Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  With a shriek, she turned to run, dragging the shawl with her.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Mack’s panicked order carried across the ground. Assuming he was speaking to Nance, she continued running. Heat scorched the backs of her calves. Had her dress caught, too? Oh, please, not this dress, the deep-russet organdy Father commissioned for her betrothal party. She couldn’t let it burn up. She spun in circles, trying to escape the greedy flames.

  A solid body slammed into her and forced her to the ground. Large hands prowled all over her, rolling her this way and that way, slapping at her. She caught a peek at her attacker’s face, and she screeched in alarm.

  Mack pounded up and threw Mr. Nance away from her. “Nance, help with the fire!”

  Mr. Nance took off at a stumbling run, and Mack smacked her skirt with his gloved hands until every flame was extinguished. He helped her up, grabbed her damaged shawl, and gave her a little shove away from the well house. “Go upwind and stay there!” He ran back to the snapping patch of burning grass.

  Abigail scrambled several yards away, then turned and watched the four men use their jackets and her shawl to beat down the flames. As pink and yellow grew across the eastern sky, the orange and yellow flames succumbed to the men’s battle.

  Mack tossed her shawl aside and came at her in a staggering run. With a little cry, she ran to meet him. He slung his arms around her and held so tightly the embrace stole her breath, but she didn’t mind. She pressed her cheek to his chest. His heart thrummed in her ear, a steady, comforting beat.

  Eyes closed, she savored the security of being cradled in his arms. Not since she was a little girl had someone held her with such tenderness, such concern. Tears stung, but she smiled, receiving his embrace as a gift. She clung equally hard, silently communicating her gratitude.

  Far too soon he pulled back and took her face in his hands. The smell of soot clinging to his warm leather gloves stung her nose, but the sweet, possessive pressure was too welcome for her to resist. “Did he hurt you when he knocked you down?” He scanned her length, grimacing when his gaze reached the hem of her dress. “Did the fire burn your legs?”

  She curled her hands around his wrists. “No, no, I’m all right.” The heat had touched her, but the layers of her petticoat surely protected her. That, and the quick action that extinguished the flames before they could climb higher or reach underneath.

  Doc Kettering plodded up to them. “Miss Grant, you all right?”

  She tucked herself under Mack’s arm. “I am now.” Then she gave a jolt. “But Mrs. Bingham…” She turned a frantic look on the men. “Is she here?”

  Doc scowled over his shoulder. Near the charred patch of ground, Sheriff Thorn was tying Mr. Nance’s wrists together behind his back. “Nope. Nance says he’ll tell us where to look as soon as the sheriff promises to let him go.” He snorted, shaking his head. “Sheriff Thorn’s done making deals with him.”

  Abigail pressed her fist to her lips, worry descending. Mr. Nance was so stubborn. Would they ever find Mrs. Bingham? She turned her face to lean against Mack again, and the pale white moon against a soft blue-gray sky captured her attention. “Beyond the moon, God’s looking, too.” Peace eased through her. God had watched over her. He was watching over Mrs. Bingham.

  She whispered, “I choose to trust.”

  Mack looked down at her. “Did you say something?”

  She blinked back tears and smiled at him. “I was speaking to my Father.”

  He gave her a quick squeeze, his smile filled with approval. “Been doing that quite a bit myself.”

  Doc started down the rise. “Come on. Sheriff’s got Nance in the wagon. We better get him to town. Sooner he’s behind bars, the sooner we can all rest easy.”

  Mack kept his arm snug around her waist and escorted her to the well house.

  The sheriff was tying his horse to the back of Nance’s wagon. “Miss Grant, you ride with me. Mack, Doc, follow behind.”

  Mack gripped her waist and lifted her onto the wagon seat. He gave her one more lingering look before trotting to his horse and swinging himself into the saddle with a movement as graceful as a deer bounding across the prairie.

  The sheriff climbed up beside her, bouncing the seat. He pushed a rifle into her hands. “Hold on to that an’ keep it aimed at Nance.”

  She gulped. Sheriff Thorn had tied the prisoner’s hands and looped a rope from ankle to ankle, limiting his stride. How would he escape even if he tried to leap over the side of the wagon? “Is…is it necessary?”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it wasn’t necessary.”

