Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She angled a frown over her shoulder. “But…”

  He shrugged, grimacing. “But for everyday sitting up to the table, maybe they’re a little too…”

  An unpleasant accusation from the past seared her. “Hoity-toity?”

  He shrugged again, his expression apologetic. “Maybe.”

  She turned her attention to the cupboard and pushed cans around.

  “The thing is, Miss Grant, I think”—he moved closer behind her—“you’re teaching city rules to country folk. The rules aren’t bad or wrong. They’re just not something we’re used to.”

  She spun around and faced him. “Why are you in here? Is it to comfort or encourage me, or is it to make sure I don’t take something that isn’t mine?” Hurt and fury roared through her. She plunked her fists on her hips. “Are you watching me again, Mr. Cleveland?”

  Twenty-Seven

  Mack

  He’d prayed for the chance to set things right, and now it was looking him straight in the face, spitting fire and ready to attack. At least she didn’t carry a pistol, so he didn’t need to worry about her shooting his foot off. Mack took a breath and spoke the truth.

  “I am watching you, but not for the reason you think.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “And how do you know what I think?”

  “I guess I can’t know for sure, but I can speculate. Your pa did something wrong, and afterward, people started treating you different. Watched you. Distrusted you.” He made sure to speak gently so she wouldn’t think he was casting stones. Ma was always real firm about not casting stones. “Am I right?”

  Her brown eyes filled with tears, and her chin quivered. She nodded.

  “Well, that’s not what’s happening here. Not from me.” He’d learned a long time ago to treat people the way he wanted to be treated. He’d suffered mistreatment after the oldest Batson boy claimed Pa stole a silver tea set—“It had to’ve been Chester Cleveland. He probably learned to steal from his no-good brother Ray”—when he was painting woodwork in their family home. Even after the investigation proved Everett Batson pawned the set himself to repay a cardsharp, some people still looked at Pa—and Mack, because he’d been at the house helping Pa—differently. Mack had carried a chip on his shoulder all the way to Kansas. So he understood Miss Grant’s feelings. He also understood they wouldn’t do her any good.

  He took a single step toward her, keeping his gaze locked on hers so she’d see the sincerity in his eyes. “You grew up in fine society. You aren’t used to men who get a little rascally sometimes. Not mean or bad, just rascally. So the sheriff asked Preacher Doan and me to help look out for you, to step in if need be. That’s all.”

  She held his gaze for several seconds. Then she hung her head. “Please forgive me, Mr. Cleveland. I am so ashamed. My mother taught me to seek the best in people and make allowances for the bad, remembering we are all sinners in need of grace, but I…” Tears ran past her freckles.

  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. To his surprise, she took it without a moment’s pause. He waited until she’d dried her cheeks. “You got hurt, so you built a wall.”

  Her face lifted and her wide eyes spoke of wonder. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because I built one, too.” He hadn’t expected to share his hurt with her. He’d kept it hidden except from those he considered good friends—Preacher Doan and Sheriff Thorn. But the story about Miss Wilkes becoming Uncle Ray’s intended and then using her pistol to convince Uncle Ray, who served as the church’s accountant, to empty the safe holding the benevolence funds, and the way everyone in the congregation started viewing his family as untrustworthy, came out so easy he had to believe it was God’s prompting.

  He slipped his fingers into his trouser pockets and gave a nod. “That’s why when Uncle Ray decided to come to Kansas to start a new life without the shadow of Wilhelmina Wilkes hanging over him, my folks sent me with him. To get me away from the source of hurt and let me heal. It took some time, a lot of prayers”—his and his parents’—“and this community rallying around me when my uncle died. The people in town proved the goodness in folks’ hearts, so I got better.” He took the handkerchief from her hand and used it to wipe the last tear trailing down her cheek. “And you will, too, in time.”

  She looked so hopeful and so doubtful at the same time, he wanted to hug her until all the doubt went away. But he couldn’t. She was too proper to accept a hug. And it might give him ideas he shouldn’t entertain. But he had to do something.

