Mariah slipped down the back stairwell, yearning for a cup of hot tea and a few stolen moments of blessed quiet. Halfway to the kitchen, Miss Vee’s tuneless song drifted up to meet her, which meant time alone to grieve wasn’t to be. Feeling guilty, she paused at the turn in the stairs to ease her frown and pray for pleasing manners.
Miss Vee often lapsed into singing as she went about her chores. Unfortunately, she sang badly and fractured her lyrics, combining two or three songs at once. Today she croaked out a medley of "Bonnie Blue Flag" and "Dixie," doing justice to neither piece.
The squeaky board at the bottom announced Mariah’s arrival.
Miss Vee spun. The corners of her mouth turned down, but her eyes were smiling. "That wasn’t much of a nap, young lady."
"I couldn’t sleep." A kettle steamed on the stove, and Mariah’s tin of favorite tea leaves perched on the counter. She quirked her brow and nodded. "How did you know?"
"That rotted old landing isn’t the only board in this house that squeals. I tracked you crossing your room and halfway down the hall."
Mariah’s heart sank at the reminder. The inn was falling apart around them. "I’m going to have to lay aside enough money to pay a carpenter. Only the Lord knows how much it will cost this time, and that just for urgent repairs."
Miss Vee returned to her task on the counter. "You know what the Bible says. ‘No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment.’" She shook her head. "I fear you’ll find no end to patching this old place. You need to tear it to the ground and start fresh."
Mariah lifted the lid of the kettle and sprinkled tea over the simmering water. "Well, I don’t have that choice, do I? It’s far too costly." She settled the pot off the fire. "I can’t sit idly by while the walls collapse on our heads."
Miss Vee stepped closer to pat her back. "Of course you can’t, but that won’t happen, will it? Your father won’t allow it." Pulling a knife from the tray under the counter, she slathered butter onto fresh-cut slices of bread. "You bear far too much on your shoulders, honey. Repairs and the like are a man’s concerns. I’m certain your father has a plan in mind, and he’ll tend to this inn the minute he comes home." She beamed over her shoulder. "After all, he’ll be returning right as rain. Healed once and for all, just like you said."
Her cheery words were a blow. Swallowing her pain, Mariah poured the steaming tea while her mind struggled for something to say. "Y-yes. Right as rain."
Miss Vee laid down the knife. "Gracious, what’s wrong? You’ve gone pasty."
The hedge around Mariah’s heart began to slip. She lowered her head and let the tears fall. "I miss him so much."
The comforting arms she expected surrounded her. Miss Vee held her, crooning in her ear. "Go on and cry, honey. I’ve shed many a tear since he’s been gone."
Briefly, Mariah pretended Miss Vee knew the truth. She allowed her heart to grieve her father’s death with another soul who loved him. Only for a moment, and then she got hold of herself.
She pushed Miss Vee to arm’s length and wiped her eyes on a napkin. "Forgive me. I’m acting childish. Go on with what you’re doing. I’m all right now." Her gaze slid to the cold meat sandwich Miss Vee had sliced and arranged on a plate. "Oh my, are you hungry?" She leaned to peer at the hall clock. "Have I rested longer than I thought? Where’s Dicey? She should be peeling potatoes."
Miss Vee smiled sweetly. "This isn’t for me, dear. I fixed it for that nice Mr. McRae. The poor man’s so hungry, his insides begged to be fed."
Pursing her lips, Mariah drizzled honey in her cup and stirred. "I’d be careful of ‘nice Mr. McRae’ if I were you." She tapped the edge of her spoon on the cup so hard the porcelain rang like a gong. "I’m not sure he’s the innocent he seems."
Miss Vee’s brow puckered. "Mariah! If you can’t tell the difference between Tiller McRae and the pack of wild dogs we rousted earlier, then I’ve lost all hope for you." Grinning, she set a glass of lemonade beside the toppling sandwich and hefted the tray. "And if you can’t admit he’s the handsomest catch to cross your path in years, well then, you’re blind, to boot."
SIX
The sandwich Miss Viola brought had tamed the gnawing in Tiller’s stomach, but the smells drifting from the kitchen, oozing under his door like a beckoning finger, watered his mouth like a drooling pup’s.
