Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He choked out a guffaw and shook his head. “Oh, no. Let’s stick with Mack and Abigail.”

  Mack and Abigail…She liked the way it sounded.

  Thirty-Three

  Bill

  The three-quarter moon glowed behind a thin patch of clouds. No night birds sang. Cows stood in little groups, heads hanging, none of them lowing. The only sound was the muffled clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Bill wasn’t one to let the idea of ghosts and goblins bother him, but the evening felt eerie. Unsettling.

  He hunched lower into his jacket. The movement made a muscle twinge in his back. Grimacing, he rubbed the spot. He’d spent so many hours in this saddle, they might need to pry him out of it when he reached the livery stable. He glanced at Millard Fletcher, whose horse clopped alongside his. The man slumped forward so far his nose almost touched the back of the horse’s head. Was he sleeping?

  “Millard.”

  “Huh?” The rancher jerked upright. “What?”

  “You were about to fall off your horse.”

  Millard’s mouth hung open. “Nah. I was?”

  “Now, why would I tell you that if you wasn’t?” Bill shook his head. Millard was a nice enough fella, but sometimes Bill wondered what he used for brains.

  Millard snuffled, shifted a bit on the saddle, and stayed upright. “Was hopin’ maybe you’d seen her or somethin’. Been three full days already, Sheriff. How long’re we gonna keep lookin’?”

  Bill brought Patch to a stop. Millard reined in, too. A few cows released some nervous moos, but they’d settle down soon enough. “Lemme ask you somethin’, Millard. What if it was your mama or your sister or your wife who got took? How long would you look for her?”

  The man blinked. “ ’Til I found her, I reckon.”

  “An’ that’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna look ’til we find Miz Bingham.” And if the Good Lord was on their side, they’d find her alive and unharmed. The longer it took, the less likely it became, but that’s what Bill was praying. He clicked his tongue on his teeth, and Patch started forward.

  Millard and his roan fell in beside Bill. “Well, she sure ain’t anywhere around Spiveyville or somebody would’ve come across her by now. We gonna push farther out now? Maybe Cullison, Coats, or Sawyer?”

  Bill would go as far as Isabel, Pratt Center, and Sun City if need be. His back twinged again. He jammed his fist against the cramping muscle until it released. He was getting too old to ride this horse for hours on end. Maybe it was time for him to turn in his badge, settle down, have himself—

  Now, what was he thinking? At his age, starting a family? Thunderation, if some woman birthed him a son tomorrow, he’d be past sixty by the time the boy was old enough to set out on his own. He had no business even thinking such thoughts. Funny how hard it was to squelch it, though. Still, he could make a change. Turn in his badge, maybe open a little shop where he could use his papa’s woodworking tools. He wouldn’t mind that. Not a bit.

  Millard pointed. “Spiveyville’s just over the ridge. Reckon the other fellas have come in already?”

  “Could be.”

  “Reckon they found Miz Bingham?”

  Bill hoped so. For her sake, and for his, he hoped so.

  As their horses left the pasture and followed the road up the rise, he thought he caught a few notes from a fiddle. He reamed his ear with his finger, frowning. But when he popped his finger free, he heard it again. He glanced back at Millard. “Do you hear—”

  “Sure do!” The young rancher broke into a wide grin. “It’s comin’ from the livery. Sounds like Joe Booth’s got his fiddle playin’. Do you s’pose they’re havin’ a celebration dance ’cause they found Miz Bingham?”

  Bill didn’t know, but he wanted to find out. He gave Patch a solid nudge with his heels, and the horse broke into a trot. Millard’s spotted gelding kept up clop for clop, and the two of them reined in near the livery corral. Lanterns glowed behind every window in the loft, and the fiddle song drifted out sweet and inviting.

  Millard looped the reins over the fence rail and took off in a clumsy trot. Bill followed a little slower, his hours in the saddle making him walk like he carried a bucket between his knees. He climbed the loft ladder and stepped into the middle of a dance the likes of which he’d never seen before. Not a square dance, but some kind of circling dance with folks’ feet following a boxy one-two-three step in time with the melody.

