owner, Mr. Thompson, made a great show of letting her have them without asking for even a penny in return. Did he really believe his behavior was gallant? Why should anyone pay for something taken from what equated to a trash bin?

  But, determined to set a good example, she had thanked him profusely and then used a needle and some green thread from Mrs. Bingham’s little travel sewing kit to attach the cherries to the left side of the sad brown tube-shaped bonnet. The brim shielded her face from sunlight, moonlight, starlight, and lamplight. She observed her surroundings through an odd-shaped opening, jittery since her peripheral vision was completely obliterated. For the first time in her life, she empathized with horses forced to wear blinders.

  She trailed Mrs. Bingham and the sheriff past Spiveyville’s businesses, careful not to step on the sweeping skirt of Mrs. Bingham’s gown but staying as close as possible. The buildings didn’t connect, leaving dark, narrow passageways in between where someone could easily hide. If an overeager man tried to sneak up alongside her, she wanted to be in close proximity to the sheriff. Especially since Mrs. Bingham had left her derringer in her room.

  They stepped from the wooden boardwalk fronting Spiveyville’s business district to a dirt street. The sheriff pointed ahead. “Church is up there yonder—sits at the corner of Second an’ Adams.” His saunter became a strut. “Back when we was namin’ streets, I come up with the idea of First, Second, an’ so forth to the east o’ Main an’ then using alphabet letters—you know, A Street, B Street—to the west to help folks find their way around.”

  “And Adams, I presume, is from President Adams?” A smile colored Mrs. Bingham’s tone.

  “Yes, ma’am. Now, that wasn’t my idea. It come from our first mayor, Ernie Emery, who’s gone on to his reward. A bunch o’ us wanted to take names from those who first lived in the town—Emery an’ Thorn an’ Adelman an’ so forth—but that Ernie, he wasn’t one for airs. He said to put presidents’ names on the streets instead, an’ everybody thought real high of Ernie, so we did as he said.” He released a snort that held amusement. “ ’Course, back then, we figgered Spiveyville’d get a whole lot bigger. Never thought we’d end with President Madison, Third Street, an’ C Street, but that’s the way of it.”

  Abigail wanted to examine the town, but to see beyond the bonnet’s brim, she had to turn her neck at a sharp angle. Doing so meant losing sight of the sheriff and Mrs. Bingham. So she kept her gaze aimed at their backs and peeked between them at the few houses spaced sporadically along the street. Despite the brim’s limitation, she had no difficulty spotting the location of the church. Horses and wagons filled the yard and spilled into the street. Her pulse began to gallop. Mr. Cleveland must have followed Mrs. Bingham’s instruction to invite everyone in town. And everyone must have accepted.

  The sheriff led them in a mazelike path between wagons to the front porch of the chapel. Lamps glowed behind the simple two-panes-across, three-panes-down windows. Soft voices—mutters interspersed with guffaws—drifted from behind the limestone block walls. A gable not much deeper than the brim of her bonnet stood sentry above a pair of wood-paneled double doors, which were propped open with large gray rocks.

  “Go on in, ladies.” Sheriff Thorn gestured to the three wooden risers climbing directly to the doors. “Looks to me like ever’body’s already here waitin’ on ya.”

  Mrs. Bingham pinched her skirt between her fingers and climbed upward. Abigail did the same, but her trembling fingers couldn’t quite hold their grip. Her skirt dipped, catching the toe of her shoe, and she stumbled. She caught her balance as she crossed the threshold, but her foot landed with a solid thump against the floor. As if she’d intended it to be a signal for silence, everyone stopped talking. She couldn’t see, thanks to her shielding brim, but she sensed dozens of gazes pinned on her, and her face immediately heated.

  Mrs. Bingham eased her fashionable wide-brimmed hat from her head. “Remove your bonnet, Abigail,” she whispered. “There are hooks here on the back wall to receive millinery.”

  Abigail preferred to remain hidden, but she followed her employer’s direction, tugging at the wide muslin ribbons with hands that shook so badly she marveled they functioned at all. She looped the bonnet ribbons on a wooden peg, then turned to face the crowd. Nausea attacked. She pressed her intertwined fingers to her stomach. Every bench was filled, mostly by men, from young to old. Expressions varied from curious to friendly. Only a few struck her as lecherous, but there were so many more people than she’d expected—fifty at least. Her practices in elocution were a decade past and had been performed in front of her peers. How would she stand in front of such a large, unfamiliar group of people and speak the way Mrs. Bingham expected?

  Mrs. Bingham planted her palm in the center of Abigail’s back and propelled her up the center aisle. The backless benches squeaked with the shifting weight of those seated, their faces following the women’s progress the way sunflowers followed the course of the sun. When they reached the front, Mrs. Bingham stepped past Abigail onto the dais and stopped beside the preacher’s podium. She skimmed a bright, relaxed smile of welcome across the entire congregation. Abigail focused on the matchmaker, willing her galloping pulse to calm and her stomach to cease its flips of apprehension before it spilled the fried chicken and corn bread she’d eaten for supper less than an hour ago.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is wonderful to see so many of you here.” She settled her smile on one area. “Mr. Cleveland, apparently you have a great talent for spreading information. Perhaps you should change your occupation from hardware store owner to newsman.”

  Light lau
ghter rolled through the room. A man from the back—the same man who had plucked Abigail from the wagon seat—called out, “Stop talkin’ about Mack an’ tell us when we’re gonna get our brides.”

  Sheriff Thorn strode halfway up the aisle and planted himself there. “W. C. Miller, you hold your tongue until the lady tells you it’s time to talk, or you can just hightail it right back to your cows.” He roved his glare around the room. “This here is the Lord’s house. If you wouldn’t go hollerin’ out at Preacher Doan, you shouldn’t oughta be hollerin’ out at Miz Bingham. So y’all hush.”

  A few people muttered, but no one argued. The sheriff bobbed his salt-and-pepper head at Mrs. Bingham. “Go ahead now, ma’am. Say what needs sayin’.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” Mrs. Bingham locked her hands behind her back and paced slowly up and down the dais. Their gazes followed her, heads moving as if their noses were iron and Mrs. Bingham a magnet. “As Sheriff Thorn indicated, I am Mrs. Helena Bingham. I operate Bingham’s Bevy of Brides, a matchmaking service from Newton, Massachusetts. I am here in Spiveyville with my assistant, Miss Abigail Grant, in response to several requests for brides from men residing in your community and on surrounding ranches.”

  As a group, their attention fixed on Abigail for a few seconds, then whipped back to Mrs. Bingham. Their seemingly choreographed movements struck Abigail as comical, and she fought nervous giggles. She bit down on her lower lip to hold the inappropriate chortles inside.

  “Will the men who sent letters of request please rise?”

  Men popped up like gophers from their holes, the floor squeaking in protest. Abigail silently counted. All sixteen were there. Another flutter of nervousness churned through her stomach.

  Mrs. Bingham nodded, her demure smile in place. “Thank you. You may be seated.” More squeaks resounded as the men settled back on the benches. “I don’t wish to be rude to our other guests, but for the moment I would like to address those who rose. I am aware that most often, a matchmaker receives correspondence and a fee from a prospective groom, selects a bride who fits the groom’s requirements, and sends her off to meet and eventually marry the one who made the request. As you can imagine, I become quite familiar with my prospective brides. I grow attached to them, even feel motherly toward them, and I want my girls to be well cared for. Thus, I traveled to Spiveyville in order to meet you grooms, to assure myself that you are decent, law-abiding men who will be good providers and faithful husbands to the girls who entrusted me with their futures.”