Miss Bell’s instructions about breakfast were clear, but no one said a word about supper. Tiller strained his ears for the sound of a gong or a call to the table, but nothing came.
Lured to the hallway by the scent of roasted beef mingled with onions and potatoes, he decided to mosey on down and scout out the kitchen. Just in case they forgot him.
Outside his door, he glanced to the right toward the dim parlor and across the way into what must be another guest room judging by a glimpse of a vanity and a bed made up with a blue and green quilt. No one in sight.
Creeping on the toes of his boots, he moved stealthily toward the kitchen. Halfway there, he sniffed the air and smiled. The first item on his list to explore would be the bread basket. The way he had it figured, hot rolls were the source of the warm, golden-crust aroma filling the house.
Tiller peered around the arched doorway into the dining room, empty except for a long table covered in an eyelet cloth and a place setting for one in silverware and white china. He frowned and tilted his head. If only one guest would be eating, he hoped he was the one.
Crossing the hall to the kitchen, he knocked on the wall before entering. "Miss Viola, are you in there?" A few more steps brought him next to the pantry door. "Hello? Miss Vee?"
The object of his raid beckoned from the sideboard, a metal basket lined with a red-checkered cloth. Tiller lifted away the folds, releasing the steamy baked bread smell into the air. Leaning over the heaped-up rolls, he drew a deep breath through his nose.
Ah! Pure pleasure.
His fingers closed around one of the light brown tops, so soft it gave at his touch. Closing his eyes, he brought the roll to his lips, savoring the moment briefly before he shoved it in whole.
Warm, yeasty flavor melted to the roof of his mouth.
Butter. He needed butter.
Rummaging inside the cold box, he brought out a full bowl, creamy and fresh-churned, then reached back in for a jar of strawberry jam. Placing them on the counter beside the rolls, he scurried across the room to search the cabinets for a plate. "Now where do you suppose they—"
A scream ripped the air.
Whirling with an iron skillet, Tiller backed against the sink.
The young woman cowering in the doorway bellowed louder. "Come quick! Miss Vee! Miss Mariah! He a thief."
Taking a step toward her, Tiller held up his hands, skillet and all, in protest. "Now, wait a minute—"
She let go another ear-piercing screech. "Lord, he’p me! He gon’ bash in my head."
Over the girl’s shoulder, Miss Bell lurched into sight with Miss Vee on her heels. Sliding to a halt, Miss Bell drew the trembling girl behind her skirts. "Mr. McRae?" Her sultry brown eyes opened wider than Tiller thought possible. "What are you doing in here?"
Frantic, he took in their suspicious glares. "I’m sorry. I was"—he squinted at the food spread over the sideboard—"hungry?"
Miss Bell’s silent stare raked him with doubt.
The high-strung girl turned up her nose like something foul had crawled inside. "I s’pose you about to eat the frying pan?" She pursed her lips. "Don’t believe him, Miss Mariah. He after the good silver."
Now that the girl’s mouth wasn’t cocked wide and screaming, Tiller recognized her as the one they called Dicey, who answered the door when he came. Even then, she’d been hesitant to let him in the house. Poor thing must be the nervous sort.
Tiller glanced at Miss Vee, watching him with brooding eyes. "Ma’am, I’m no thief. Just impatient, I reckon. The house is full of the scent of good cooking, and my appetite got the best of me." He shuffled his feet. "It’s not the first time, I’ll say that much, but this l
apse of good sense isn’t my fault. Judging by the smell, someone in this house has an inspiring talent for shaking a skillet." For emphasis, he shook the one in his hand.
Dicey ducked and clutched her bodice with both hands, pressing her back against the wall.
A smile edged the corners of Miss Vee’s mouth then melted into rowdy laughter. She patted Dicey’s shoulder. "Stop it, now. You’re wasting a good conniption. He’s not going to hurt you."
Dicey moaned. "How you know?"
Miss Bell glanced over her shoulder. "Good question, Dicey. I’m wondering the same."
Slipping one arm around Miss Bell’s dainty waist, Miss Vee hugged her close. "Honey, this boy’s harmless, as long as we keep him fed."
She jutted her chin at Tiller. "Go into the dining room and tuck in your napkin. We’ll be right in to serve you."
Tiller glanced toward the rolls.