  Millard bounded to Joe and stood beside him, swaying faster than the music played. Bill scanned the dancers, hoping he’d find a stately looking woman with white-blond hair swept back in a twist. He spotted the Thompsons, the Doans, the Pendergraffs, half a dozen men hanging on to each other with sheepish looks on their faces, and Miss Grant dancing with Mack.

  He plodded across the hay-strewn boards to Mack and tapped him on the shoulder. The younger man stopped and aimed a glance over his shoulder. He broke into a smile. “Sheriff Thorn.”

  Miss Grant released Mack and crowded close. “Did you have any luck? Did you find her?”

  So Miz Bingham was still missing. Then why in thunder were they up here dancing like there wasn’t a care in the world? Had they all lost their senses? “No, I didn’t find her. When I heard music an’ saw the lanterns burnin’, I thought you’d found her an’ were all celebratin’. Why’re you havin’ a party if she’s still lost?”

  Miss Grant put her hand on her hip. She lifted her chin, and her eyes sparked fire. “This is not a party. It is a class. The social-dancing class I promised Mrs. Bingham I would teach.”

  Joe stopped his playing, and everyone shifted to listen in.

  Miss Grant gave them plenty to hear. “She isn’t here, but I am, and it’s my responsibility to finish what she started. So, Sheriff, if you’d be kind enough to get out of the way, we will continue learning the steps to the waltz.” She nodded at Joe. “Go ahead, Mr. Booth. Where you left off—one, two, three…”

  Joe slid the bow on the strings, and a sweet tune sang. The dancers started again, some smoother than others, but they all joined in.

  “Take your eyes off your feet,” Miss Grant called out, moving just as easy as if she glided on ice while holding on to Mack. “Look into your partner’s eyes.”

  Guffaws and giggles broke loose.

  “And no laughing!” But she laughed while she said it.

  Bill watched for a while, not sure he believed what he saw. He thought folks got crazy only when the moon was full. The moon was near three-quarter, but these folks were full crazy, dancing when Miz Bingham was lost.

  He climbed down to the lower level. Hugh Briggs was up there hanging on to Ike Rose from the Tumbling R, so Bill would have to put Patch into a stall on his own. He’d see to his horse and then head to his office. If Vern O’Dell and Sam Bandy had come in already, they’d be waiting for him. If they hadn’t come in already, he’d wait for them. Get a report.

  The music stopped and clapping broke out.

  “All right, change partners. Ladies, if you wouldn’t mind dancing with one of the single men, let’s give them a chance to prove they can lead.”

  Laughter.

  More music.

  Bill shook his head again. Crazy. They’d all gone plumb crazy.

  Helena

  Helena pressed her eye to the crack in the door again. The front yard was completely in shadow. Evening. Finally. Trapped in the small, windowless space, all alone, with not even a book to read, never had hours crept by so slowly. Where was Mr. Nance? Supper waited. Beans and a mealy corn bread made from cornmeal, lard, water, and a bit of flour. It would probably taste awful, but she’d discovered from previous encounters that the Nance children were hungry enough to eat the soles of their boots. They wouldn’t complain. If they came. Mr. Nance had never arrived so late.

  Her stomach clenched. More from loneliness than hunger. She pushed away from the door,
releasing a little grunt. Was she now looking forward to the vile man’s arrival? She laughed at how far she’d sunk in such a short amount of time. Perhaps she was going mad.

  She’d passed the morning alternately praying and using one of the butter knives to hack at the sod blocks in the corner opposite the table. But after carving away several chunks, she realized her mistake. Where would she hide the clumps of dirt? What if her digging caused the wall to collapse? She could bury herself alive. So she’d cleaned the knife on her skirt and paced. Prayed. Paced. Prayed and paced at the same time, pausing repeatedly to peek out the little slit that served as her only connection to the world outside the dugout.