  He pinched the corner of the handkerchief and swished it at her. The fabric barely grazed the tip of her nose, but she drew back as if he’d snapped her with it. Her mouth fell open, and she stared at him for three startled seconds and then broke into laughter.

  He laughed, too. He couldn’t help it. “You ready to go back in there and finish up your class, Teacher?”

  Every bit of humor in her expression dissolved. “I suppose I should, although it all seems useless. As you said, they likely won’t ever use the manners I’m teaching.” She sighed. “But I have nothing else to offer, so I shall continue.” She straightened her shoulders and strode determinedly into the dining room.

  Bill

  Bill unlocked the door to the sheriff’s office and stepped inside. The office was dark, the way it should be at eleven o’clock at night, but light from the lamppost came through the windowpanes and let him see well enough to find the match tin on the stand next to the door. He pried the lid up and poked around, but the tin was empty.

  “Consarn it!” He clapped his hand over his mouth and sent a quick look right and left. Then he snorted. “Ma’s not in hearin’ range, an’ neither is nobody else. Get that lantern lit.”

  Guided by the dim lamplight, he inched his way to his desk and yanked upon the middle drawer. Black as pitch inside it, but he pawed until he found another tin of matches. Gripping the tin in his fist, he started for the lamp, then groaned and flopped into his squeaky chair. Why waste the oil? He rested his head on the chair’s high back, closed his eyes, and sighed.

  He sure hadn’t intended to spend near the whole day in Coats. But when Nance wasn’t at his ranch, he hadn’t known where else to look. Puzzling…Nobody in town had seen Nance in at least a week. The Nance boys were at the schoolhouse, but when he asked them where their pa was, they acted scared and said they didn’t know. Most troubling of all, the post office clerk vowed Nance hadn’t gotten any mail. So he’d fibbed to Miz Bingham about getting divorce papers. Yet he’d ordered a bride. So did he or didn’t he still have a wife? Bill didn’t much like the ideas running in his head.

  The coins Miz Bingham had given him weighted his pocket. He needed to put them in Nance’s hand. So where’d that no-good skunk gone off to? Having somebody with his temperament roaming wild left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Bill’s stomach. He yanked off his hat, slapped it onto the desk, and ran his hands through his hair. He was tired. So was Patch. But tomorrow he’d saddle up and take another trip to Nance’s ranch. The sooner he returned the money and gave the man a stern warning about staying away from Spiveyville, the better for everybody.

  Abigail

  The smell of pancakes and sausage greeted Abigail’s nose when she entered the dining room Tuesday morning. Although still early—the sun’s rays hadn’t even climbed above the horizon—Mr. Patterson was already at work. Why hadn’t she stopped to consider the hardworking attitude he possessed? Such an admirable trait. All she’d seen was his stained apron. All she’d heard was his uncultured speech. But last night, as she’d pondered the sad tale that had brought Mr. Cleveland to Spiveyville and the change he’d experienced thanks to the community’s acceptance, a different picture of Spiveyville and its residents had emerged.

  Mr. Patterson had a good heart. She’d seen it in his concern for her and Mrs. Bingham when the vile Nance banged on their table. She’d seen it in hi
s service to his fellow townsfolk. She’d even seen it in his reluctance to let someone else assume the cooking duties, a responsibility he considered his own. Somehow Mr. Cleveland’s simple statement—“The people in town proved the goodness in folks’ hearts”—awakened her to look beyond their outsides to their insides. She had misjudged many of them, and she determined to make amends. Starting with Mr. Patterson.

  She called his name as she moved through the kitchen doorway, and he looked up from the large pan, where four pancakes sizzled in bacon grease.

  “Miss Grant…” He ran his free hand over his nearly bald head. “Didn’t expect you up so soon. I was fixin’ myself a little somethin’ before everybody starts stormin’ the door.”

  She smiled, touched by his nervousness to be alone with her. “I don’t want to interrupt your routine. I only wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your help with the dining classes. I know it’s been an inconvenience for you, yet you haven’t uttered a word of complaint. Thank you, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Well, I…um…” He removed the pancakes from the skillet and stacked them on a plate that already held three sausage links. He gestured to the plate with his spatula. “You hungry?”

