Bandit's Hope

by Marcia Gruver

  Tiller reined his horse behind a cluster of oaks and watched, grateful for the cover of the darkening sky.

  A gangly boy in a floppy straw hat ducked from the woody canopy, all dusky arms and skinny legs. Humming now, he picked his way down the slope into the misty ravine and ambled toward Tiller with a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

  In the manner of a soul who believes himself alone, he closed his eyes and sang with all his grit, so loud he flushed a chattering squirrel.

  "Dat gospel train’s a comin’,

  I hear it jus’ at hand,

  I hear the car wheels movin’,

  And rumblin’ thru the land.

  Get on board, childr’n,

  Get on board, childr’n,

  Get on board, childr’n,

  They be room for many a mo’."

  Taking his first easy breath, Tiller nudged his horse onto the road.

  The boy’s head jerked up, and he spun for the opposite rise.

  "Hold up there," Tiller called. "I mean you no harm."

  Chest heaving, the lad stilled with one foot braced on the grassy incline, watching over his shoulder.

  Tiller rode closer. "Did you hear what I said? Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you."

  A nod. His scrawny throat worked furiously, as if he found it hard to swallow. By the size of the budding Adam’s apple, he couldn’t be more than twelve, but his small stature made it hard to tell.

  Inching closer, Tiller flashed his brightest smile. "How are you faring on this dismal afternoon?" He ducked his head at the empty sack on the boy’s bony shoulder. "About to pick a mess of berries, I see."

  The boy twisted around to face Tiller, both thumbs shoved in the waistband of his tattered trousers. "Nawsuh." He stared at Tiller with darting eyes. "Cain’t pick nothin’, now. We ’bout to get us a drenchin’."

  Tiller grinned. "I reckon we are at that." He softened his voice. "Where you bound for, young man? You have someplace to go to get in out of the rain?"

  Despite the protection of Nathan’s hat, Tiller’s wet shirt stuck to his back. Rivulets of water ran along his spine beneath his braces, soakinghim down to the skin. It would take a mighty hot fire to dry him out and ease the chill from his bones. He shivered, waiting for an answer.

  Say the right thing, boy. Tell me you live close by, somewhere warm and dry with plenty of room by the fire.

  The little fellow stammered and slid one foot behind him. "Well, suh … you see, we … that is, we ain’t—"

  Together, they spun toward the rustle of footsteps. A taller, meatier version of Tiller’s new friend rounded the bend, halting fast when he saw Tiller. The boy’s brother. No doubt about it. Gathered brows and a quick flick of his head summoned the smaller one to his side. "What you doing consortin’ with strangers? Pa gon’ take a switch to yo’behind."

  "I ain’t consortin’, Rainy. I jus’ run up on him, same as you."

  Like a puppy, the older boy hadn’t quite grown into his oversized paws. Lifting wary eyes to Tiller, he spread long fingers over his little brother’s chest and urged the child behind him. "Hush up, and come on with me. We going home."

  "Wait." Tiller’s upraised hand stopped them cold. "I’m hankering to get out of this weather. You know of a place close by where I could hole up for a spell?"

  Two sets of eyes studied Tiller, as dark and brooding as the angry clouds rolling in behind them. Jagged shards of lightning scattered overhead followed by violent thunder.

  At last, the elder brother nodded. "Yessuh, Bell’s Inn." His arm shot out to point behind him. "A short piece that way. Mastah John and his Injun daughter run the finest stand on the Natchez Trace."

  Tiller nodded. "I know just the one you mean, but I thought the new road shut down all the stands on the Trace."

  "Bell’s Inn shut?" The boy wagged his head. "Nawsuh, it ain’t no such."

  Tiller’s gaze flicked up the hill. "Am I close?"

  The boy nodded, steadily easing his brother up the slope. "A good gallop will get you there in a tick. Watch for a split rail fence and a whole mess of magnolias out back." At the top of the rise, he flashed a toothy grin. "You cain’t miss it. Jus’ look for the best tended grounds in Madison County."

  Sighing with relief, Tiller lifted his soggy hat. "Much obliged."

  But they were gone. Nothing left where they’d been standing but the wind-whipped branches of a young hawthorn tree.

  Grinning, he spun his horse into a trot up the Trace, his heart set on a soft bed and the warmth of a roaring fire.

