Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He frowned at her for several seconds as if trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Then he gave a brusque nod. “Let’s get you back to Athol’s.” He held out her shawl and bonnet. “Tie them things on good an’ tight. A storm’s been blowin’ in this afternoon. Wind strong enough to carry a body into the next county an’ cold enough to freeze your eyeballs.”

  Abigail peeked out the window, stunned to discover the sky had turned gray and menacing during her hours in the church building. The sturdy rock walls had done a fine job of muffling the wind. She wished the frigid blasts had kept Mr. Hildreth at bay. She gave the knot at her throat a firm yank, adjusted her bonnet to better protect her face, and took the sheriff’s bony elbow. “Why didn’t you come for me earlier if you were concerned about a storm?”

  “Oh, I peeked in at you around three.”

  Embarrassment struck hard, and Abigail gulped. “You…peeked in?” Had Otto Hildreth stood outside and observed her while she was unaware, too?

  “Yep. Saw you wavin’ your arms an’ walkin’ up an’ down. Figured it’d be best not to disturb you since you seemed as wrought up as Preacher Doan when he’s warnin’ us all about the evils o’ sin.” He pressed his elbow to his ribs, trapping her hand. “Now you hold tight an’ I’ll getcha to the restaurant safe an’ sound.”

  The wind stole Abigail’s breath the moment they left the church. Oh, so cold! And so strong. She should have left the church hours ago. She could have saved herself an unpleasant encounter. She clung to the sheriff’s arm with both hands and kept her head low. Gusts forced her bonnet brim flat against her face, pulled at her shawl, and plastered her skirt to her legs, making it difficult to walk, but Sheriff Thorn kept a steady pace, and within minutes they entered the warmth of the restaurant.

  Abigail collapsed into a chair, releasing a mighty breath. “Thank you for accompanying me, Sheriff. I appreciate your stalwart presence very much.”

  He rubbed the underside of his nose. “Well, now, I know what a wart is. Have had a few of them in my day. But stalwart, you say? I ain’t too certain about that. But since it come from your mouth, I’m gonna take it as a compullment.”

  “You should. Stalwart means trustworthy and dependable. Excellent qualities. Especially for someone in a position of leadership.” She removed her bonnet and smoothed stray wisps of hair into place. How the wind had reached her hair even beneath the bonnet’s wide brim, she couldn’t understand, but it had, just as it now wheezed between cracks in the rattling windows and whisked beneath the solid door.

  The sheriff crossed to a window and peered out. He fidgeted, his movements tense and jerky. “I’m guessin’ there won’t be many who come to the restaurant for supper. They’ll be securin’ their shutters an’ stayin’ in to eat hardtack.” He sent a grin in her direction. “I got a load of buckshot in the back o’ my left thigh when I was a boy, an’ it’s let me predict a rip-roarin’ storm ever since. We’re in for a bad’un, my leg’s tellin’ me. So you be smart, Miss Grant, an’ don’t go roamin’ no place else tonight. All right?”

  The windows rattled again. Cold air crept under the door and across her ankles. Otto Hildreth’s fury-reddened face flashed in her memory. She shivered. “Yes, sir, I’ll stay in. I promise.”

  Fourteen

  Mack

  Mack removed the tacks holding the sign-up charts on the wall, doing his best not to tear the charts’ corners. Only one corner tore away, and he used a pair of scissors to smooth the rough edge before tamping the charts into a neat stack. Then he stood with the stack in his hands and argued with himself about what to do with them.

  He’d promised to deliver the pages to Mrs. Bingham and Miss Grant at closing time on Saturday. Which was now. He made it a practice to keep his word, the way he’d been taught. The way he knew his heavenly Father would approve. But just this once, he wished he could ignore his conscience and stay in.

  The wind howled worse than a pack of prowling wolves. Dust formed billowing clouds outside the window, thick enough to block the evening sun. He looked at the charts and then again out the window. Did the women really need the names today? Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow, when the storm had passed?

  He nibbled the tip of his mustache and argued with himself for several minutes, but in the end, he knew he wouldn’t rest unless he honored what he’d said. He had to take these charts to the restaurant.