  Abigail settled herself sideways and angled the gun across her lap, its barrel pointed beyond Mr. Nance’s left ear. Despite the chill morning air, sweat broke out over her body. She prayed she wouldn’t be forced to fire the weapon.

  “Hee-yah!” The horses jolted and the wagon creaked to life.

  Abigail never moved her gaze from Mr. Nance the entire drive to Spiveyville. The rocking wagon bed jarred him from side to side, throwing his shoulder against the hard wooden box again and again. If it hurt, he didn’t let on. Abigail kept watching, hoping she might see some softening in his expression, some hint that he would bend his stubborn pride and tell them where he’d hidden Mrs. Bingham. He held his sullen expression the whole distance.

  The wagon rattled to a stop outside the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Thorn set the brake and took the rifle from her. His blue-eyed gaze settled on her, and an approving smile formed beneath his thick gray-and-black mustache. “Miss Grant, you done real good out there.”

  She hung her head. “Sheriff, you’re very kind, but I failed. I dropped the lantern. I didn’t get him to trade Mrs. Bingham for me.”

  The sheriff grunted. “Droppin’ the lantern was a accident. Coulda happened to anybody who’d been holdin’ it for as long as you did. As for the tradin’…he prob’ly never meant to make the trade. That ain’t your fault. We can blame it on his cussed hide.” His expression turned grim. “Maybe sittin’ in a jail cell for a day or two will loosen his tongue. Reckon we’re about to find out.”

  Another day or two…Abigail closed her eyes and envisioned the prairie moon, then God’s face beyond it. Keep watch over my friend, dear Father. When she opened her eyes, Mack was waiting beside the wagon. She held out her hands and allowed him to help her down.

  Townsfolk spilled out of the stores and crowded near as Sheriff Thorn guided Mr. Nance to the sheriff’s office. Chatter and questions filled the air, but the sheriff didn’t respond. When the door had closed behind Sheriff Thorn and the prisoner, Doc Kettering waved his arms in the air.

  “Folks, the kidnapper’s in custody. He hasn’t told us yet where he’s keeping Mrs. Bingham, but Sheriff Thorn knows how to do his job. Let’s all return to our businesses an’ let him work in peace.”

  People ambled off, some casting curious looks over their shoulders, others jabbering. Mack offered Abigail his elbow. She took hold, clinging with both hands. They strolled up the boardwalk, tiredness making her drag her feet. The scorched hem of her dress hooked on her heels, and she battled a wave of sorrow. How silly to mourn the loss of a dress. Only fabric and thread and lace. But she’d already lost so much. Her home, her friends, her lifestyle, her mother, her—

  She gasped and stopped.

  Mack gazed at her in concern. “What is it?”

  “I didn’t lose him.”

  His brows furrowed. “Who?”

  Tears flooded her eyes, distorting his image. “My father. Ever since he was taken to prison, I’ve told myself he was lost to me. But I was wrong, Mack.” She smiled, an unexpected joy weaving its way through her very soul. “I have my memories of him—good memories. I’d pushed them all aside because it hurt too much to remember, but now I want to remember. I want to remember the man who carried me on his shoulders, who taught me to c
ipher before I started school, who took me to church and taught me to pray.”

  The air chilled the wet tracks on her face. “He was a good father to me before he stole from his partners. I don’t know what brought him to make such a choice, but God forgives. God can forgive my father, and He can forgive me for turning my back on Him out of anger and confusion.” She bit her lip and searched Mack’s face, seeking signs of disgust. She saw only compassion and—her heart rolled over in her chest—affection.

  She swallowed against more tears. “A guard at the courthouse told Mother and me we could write to Father at the penitentiary, but we didn’t do it. We were wrong. Father needs to know he isn’t irredeemable. He needs to know I…I still love him.” She straightened her shoulders, resolve filling her. “As soon as I’ve finished helping Mr. Patterson with the breakfast cleanup, I’m going to write Father a letter. A plea for forgiveness for abandoning him.”