  Mariah gripped her forehead and fought to see the swirling digits scrawled across the ledger. She’d come close to crying over the dismal numbers in the past, but today the persistent threat of tears had little to do with the state of her accounts.

  Laying aside her dusting cloth, Miss Vee swiped her palms on her apron. "Are you all right, Mariah?" She leaned to look out the window, drawing away again as thunder shook the pane. "You’re about as gloomy as this awful weather, and you didn’t touch your lunch."

  Mariah summoned the will to answer. "I’m fine, thank you."

  Miss Vee crossed to the desk and pressed the back of her hand to Mariah’s forehead. "You feel a bit warm, child. You don’t have a temperature, do you?"

  Across the room, Dicey rounded her eyes and slid along the wall to the parlor door, ducking out of sight around the corner.

  The yellow fever epidemic of 1878 had ravaged the state of Mississippi, creating ghost towns and wiping out whole families. Four years later, folks still got jumpy around any threat of sickness.

  Mariah supposed suffering would resemble the Yellow Jack if no one knew a body was grieving. It would be difficult to hide the bitter ache in her heart, but she’d have to try harder. She drew a shaky breath and glanced up. "I’m a little tired, is all. Got up too early, I guess."

  Pulling the accounting book from Mariah’s hands, Miss Vee closed the dusty cover. "This mess will keep, honey." Bending, she tossed it into the small safe beneath Mariah’s desk and closed it with her foot. "Go upstairs and have yourself a lie-down. There are still a few hours before suppertime."

  "I really should—"

  "No arguments." Miss Vee, who no one would describe as delicate, had surprising strength in her determined hands. She curled her fingers around Mariah’s wrist and pulled. "Come along, now. Don’t make me try to tote you up the stairs. We’d both wind up regretting it."

  Smiling, Mariah allowed her spunky friend to tug her toward the landing. As they neared the bottom step, a knock came at the door. Miss Vee jumped then stumbled, nearly yanking Mariah’s arm from the socket. Her frantic grab for the newel post was all that saved them from falling. Wobbly, they clung together, breathing hard.

  Dicey raced into the front hall and stood gaping at the door. "Who you s’pose that gon’ be?"

  Miss Vee’s throat rose and fell. "You don’t think it’s those same fools?" Her hoarse voice cracked. "Returning to get revenge?"

  Glancing toward Miss Vee, Dicey shuddered. "Who be addled enough to go out on a day like this … ’less they up to no good?"

  Thunder rattled the house, and the three of them shrieked.

  Feeling ridiculous, Mariah pulled free of Miss Vee’s clutches. "For pity’s sake, we’re behaving like schoolgirls, scaring ourselves silly with ghost stories. Those men are halfway to Jackson." She brushed wayward strands of hair from her eyes. "I’m sure it’s just some poor soul hoping to get out of the rain."

  The rapping came again, louder this time.

  Mariah fought to still her pounding heart. Why did ordinary things suddenly feel so scary? Knowing Father was gone had knocked the braces from under her. Resenting the fact, she balled her fists. Onnat Bell’s daughter wouldn’t give in to fear. "Answer the door, Dicey."

  The girl whined and wrung her hands. "Me, Miss Mariah? Oh, no. Let Miss Vee."

  "Go on, now," Mariah said. "We’re right behind you."

  Dicey inched forward. Pausi
ng, her trembling fingers stretched toward the knob, she pleaded over her shoulder with her eyes.

  Mariah urged her on with a nod.

  Swallowing hard, the girl eased the door open a crack and peered through. "Um, y-yessuh?"

  "Afternoon." The booming voice dripped with sass as thick as country gravy. "I’ve come to see about a room."

  Tension melting from Mariah’s shoulders, she released her breath. "Ask him in, Dicey."

  Dicey stepped primly aside. "She say come on in."

  Framed by the doorposts—his beaming face out of place against a backdrop of driving rain—stood the most curiously handsome man Mariah had ever seen.

  Drenched from head to heels, his hair clung to his face in soggy strands, a light orangey red, even darkened by rainwater. Along with soaked-through britches and a damp cotton shirt, he wore a practiced grin and the forced cheerfulness of a man used to having his way.

  He ducked inside but kept to the rug, his anxious gaze on his muddy feet. Spotting Mariah, he whipped off his hat. "Good day, miss." Mischief flared in his roguish green eyes like sparks in a hearth.