  Maybe he wasn’t coming at all. If the letter she’d written had reached Spiveyville, maybe Abigail had met up with Mr. Nance. If he had Abigail, he’d have no reason to come back for Helena. Fear rattled through her, but then she shook her head, dispelling the thought. Mack and the sheriff would never allow Abigail to take Helena’s place, but the letter would give the sheriff and the men of the town a clue where to look for her. That meant her rescue would come. But would she still have full possession of her senses when that finally happened?

  Her stomach rumbled and cramped. Mr. Nance hadn’t told her she had to wait for them to eat, so she sat at the table by herself and ate a spoonful of beans and a crumbly lump of corn bread. She grimaced. So bland…She pretended she was cutting into one of Athol’s beef steaks with roasted potatoes and carrots, and she managed to fill her belly. Only a little bit of water remained in the bottom of the bucket, and even though the dry corn bread stuck in her throat, she didn’t dip it out to drink. She’d wait for fresh. She shouldn’t have to wait much longer. The Nances would surely come soon.

  She scraped her plate clean with a fork and crossed to her peephole. She drew back in alarm. Night had fallen. Something must have happened to Mr. Nance. Maybe the sheriff caught up with him, fought with him, killed him. If the man was dead, would his children tell the sheriff where to find her? Her heart thudded so hard she felt dizzy. She sank onto the cot and put her head in her hands.

  “Dear God, don’t let me die in here all alone.”

  I’m never alone.

  The thought swooped through her mind with such power she almost believed it was an audible voice. She lifted her face to the dirt ceiling and smiled through tears. “You will never leave me nor forsake me. I was so sure I would wither up and die when Howard died, but You were with me. You helped me fill my house with young women and helped me send them out into their new lives. You’re here with me now. Forgive me, Father, for thinking for even one moment that You’ve abandoned me.” She thanked her Lord again and again for His presence, and by the time the rattle of wagon wheels penetrated the thick wall, her spirit had been restored.

  She darted to the stack of plates and set them on the table with spoons, then brought the pans of beans and corn bread. As she set them down, the door squeaked open and Mr. Nance shoved the boys inside. The younger one’s left cheek bore a red mark, and tears had washed clean trails on both boys’ cheeks. Alarm propelled Helena forward, and she crouched low to examine Buster’s face. She recognized the clear impression of a handprint.

  Fury filled her. She stepped past the boys and met Mr. Nance head on. “How dare you strike a child in the face.”

  He pushed her aside.

  She stumbled but caught her balance and whirled on him again. “Why are you so late? Is it because you were beating your children?”

  The boys cowered in the little space between the table and stove. She didn’t mean to frighten them, but her anger overwhelmed her. She wanted to be big enough and strong enough to pummel Mr. Nance into the ground, to show him how it felt to be weak and powerless. All she had were words, and she must use them to build the boys up.

  Drawing herself to her full height, she stepped in front of the boys and held out her hands as a shield. “Children are gifts from the Lord Himself. They are to be cherished and loved as His precious creation. Parents are called to teach their children with patience, not to stir them to wrath.” She’d seen resentment in the older boy’s eyes. How long until he began striking out at others the way his father struck at him? “You are wrong to mistreat them, Mr. Nance, and I will not tolerate it.”

  Mr. Nance glared at her for several seconds, then growled low in his throat. “Dolan, fill her water bucket. Buster, dump the slop bucket out in the field and rinse it in the creek.”

  Helena clapped her hands to her face. “Don’t give such a disgusting task to the child. Let me take care of my own slop bucket.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He snapped his fingers at the boys. “Go!”

  The boys slunk past her, grabbed the buckets, and dashed outside.

  Now without an audience, he advanced on her, inch by inch. She held her ground until his foul breath touched her face, and then she couldn’t resist taking a step backward. Her palms connected with the hot cookstove. She yelped and locked her hands at her waist.

  He leaned in, forcing her to bend backward over the stove. “I smacked the boy because he let the milk cow loose an’ we had to chase her down. It kept me from gettin’ out here before dark. The only way young’uns learn is if they pay for their mistakes. It’s how my pa taught me, an’ his pa taught him. An’ it works. I can tell you it works for women, too, an’ you’ll find out if you keep pushin’ me.”