  With a mighty sigh, Mack laid the charts aside and buttoned his jacket all the way to the collar. The restaurant was right next door—only twenty paces from his front door to Patterson’s. He wouldn’t get lost even in a blinding storm because he was smart enough to follow the buildings. He just didn’t like the idea of being out.

  “But a promise is a promise.” He rolled the charts into a tube, gripped them tightly in one hand, and marched himself out the door.

  The wind hit with such force he staggered backward several steps. He’d intended to lock the store behind him, but who else would be foolish enough to be out? Bending forward, one shoulder braced against the wall, he pushed against the gusts. Twice he bounced free of the building’s lap siding, and both times confusion struck him with the sensation of being suspended in a whirlwind. After the second time, he pressed himself flat to the wall. It made for slower progress, but he felt safer knowing exactly where he was.

  When he reached the narrow alleyway, he nearly fell into the opening. He regained his footing, plowed forward, and connected with the corner of the restaurant. Another twelve deliberate steps, and his shoulder found the door. With a groan of relief, he stumbled into the restaurant and directly into the table where Miss Grant and Mrs. Bingham were accepting crockery bowls from Athol. All three gaped at him with identical looks of disbelief.

  He held out the charts, still rolled but bent and dented from their journey. “Here. These are yours.” He dropped the charts onto the table. The pages uncurled into a larger tube and rocked back and forth.

  Athol shook his head. “What’re you doin’ out in the storm? Did you lose all your senses?”

  Mack forced a laugh. “I don’t know about my senses, but I lost my balance. Three different times. That wind’s as strong as a twister.”

  Mrs. Bingham’s forehead pinched into lines of worry. “You don’t suppose the storm will bring real damage, do you?”

  Mack shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We can get some pretty rough storms out here, but most of the time they blow through pretty fast. And you ought to be safe here with Athol. His restaurant’s snug in the middle of the block between a rock building and my hardware store, so it’s protected.” A mighty gust of wind rattled the windows. The building moaned. He cringed. “Just in case, he’s got a cellar where you can hide away if things get real bad.”

  Miss Grant pinched her lips tight, the way a person who’d tasted a lemon might do. She must be nervous about cellars. Probably because of spiders. He said a quick prayer that the women wouldn’t be forced to seek protection under the ground.

  Athol put spoons on the table and tucked the empty tray under his arm. “Nobody else’s gonna be comin’ in tonight, Mack, so my pot o’ ham an’ beans is gonna go to waste. Unless you want some, too.”

  Mack grinned. “Have you got corn bread to go with it?”

  “Don’t I always make corn bread to go with my ham an’ beans? It oughta be ready to come out o’ the oven right about now.”

  “I’ll take a bowl then. Thanks.” He began unbuttoning his jacket and turned toward an empty table.

  “Mr. Cleveland,” Mrs. Bingham said, “there’s no sense in dirtying up a second table. Join Miss Grant and me.”

  He paused. The last time he’d been around the two ladies, Miss Grant hadn’t acted too keen on having him near. He glanced and discovered she was still holding her lips all pursed up. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course we are.” Mrs. Bingham spoke so staunchly Mack couldn’t help but sm
ile.

  “Well, all right, then. Does seem kind of silly to make Athol clean more than one table. We might even convince him to sit and eat with us.”

  “I heard that.” Athol bustled toward them. His tray held two bowls, four tin cups, and a plate of mealy squares of corn bread stacked high. “An’ I don’t mind at all sittin’ down with you, long as you ain’t got no objections.”

  Miss Grant wrinkled her nose. “Don’t have any.”

  Athol frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t have any objections.”

  “Good.” Athol plopped the tray in the middle of the table, squashing one end of the rolled papers, and took the chair across from Mrs. Bingham.

  Mack eased into the last chair, which faced Miss Grant. She was all pink in the face, but he didn’t think he’d caused it this time.

  Athol shot him a questioning look. “You wanna say grace for us all, Mack?”