  She tipped her head. “What did we discuss in commonsense etiquette? When someone thanks you, the appropriate response is…”

  His round face flushed. “You’re welcome.” He shrugged. “But I don’t know that I did anything worth thankin’ me for. Only did what I always do. Cooked. An’ served.”

  She closed the distance between them and touched his rolled sleeve. “Uncomplaining service is worthy of gratitude. So please accept my thank-you.”

  He harrumphed. “Accepted. Now, since you’re here, you want them pancakes?”

  She’d never eaten breakfast so early in the day, but the smell was too tempting to ignore. “Yes, thank you. But it’s far too much for only me, and I’d hate to see it wasted. Should we share?”

  His eyes bulged. “Sh-share?”

  “Yes. If I may have a fresh plate, I’ll take one pancake and a piece of sausage. You may have the rest.”

  He blinked so fast it almost made her dizzy. Then he broke into a grin. “All right.”

  He grabbed a plate from the shelf, transferred a pancake and sausage link to it, and handed it to her. She picked up the second plate, too, and headed for the dining room with him shuffling alongside her. At the doorway he paused and reached into a basket. He held up two wiping cloths and grinned. “Gotta have napkins, right?”

  She smiled. “Right.” She set the plates on the table closest to the kitchen and started to sit, but he thrust out his palm.

  “Wait!”

  Dumbfounded, she froze in place, and he bustled around the table and held her chair for her. She laughed. The most inappropriate response she could possibly give to a gentlemanly gesture, but it bubbled up and spilled out on a note of joy. She slid into the seat and beamed at him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Still grinning, he hurried to the opposite chair and sat. Jugs of maple syrup already waited in the center of each table, and he offered theirs to her first. She poured a bit of the thick brown syrup on her cake, then gave him the jug. He flooded his plate in syrup, licking his lips the entire time.

  Oh, such manners! She’d exhibited better behavior at the table by the time she was three, but somehow his childish enjoyment brought amusement rather than annoyance. Perhaps it was the nearly empty dining room, the early hour, or the simple surroundings, but she had no desire to correct him.

  Mr. Patterson said a short prayer, and the two of them ate. To his credit, he ate one bite at a time—bigger bites than she would have recommended, but he did have a kitchen to run—and he only talked with food in his mouth twice. While they ate, he told her about growing up in a family of all sisters, all older, who had no idea how to treat him like a boy, so he learned to cook and clean and sew as well as any of them.

  “Now it’s all I know,” he said with a shrug. “But knowin’ it has let me make a good livin’, so I can’t complain.” He scowled, painting lines of worry across his broad brow. “Some o’ the fellas are certain-sure that when all the wives get here, our services won’t be needed no more. I don’t know nothin’ else except cookin’. Kinda scares me to think of nobody comin’ to my restaurant an’ orderin’ up a plate o’ fried catfish or a bowl o’ ham an’ beans.”

  Abigail set her fork aside and gave the cook her full attention. “Mr. Patterson, the city in which I lived before coming to Spiveyville had dozens of bakeries, tailors, barbers, and restaurants. The city was filled with married couples, yet the businesses—all of them—continued to thrive.”

  His eyes widened. “That so?”

  “Yes. Instead of worrying about decreased patronage, perhaps each of you should consider how having a prosperous business in place makes you a very desirable match for a woman. You’ll also be able to grow your businesses with a wife who partners with you in your ventures.”

  He held the fork like a spear, his mouth slightly agape, and stared at her.

  She wiped her mouth and placed her rumpled wiping cloth next to her plate. “But if I might be quite frank with you, Mr. Patterson, I believe nearly every woman will want to do more than wash dishes and mop the floor for you.”

  “You mean she’ll wanna do some cookin’, too?”