  I’m never alone.

  The reminder brought a rush of confidence and peace that made no sense, but it emboldened her. She stepped sideways away from the stove, away from him, and met his steely gaze. “I’m sorry your father chose to batter you into obedience. I’m sorry no one intervened to prevent him from hurting you. But I am telling you, there are better ways to raise children. And I don’t care how many times you threaten me, I will not stay silent when a child is being mistreated.”

  The boys appeared in the doorway. Buster chewed his lip and stared at Helena as if he were gazing upon an angel, but Dolan hung back, his frame stiff, wariness etched into his features.

  She held her hand to them. “Thank you, boys. Now please come in and have a seat at the table. We’re having beans and corn bread. Does that sound good?”

  Mr. Nance remained as if rooted in place. Helena eased past him and filled all three plates. She set the pans aside and the boys picked up their spoons, but she shook her head. “No, you need to wait for your father. Mr. Nance?”

  He still didn’t move.

  She held her breath and gazed at the back of his head. The hair was mashed, as if he hadn’t combed it in a while, and for reasons beyond her understanding, sympathy washed through her. At one time he had been a little boy, an innocent child, abused by his own father. He was full of wrath because he’d been a product of wrath.

  Her breath escaped on a gasp of discovery. Had God brought her into Mr. Nance’s life to help point him to a better way of living? If so, she should take full advantage of the opportunity.

  “The beans are getting cold, Mr. Nance. Are you ready to eat?”

  He jolted as if he’d suddenly come to life. He yanked out a chair, sat, and picked up his spoon.

  “Bow your heads, please.” She ignored his startled glare and closed her eyes. “Dear God, thank You for this food. May You bless it to nourish our bodies and give us strength to do Your will. Amen.”

  The boys’ spoons clanked against their plates, but Mr. Nance didn’t reach for his spoon. The whole time the boys ate, he sat and stared at her with a smoldering glare.

  Thirty-Four

  Abigail

  Abigail hurried through her morning ablutions and then entered Mrs. Bingham’s room. For a moment she stood just inside the door, a fist against her trembling lips. Would Mrs. Bingham come back to this room? At the close of last night’s dance, the participants had joined hands in a circle and prayed for her safe return. With so many people stor
ming heaven with the request, would God grant it? She couldn’t know for sure. She recalled a scripture stating God’s ways were not man’s ways, and she surmised it meant He had reasons beyond men’s understanding for doing or allowing certain things. Abigail prayed that if it was God’s way to never bring Mrs. Bingham back, He would give her the strength to endure. In the meantime, she would cling to hope.

  She touched the watch waiting on the dresser top and then fluffed the pillow on the bed and straightened the coverings even though they hadn’t been touched since she’d made the bed Tuesday morning. Satisfied the room was as neat and welcoming as it could possibly be, she pattered down the stairs to the dining room and into the kitchen. She removed an apron from the hooks by the door and tied it on as she crossed to the stove.

  “Good morning, Mr. Patterson.”

  The cook continued stirring something in a large kettle. “Mornin’, Miss Grant. Sleep well?”

  “Yes, amazingly well.” Better than she’d expected to.

  “Prob’ly ’cause the dancin’ wore you out. You an’ Mack moved real good together.” He winked.

  Remembrances of gliding around the dance floor with Mack’s hand on her waist swept in and warmed her from within. Despite their height difference, they’d moved as one. She would cherish memories of that simple barn waltz for the rest of her life. She poked her nose over the kettle so she could blame her rosy cheeks on steam. An unappealing glob of something gray bubbled in the pot.

  She straightened. “Oatmeal?”

  “Yep.” He reached for his cinnamon jar on the shelf. “Not gonna wear myself out this mornin’ keepin’ up with pancake orders or fryin’ bacon. Oatmeal’s good an’ fillin’, an’ it’s somethin’ the fellas can eat in a hurry an’ get back to their search.”