  Mack folded his hands, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord, thank You for giving us a place where we’re safe from the storm. Thank You for this food and for the hands that prepared it. Please bless it that it might nourish our bodies. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Athol echoed. He grabbed two squares of corn bread and crushed them on top of his beans. Crumbs exploded, reaching as far as Miss Grant’s hand.

  She made her pinched-lips face and brushed the crumbs toward Athol’s bowl. Athol flipped them to the floor, picked up his fork, and pushed past the corn bread to the beans. Sitting across from Miss Grant, Mack couldn’t help but notice the graceful way she dipped her fork and carried no more than three beans to her mouth. She made eating look like a ballet dance. Especially when compared to the mess Athol was making.

  Mack helped himself to a piece of corn bread and broke it into little pieces over his beans, careful to keep his crumbs to himself. The whistling wind and groaning boards made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The women seemed apprehensive, too. Only Athol ate with enjoyment, apparently unmindful of the storm. Or maybe he was too hungry to care about it. Either way, Mack thought somebody should put the ladies at ease. Since Athol didn’t seem inclined to do it, he’d better.

  “Are you ready to start teaching classes, Miss Grant?”

  She visibly jumped, and a bean fell from her fork into the bowl. Her face glowed red, and she lowered her head for a moment. When she lifted her face, a steely determination glowed in her dark eyes. “Yes, I am.”

  “How many times’ve you taught these classes?” He forked up a bite of beans and chewed.

  She sent a sideways glance at Mrs. Bingham.

  The older woman smiled and set her fork aside. “This is the first time Abigail has taught the subject of decorum.”

  Mack frowned. “But you told everybody at the meeting how you like to make sure the men are prepared to be loving husbands.”

  “That’s true.” Mrs. Bingham reached for a piece of corn bread and put it on the edge of her bowl. “I am accountable for placing my girls with men who will treat them well and give them a chance for a happy life. Most often, I can ascertain a man’s character through written correspondence. In this case, however”—she cleared her throat—“a face-to-face visit seemed a better choice.”

  “Why?” Athol barked the question, his cheek puffed from food.

  Mrs. Bingham broke off a small piece of corn bread, carried the bit to her mouth, and chewed and swallowed. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Patterson. Miss Grant and I have been staying here above your restaurant for five days now. Would you say you know us well?”

  He chomped twice, swallowed, and shook his head.

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “ ’Cause we ain’t really talked.”

  Miss Grant shook her head slightly. “Because we haven’t talked.”

  Athol nodded. “That’s what I said. We ain’t spoke much. Except to find out what you wanna eat.”

  Miss Grant closed her eyes for a moment, and Mack stifled a chortle. Poor Athol. He had no idea she was correcting his grammar. And poor Miss Grant. She must feel useless as a teacher if the pupil didn’t catch on.

  “Five days,” Mrs. Bingham said, “and still we aren’t well acquainted, because you’ve had other distractions with your business, and Miss Grant and I have been otherwise occupied, yes?”

  “Yep.” Athol jammed another huge bite into his mouth. “But that don’t answer how come you’re in town makin’ us fellas take classes.”

  Mrs. Bingham lifted her fork again. “With every other match, I’ve dealt with an individual. I can correspond with an individual and draw conclusions. But with so many of you, it would take months to become acquainted one at a time. By coming to town and having you attend classes, we can hasten the process and bring you together with your brides in a more expedient fashion.”

  Athol gaped at her with his mouth slightly open.

  Miss Grant sighed. “You’ll be able to meet your brides faster.”

  He gave her the same open-mouthed stare for several seconds. Then he closed his mouth and grimaced. “Sure don’t seem very fast. Been a long time already, an’ now you’re sayin’ it’ll be another whole month to do the classes.” Hopefulness lit his face. “You don’t reckon you’ll change your mind? Let our brides come early, will you? I could sure use help around here. Doin’ the cookin’ an’ the cleanin’ an’ everything else is just about to wear me out.”