Grinning, Miss Vee handed him the basket. "Take it along with you. Dicey will fetch the butter and jam."
He started for the hall with Miss Vee barking orders behind him.
"I’ve seen men like this before, Mariah. Pile a platter high with beef and ladle ample gravy in the bowl. If we don’t get his belly full, he’ll be back in the kitchen by nightfall."
Dicey followed Tiller into the dining room with mincing steps. She slid him the butter and jam from across the table, and then lit two tapered candles and poured water from a frosty pitcher. By the time she finished her duties and backed out the way she came, he had finished half the basket of rolls.
"If you eat many more of those, you’ll pay the piper. Yeast breads bloat the stomach."
He beamed up at Miss Vee crossing the room with a serving dish. "I’ll take the risk. Who makes these? They’re the best I’ve ever tasted."
She nodded over her shoulder at Miss Bell. "This little thing, that’s who. Mariah’s the finest cook in Mississippi state."
"Don’t believe her, Mr. McRae. My dear departed mother held that honor." Blushing a pretty shade of pink, Miss Bell placed a steaming bowl of corn within Tiller’s reach. "I place a distant second to her."
Smiling, Tiller held up one of the rolls. "Not in my opinion." He sobered and cleared his throat. "Though I mean no disrespect to your mama."
Miss Bell seemed pleased. "Of course you don’t. I thank you for the compliment. Now eat up, Mr. McRae, before your food gets cold."
"Tiller."
She raised one brow. "Sorry?"
He shot her a winsome grin. "Call me Tiller, if you don’t mind."
Mariah stiffened. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The man was entirely too forward. Each time she softened the slightest bit toward him, he made a reckless blunder that pulled her guard up again.
Most likely, Dicey had him rightly pegged. Hungry or not, no man was foolish enough to go plundering about where he had no right. Was he?
Flustered, she got busy carving the roast, lowering her lashes to shield herself from his toothy smile.
"Tiller it is," Miss Vee crowed, evidently forgetting herself.
Irritation laced through Mariah. The woman became a simpering girl around this man.
Another roll in one hand, a forkful of roast in the other, Tiller stilled. "Wait a minute. Why am I eating alone? Aren’t you gals hungry?"
Miss Vee giggled. "Don’t worry about us. We’ll have a bite when you’re done."
He stood and pulled out a nearby chair. "No time like the present, I say." He made a sweeping gesture. "Please join me."
She blinked at him then raised her brows at Mariah. "Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt."
Narrowing her eyes at Miss Vee, Mariah slapped a second hunk of beef in front of him. "Thank you, but we don’t take meals with our guests."
Miss Vee propped her fist on her hip. "We certainly do."
Mariah cleared her throat. "An occasional breakfast, but never lunch or supper."
Tiller frowned. "Well, you should, if you don’t mind my saying. It’s a pitiful waste of this nice, long table."
She opened her mouth to firmly decline, but he held up his hand.
"Miss Bell, I insist." The sugarloaf smile again. "It ain’t fittin’ for a man to eat alone."
Miss Vee snatched two china plates from the mahogany hutch and plopped one on each side of Tiller McRae. "He’s right, Mariah. It’s bad for his digestion." Seating herself, she reached for the basket of rolls. "You wouldn’t want to be responsible for this poor boy’s discomfort, would you?"
Outmatched, Mariah wiped her hands on her apron then tugged on the strings and pulled it off. Handing it to Dicey with a grimace, she walked around the table and perched at the edge of a chair. "This is highly unusual, but I suppose a quick bite won’t hurt." She turned her brightest smile on her cunning boarder and shook out her napkin. "Now the stomachache you’re certain to have can rightly be blamed on all those rolls."
He raised one in the air, drenched in butter. "Like I said before … some things are worth it." He dragged the bread through his gravy, leaving streaks of strawberry jam behind.
Mariah cringed.
Miss Vee beamed at her from across the table, nodding and winking as if his words held special meaning. "You’re not the first man willing to take the risk. Men around these parts make utter fools of themselves for a taste of Mariah’s cooking."
Playing along with her silly game, he leaned toward Miss Vee and lowered his voice. "Are you’re certain it’s the food they’re after? Miss Bell’s a mighty handsome woman."