  To her surprise, Mack started to laugh. “Do you find my plan amusing?” If he said yes, she would deliver a scathing diatribe and make him regret the word.

  “Some of it.” He chuckled again and pulled her close. “After what you just went through, you’re gonna wash dishes.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re something else, Abigail Grant.”

  She sucked in her lips to keep from laughing. Then she angled a teasing grin at him. “You know, I could get to my letter much faster if someone dried the dishes and put them away.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “All right. I don’t reckon it’ll hurt to leave the store closed this morning. But before I dry dishes, I want to dirty one up.” He slapped his flat belly. “I’m ready for some breakfast.”

  Mr. Patterson served them fried eggs, ham, and grits, plying them with questions about their midnight rendezvous the whole time they ate. When breakfast was done, she and Mack saw to the dishes, and then Mack walked her to the base of the stairs. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, tenderness in his expression.

  “Why don’t you take a nap? I know you’re tired.”

  Yes, she was tired. More tired than she’d ever remembered being. But she needed to write to her father. “I will.” He offered another smile of goodbye, and she trudged to her room and closed herself inside.

  For an hour, she poured her thoughts onto paper, recording cherished moments from her childhood, openly divulging the pain of seeing him taken from her and Mother, and ending with a bid for forgiveness for not writing sooner and a humble plea for the chance to renew their relationship as father and daughter.

  When she finished, she folded the pages and slipped them into an envelope. She started to rise from the edge of the bed, but the soft mattress invited her to recline, to close her eyes, to give in to the weight of exhaustion. She looked at the envelope in her hand. She hadn’t spoken to her father for five years. Could it wait another day? She shook her head. A nap could wait.

  She changed out of her russet organdy and into her brown plaid serge, tied her red wrap around her shoulders, and set off for the post office. The wrap did little to block the wind. Perhaps she would visit Mr. Thompson’s mercantile and ask to look at the Montgomery Ward catalog. Her good shawl lay out on the prairie, scorched and smoke damaged, and she would need a good covering to see her through the winter.

  Her feet came to a halt as reality descended. Where would she spend the winter? When the men had finished their classes, she wouldn’t be needed in Spiveyville any longer. She was almost past the age to remain in Mrs. Bingham’s program. Assuming, of course, the business didn’t close. What would her future hold? She didn’t know. But for the first time in a long time, she believed that Someone knew and cared.

  With a lighter step, she entered the post office and crossed to the counter. “Mr. Ackley, may I have a stamp, please?”

  He opened a little drawer and poked around in it. He withdrew a stamp and a small glue pot and brush. He glanced at the envelope. “Mr. Mortimer Grant, Deer Island House of Correction, Massachusetts. Writing to your pa, huh?”

  She clasped her hands together and nodded.

  He looked up and met her gaze. “I think that’s a real good thing, Miss Grant. Betcha he’ll be right pleased to hear from you.”

  She blinked in surprise. If her former friends from Boston knew she’d penned a missive to her father in the penitentiary, they’d whisper behind their hands or openly condemn her. Fondness for the whisker-faced man washed over her. “Thank you, Mr. Ackley.”

  He grimaced. “Well, you might not be thankin’ me with your next breath.” He dropped her letter in a wooden tray marked “Outgoing” and trudged to the back counter. He carried a scrap of paper between the forefingers and thumbs of both hands, as if he feared it might sting him. “There must’ve been a line down somewhere between here an’ Massachusetts, ’cause the date on this telegram shows November 7, but it only just come through this mornin’. Three days late.” He shook his head. “Hope this ain’t gonna trouble you too much.”

  He handed her the paper and she unfolded it.

  Miss Grant, arriving in Pratt Center 8 a.m. Sunday, Nov. 11. Will rent conveyance for drive to Spiveyville. Marietta.

  She clapped her hand to her cheek. Marietta Constance Herne would arrive tomorrow. What would she say when she discovered how Abigail had failed to rescue her sister?

  Thirty-Nine

  Bill

  Bill pointed at the man who sat on the edge of the simple rope bed with his arms crossed and glower intact. “You better thank the Good Lord Almighty that I’m not prone to fits o’ rage, Nance, ’cause otherwise you’d be in a broken heap on the floor.”