  Abigail shook her head. “That’s not what I meant, although it’s possible. You see, you’ve dedicated all day every day to your restaurant. But when you’re married, you’ll want to have time with your wife, and she will want time with you.” She laced her fingers together and placed them on the edge of the table. “Have you ever considered taking a day off? Many restaurants in cities are closed on Mondays or Sundays, sometimes both. So the owner has a break.”

  “Well…” He scratched his cheek, still ruddy from his morning’s razor. “Seein’ as how so many o’ the fellas didn’t have nobody else to cook for ’em, I stayed open to make sure they’d get fed. I gotta cook for myself anyway, so it wasn’t much to cook for them, too. But you’re right. If I’ve got a wife, I’m gonna want time with her for talkin’, like you an’ me are doin’ now, an’…an’…” He looked aside.

  Heat filled Abigail’s face, but she finished the sentence for him. “Spooning?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’ll need time for such. It’s all part of the marriage relationship.” Sadness descended, stealing some of the pleasure of her early-morning chat with Mr. Patterson. As a child, she’d never been embarrassed to witness her parents’ affectionate behavior. It had given her a sense of security, knowing they loved each other and weren’t afraid to show it. At the end, when Father was taken away, how much of Mother’s mourning was for her lost lover and how much for the shame of betrayal?

  “I’ll do some thinkin’ on what you said. Might be once all the fellas have their wives, I won’t need to keep my doors open every day.” Mr. Patterson’s expression turned thoughtful. “These women, they’ll bring lots o’ change to Spiveyville, won’t they? Otto’s the most scared. Clive told ’im the men’ll ask their women to do their stitchin’ an’ such. I think he’s half wishin’ we hadn’t sent for ’em, but it’s too late now.”

  Someone rattled the doorknob.

  Mr. Patterson jumped up. “Plumb lost track o’ time sittin’ here.” He trotted toward the kitchen. “Unlock the door, Miss Grant, an’ let ’em in. I gotta fry the cakes.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Abigail

  Mrs. Bingham had asked to be excused from restaurant duty to wash sheets, and Mr. Patterson agreed even though he voiced his surprise that they needed washing again after only a week’s worth of sleeping. Abigail cleared and cleaned tables and washed dishes on her own. Between chores, she watched for Mr. Cleveland. He ate nearly every meal in the restaurant, and she felt certain he would come in for pancakes and sausage. The spicy an
d sweet aromas mixed together was the most wondrous perfume, and it had surely drifted to the hardware store with as many times as the front door opened and closed.

  At a little past seven thirty, he entered the dining room, sweeping off his hat as he cleared the threshold. Her heart gave a leap, and then shyness attacked. She’d given Mr. Patterson her thank-you. She owed one to Mr. Cleveland, as well, and she would give it. But it would take more courage than it had taken to address Mr. Patterson. Because even though she liked Mr. Patterson, he had no effect on her pulse.

  To her chagrin, Mr. Cleveland didn’t sit at the lone empty table by himself but joined Louis Griffin and Clive Ackley. Abigail couldn’t deliver a personal message in front of the other two men. Deflated, she entered the kitchen.

  “Mr. Patterson, Mr. Cleveland has arrived.”

  Mr. Patterson flipped pancakes, sweat pouring down his face. “I’ll get to him when I can, but I’m behind on servin’.” He flashed her a hopeful look. “Sure would help if you’d carry out some o’ these plates.”

  Abigail bit her lower lip. Serving in one’s home was acceptable. On the cook’s day off, she and Mother had taken turns serving dinner. But in a public restaurant? Never had she even seen a female server in the restaurants she’d visited with her parents. A man named Harvey utilized only female servers in his chain of restaurants, which had been met with varying reactions of shock to horror from Mother and her friends, but this wasn’t a Harvey-owned establishment.

  Mr. Patterson sighed. “Never mind.” He handed her the spatula. “Watch them cakes an’ don’t let ’em burn. I’ll be right back after I’ve served these an’ took Mack’s order.”

  Chastened by his tone, she kept careful watch over the pancakes and removed them before even a hint of scorching appeared on their edges.