  Smoothing her skirt, she approached the door, glad she’d donned a dress and swept up her hair. For reasons she had no time to ponder, she wanted this man to see the lady of the manor and not the Indian princess. "May we help you, sir?"

  He pointed his hat at Dicey. "I was telling your gal here that I need a room for the night. Nothing fancy, mind you. I’d curl up in the pantry to get out of that rain."

  Mariah smiled. "I’m certain we can do better than that. As a matter of fact, you’re in luck. We happen to have a vacancy." No sense admitting he could have his pick of the empty rooms.

  Relief washed over his face. "Well, I’m much obliged." He offered his hand. "The name’s McRae. Tiller McRae."

  "Mariah Bell, at your service. I own—" Her breath caught at what she’d nearly uttered. "That is, my father is the proprietor of Bell’s Inn." She dipped her head at Miss Vee. "This is Mrs. Ashmore. She helps us run the place."

  Miss Vee colored like a blushing girl. "Call me Viola. Or better yet, Miss Vee."

  He all but bowed. "Honored to meet you both." Handsome or not, a grin that forced couldn’t be trusted.

  "Your accommodations are down the hall, the first door on the left. We serve an informal breakfast in the kitchen, promptly at six. If you’re not seated around the table by then, you stand a fair chance of going without."

  He cleared his throat. "Promptly at six. I’ll be there."

  Mariah touched Dicey’s arm. "Bring a towel for Mr. McRae then mop up this mess."

  His smile waned, and the merry eyes dimmed. "Sorry, ma’am. If you ladies will excuse my sock feet, I’ll shuck these boots and leave them outside the door."

  She studied his boyish face, even more striking up close. In the space of a minute, he’d gone from calling her miss to ma’am. He must think her a cranky old matron. Contrite, she relaxed her crinkled forehead and softened her mouth. "Don’t you want to settle your horse first?"

  He arched his brows. "I hope you don’t mind. I left him in the barn sharing oats with your paint."

  Irritated afresh at his cocky assurance, Mariah spun on her heels and headed for the stairs. "We require full payment up front, Mr. McRae. For the care of your horse, as well. Miss Viola will take your money."

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Unwilling to scare off another guest with gold in his purse, she paused halfway up the steps and forced her gritted teeth into a halfhearted smile. "I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay, Mister … McRae, was it?"

  The smile tugging the corners of his mouth seemed genuine, but the insufferable twinkle had returned to his eyes. "Miss Bell, I get the feeling I’ll enjoy my stay very much."

  FIVE

  Grinning at the thought of Mariah Bell blushing fiery red and flouncing up the stairs, Tiller flopped on the mattress so hard he bounced. After too many days on the road, it felt good to be in the company of a pretty woman—a feisty one, at that—and blasted good to be in a real bed again.

  He bunched the quilt beneath him with both hands and sighed. A bed with sheets so clean, the scent of lilac water and sunshine rose in a pleasurable cloud. Turning his nose to the feather pillow, he drew in deep, fairly sure Miss Bell would smell just as sweet.

  The trusting, toothless smile of the kindhearted traveler merged in his head with Miss Bell’s fetching face—not a pleasing picture to be sure. He shook his head to clear it, the motion sending the pretty parts to the rafters in a wisp, leaving him to stare vacantly at the scraggly, white-haired man named Otis Gooch. Without a doubt, the poor coot wouldn’t sleep in a clean bed that night—if the gang had left him alive to care.

  In all of Tiller’s years in Nathan’s company, he’d watched the ambush of many a hapless prey, putting them out of his mind as fast as he rode away. So why did the thought of this old gentleman, slumped in a heap at the side of the road, tear at his heart like a pickax?

  What Nathan said was true. Tiller couldn’t go on ignoring the fate of the folks he charmed into trusting him. He dangled the carrots that lured the poor rabbits into Hade Betts’s perilous snare, so whatever happened next was his fault as much as the men who wielded the guns and struck the blows. Maybe more so.

  Along with the realization came the aching truth that he’d never be worthy of a fine, decent woman like Miss Bell. Rolling to his side, Tiller clenched his fists, the admission a searing pain in his gut.