  He whapped one of the door’s iron bars with his palm. The iron rang, but the satisfaction didn’t remove the sting from his hand. Fool move, but he had to hit something. He couldn’t hit Nance. Not unless the man swung first. And that man wasn’t swinging. He wasn’t talking, neither.

  Bill rubbed his palm against his thigh and stomped into the office portion of the jail. Slumping into his chair, he cradled his head in his hands. Tired. So tired. What he wouldn’t give to stretch out on the cot in the corner and sleep the rest of the day. But what kind of sheriff slept when a woman was still missing? By now she was most likely dead. The thought pained him worse than the whack on the iron had hurt his palm.

  In all his years of sheriffing, he’d never lost anybody. Oh, he’d shot and wounded a few rustlers. He’d returned fire on a would-be bandit trying to take off with Grover Thompson’s cashbox back in ’76 and drilled a hole through the man’s shoulder, but nobody’d ever died on him. Wasn’t right that Miz Bingham, who hadn’t done one blamed thing wrong, could be the first.

  To stave off sleep, he rose and paced the room, making himself think, think…They’d scoured the countryside, checked barns and sheds and gullies and wells. He couldn’t come up with another place where Nance might’ve hid her. Mostly because he didn’t know Nance well enough. But there was somebody who knew him. Those two little scared-faced boys. He’d seen something more than fear in their faces. They held a secret, something they’d been warned not to share.

  He swung a glance toward the jail half of the building. Nance was locked up tight. Nobody in town would try to bust him out. He could leave the man untended if need be. Just in case, he’d pop in at the post office, let Clive know where he was going, and then head to Coats and convince Dolan and Buster Nance to tell him where their pa had hid Miz Bingham’s body. The woman at least deserved a decent burial.

  Helena

  Helena used the inside of her skirt, the only part of her dress that wasn’t stained from the reddish dirt walls and floor, to clean one of the wormy apples Mr. Nance had included in the food crate. “Here you are, Buster. Now, please eat it slowly. Chew well before you swallow so you won’t have a bellyache.” The smell in the dugout was nearly unbearable with all all three of them making use of the slop bucket.

  Buster s
ank onto his bottom on the floor and chomped into the wrinkled apple.

  She returned to the table and arranged the remaining items in the crate. In their very short time together, the boys had consumed more than half the food Mr. Nance said was meant to cover a couple of days. She should have rationed it. He’d indicated two days, but who knew whether he would honor his word? From now on, they would have to eat only at mealtime, and then only what she put on their plates.

  She turned to inform the boys of her decision, but she glanced at Buster, who chewed, smiling, his eyes half-closed like a sated cat. He might have been eating divinity for the pleasure he took in the wilted fruit.

  Helena’s heart constricted. Rationing meant denying them. She couldn’t do it, not when they were so hungry. She suspected not only had their father been negligent in seeing to their needs, but they had probably spent two or three days in shock—days when they didn’t want to eat—after their mother’s death. Helena would starve herself before she took food out of their mouths. Because in their hours together, they had won her affection.

  She shifted her attention from Buster to Dolan, who lay sideways on the cot and drew pictures in the dirt with his finger. Such hapless waifs. They no longer had a mother. Their father, regardless of what he believed, would not evade punishment for kidnapping her. He would most likely end up behind bars, if he didn’t end up getting shot. She cringed. As distasteful as she found the man, she hated to think of the boys losing their father in such a violent manner.

  Please, Lord, preserve his life.

  Using her skirt to protect her hand, she opened the stove door. The fuel box still held several straw logs. She added one to the small flame within the stove’s belly, then stared at the licking tongues of fire, imagining Mr. Nance’s large chapped hands twisting the lengths of straw that would keep her warm in her hideaway. Such a despicable individual, yet he’d seen to her needs. The little bit he shared of his childhood tiptoed through her memory and stirred an element of sympathy. Certainly he’d gone about it the wrong way, but his desire to secure a wife so his boys would be cared for was admirable. There had to be some good in him, somewhere. Buried deep, perhaps, but present.