Her cheeks warming, Mariah hurriedly changed the subject. "Where are you from, Mr. McRae?"
A touch of sadness flickered on his face, gone so fast Mariah wondered if she’d imagined it. "Who me?" He toyed with a kernel of corn on his plate with the tines of his fork, taking his time to answer. "I suppose you could call me a drifter. I try not to stay in one place for too long. The minute roots start to sprout from my toes, I hit the road again." He stabbed the kernel and popped it in his mouth. "Can’t have anything pinning me down."
Mariah’s glass paused in midair. "That’s a dreadful way to live … if you don’t mind my saying," she added, borrowing his earlier phrase.
"Mariah Bell!" Miss Vee shamed her with a glance. "Mind your manners." Bristling, she ladled him another serving of potatoes. "The very idea."
"Well, I’m sorry, it’s true." She took the bowl Miss Vee passed to her, tilting her head at Mr. McRae. "Don’t you miss having land or family? I thought such things were important to men."
He rolled his shoulders as if casting off a weight. "Too confining. When I get ready to light out, I don’t want anything riding my coattail."
His lowered lids were hiding something. When trouble plagued Mariah, she’d saddle Sheki and race along the bank of the Pearl, drawing strength from the rushing water. Tiller McRae seemed more like a man swimming upstream.
Another glance at his forced brightness pierced the shell of his posturing. The handsome young man’s swagger covered a deep well of discontent. Mariah’s heart stirred with unexpected pity.
Tittering, Miss Vee raised her goblet of water. "Here’s to living free."
Strident knocking on the front door startled Miss Vee so violently she jumped. The glass slipped from her hand, hit the table, and tipped over, landing in front of Mariah on its side. A ring of moisture spread in a wide circle from the mouth, soaking the tablecloth down to the wood.
The pounding came again, louder and more persistent.
Squealing, Dicey spun toward the sound, her fingers twisting the dishcloth in her hand.
Mariah folded her napkin and stood. "It’s all right, Dicey. I’ll go."
Wiping his mouth, Mr. McRae half rose from his chair. "Is there a problem?"
She shook her head. "Not at all."
"Are you sure?" He straightened, watching her. "Would you like for me to go with you?"
"Of course not." The lie raised a knot in her throat. Swallowing hard, Mariah hurried from the room and down the hall. She’d answered the
bell to lodgers countless times in her life. Why did it suddenly seem so frightening?
At the entry, she turned the lock and gripped the knob. Holding her breath, she opened the door.
Four strange men stood on her porch, two of them supporting the weight of an old man. Rusty blotches stained his shirt, and dried blood darkened the tuft of white hair on his head, stiffening the wiry strands.
Mariah’s breath quickened. "What happened?"
A tall gentleman standing behind the others took off his hat. "We’re not sure, ma’am. We found him huddled on the road blubbering and talking out of his head. He’s been whacked plenty hard on the noggin."
She stepped aside. "Bring him in, please."
They bundled him over the threshold and followed her to the guest room across the hall from the parlor. Mariah pulled back the quilt and stood wringing her hands while they laid him against the pillows.
She glanced at the two who had carried him. "Stay with him, if you don’t mind. I’ll be right back." To the others, she nodded toward the hall. "You must be tired and hungry. Won’t you join us for supper?"
The big man smiled kindly and shook his head. "A tempting offer, ma’am, but we need to be on our way."
"Very well," Mariah said. "Wait inside the parlor, and I’ll pack you something to take with you." Excusing herself, she scurried down the hall, sliding on the plank floor as she turned the corner. "Come quick, Miss Vee. I need your help."
"Heavens," Miss Vee said, clutching her chest. "What is it? You’re as pale as a haint."
"Good Samaritans have come bearing an injured man. They’ve asked for our help."
Mr. McRae yanked his napkin from around his neck. "Do you know them?"
She shook her head. "Strangers traveling the Trace. I’ve never seen them before."
He seemed edgy. "It might be a trick."
"I’m certain it’s not. They found the old man alongside the road a few miles from here. He’s hurt badly. A nasty blow to the head."
Mr. McRae’s eyes rounded. "An old man?"
She nodded. "Quite elderly, I believe. He’s white-haired and toothless as a babe."
Bandit's Hope Page 5