  The harsh life of a raiding thief wasn’t the adventure he’d expected as a boy, wasn’t the path he wanted as a man. He’d grown more discontent with each passing year but didn’t know how to escape.

  Nathan’s vaunted tales of a bandit’s life along the Trace had once tickled Tiller’s grimy young ears. Somewhere along the way, the dismal truth wore the shine off Nathan’s stories.

  After a few months of dodged bullets and empty bellies, Tiller was ready to go home.

  Nathan, who took to the drifter’s life like a tick to a hound, dug in his heels and stayed put. In the early days, two things kept Tiller at his side: the misplaced loyalty of youth and the fear of striking out on his own. Lately, he wasn’t sure what held him.

  Staring into the past, he sighed, and a stray goose feather shot to the sky. As always, the swirling mists of Scuffletown’s swamps lured him. Memories of his brief stay there throbbed in his heart like a sore tooth. Never sure if Aunt Odie’s cooking was as fine as he recalled or Uncle Silas’s stories as grand, he only knew his longing to return was the closest thing to homesick he’d ever felt.

  Tiller jumped at the light knock on the door.

  "Mr. McRae?"

  He bolted upright, swiping at the tears wetting the hair at his temples. Jogging to the door, he swung it wide, his smile firmly in place. "Yes, ma’am, Miss Viola. What can I do for you, lovely lady?" Gazing at her delighted face, he cringed inside. Remorseful or not, it hadn’t taken him long to return to his practiced charm.

  Fanning briskly to cool her cheeks, Mrs. Ashmore blushed to her graying roots.

  Tiller’s gaze wandered to her curls, wondering what she used to turn them the bright shade of copper. The reason she might do so confused him even more. If he could find a concoction to turn his hair a less garish color, he’d shell out the money for a crate.

  "Mr. McRae, how you do flatter." She winked and shifted a stack of clean linens to her hip. "Your smooth talk could make a girl forget sagging jowls and wrinkled cheeks." Her tinted lashes fluttered down. "Until she passes that blasted looking glass in the hall."

  Compassion nudged his heart. "No mirror reflects a woman’s true beauty, Mrs. Ashmore."

  Beaming, she touched his arm. "Now, I told you to call me Miss Vee."

  "You sure did." He patted her hand. "I won’t forget again."

  She tilted her head toward the end of the hall. "I came to say I’d be happy to run out to the kitchen and fix you something to eat, seeing you arrived too late for the noon meal."

>   Tiller’s growling stomach answered before he had the chance.

  She smiled and nodded. "I’ll go put these things away then bring you something light. Don’t want to spoil your supper."

  He held up his hand. "You’d be hard pressed to spoil my supper, ma’am. When they handed out appetites, I stood in the line twice."

  A tender smile softened her face. "John’s the same. Can’t seem to get the man fed."

  "John?"

  With a quick breath, she returned from her distant thoughts. "John Coffee, Mariah’s father. Such a lovely family, the Bells." Her sagging eyes widened. "Mariah in particular. Wouldn’t you agree?"

  Tiller’s cheeks warmed. "Miss Vee, a man would be blind not to."

  Watching him closely, her head slowly bobbed. "I see." A glimmer of something birthed in her eyes, like a scheme beginning to hatch. "How long are you planning to stay with us, Mr. McRae?"

  Amused, he lifted his chin and met her calculating stare. "I can’t say exactly, but I’m in no hurry to leave." A fact he wasn’t aware of until he’d said it. "I suppose you’ll have to put up with me until I can’t peel off any more greenbacks."

  She brightened. "I hope you’re well off then. We need a strong young man around this place." She nodded firmly. "One we can trust." With a backhanded wave and a promise to return with some grub, Miss Vee rounded the corner, humming a merry tune.

  Tiller closed the door, white-hot needles of guilt piercing his sides. A trustworthy man? He hardly qualified.

  As for his money running out—Wincing, he patted the scrawny drawstring purse at his side. In precious little time, he’d be busted.

  His thoughts jumped to the safe in the parlor where Miss Vee stashed the money he’d paid for a night’s stay. By the meager few dollars he spotted before she closed the door, they needed his cash to hold out for as long as possible.

  Odd how he hadn’t remembered the safe until now. Glancing at his reddening face in the mirror, Tiller smiled. For the first time in many years, a pretty woman tempted him more than an easy take.