  Mack understood Athol’s complaint. Sometimes he wished for someone to come alongside him and help in his store. But Athol was missing something important. “Athol, if all you want is somebody to wash dishes and clean up in here, you aren’t looking for a wife. You could hire somebody.”

  Athol turned the dumbfounded look on Mack. “I’d hafta pay ’em though. A wife’ll help out for free.”

  Mrs. Bingham lowered her forehead to her hand as if she’d suddenly experienced a headache.

  Miss Grant sat up, pert as a spring robin, and frowned at Athol. “Mr. Patterson, a hired helper is much less costly than a wife. That is, if you truly love your wife and wish to please her. You needn’t house and clothe and shower gifts upon an employee, but these are the things you’ll be expected to do for a wife. Additionally, a man should seek companionship, compassion, and love above a clean house and mended socks. Life can be a dreary journey, but a warm, loving companion brightens the path.”

  Mack stared at Miss Grant with as much stupor as Athol. How had she managed to define what he wanted someday? He couldn’t trust a matchmaker to bring someone so special to him. Only God Himself could make a heart-match. The kind of match Pa and Ma modeled, sticking together through good times and bad. Even the baddest time, when Wilhelmina Wilkes swooped in like an enemy army.

  He nodded so hard his neck popped. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right.” He shifted his attention to Athol. “A wife is a gift, Athol. Heaven’s best gift, my pa always said. If you can’t appreciate the gift, maybe you shouldn’t ask for it.”

  Red streaks of anger climbed Athol’s cheeks. He pushed away from the table. “If all you’re gonna do is pick at me, I’m goin’ to the kitchen. Least in there I’ve got some peace.” He grabbed up his bowl and stomped off.

  Mack turned an apologetic grin on the women. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your supper.”

  “You did not ruin my supper, Mr. Cleveland.” Mrs. Bingham used her staunch tone again, and she coupled her words with a genuine smile. “It’s refreshing to meet a young man who understands the complexities and unique qualities that make marriage the beautiful union God intended.”

  Mack turned to Miss Grant. “All that you said to Athol, is that what you plan to teach the men?”

  She nodded. “In part.”

  He looked at Mrs. Bingham. “Have these women you’re bringing to Spiveyville taken the classes, too? They understand they’ll need to give as much as they get?
”

  “I very carefully select my brides-to-be.” The woman’s serious expression and voice held Mack’s full attention. “They undergo an intensive interview intended to reveal their beliefs about marriage, family, and household responsibility. I don’t seek perfection. No one can be perfect. But I want girls who are modest and sensible and who possess self-control and a good work ethic. When a girl passes my interview, I invite her to reside in my home until a suitable match is found. Even if one misleads me with her words, I can glean a great deal about a girl’s character when I sit across a dinner table from her on a daily basis.”

  She pushed her bowl aside and rested her hands on the edge of the table. “My goal, Mr. Cleveland, is to help two people meld into one, to build happy, lasting relationships. If I fail in that attempt, my business crumbles. Thus, any woman who does not meet my strict standards is not sent out as a bride. Likewise, any man who refuses to grasp and act upon the concepts of loving and caring for his wife will not be matched with one of my girls. I will not be part of establishing doomed-to-fail relationships.”

  “Not even if they”—he hesitated, not wanting to offend her, but he had to ask—“pay the fee?”

  She raised her chin. “Not even then.”

  While Mrs. Bingham spoke, Miss Grant had slowly shrunk back, the way a porcupine hunkered low when something threatened it. An uneasy thought tickled in the back of his mind. Could it be Miss Grant hadn’t met Mrs. Bingham’s standards? She was a smart girl. The way she talked, the words she used—even the way she tried to correct Athol’s speech—let him know she’d had plenty of schooling. She planned to teach the men about courting and caring, which meant she knew how marriage was supposed to work. So why wasn’t she trying for a match? He wished he could ask, but Ma had taught him it wasn’t polite to ask pushy questions. Saying, “Why aren’t you part of Mrs. Bingham’s bevy of brides?” would be pushy. Especially after everything he’d just asked Mrs. Bingham. Sometimes he wished his conscience wasn’t so sharp.