Bandit's Hope

by Marcia Gruver

  "A wife?" He drew back. "Hardly. No one will have me." The familiar ache filled his chest. "As for my ma"—he quirked his mouth—"she’d run me off with a broom if I stepped one foot on her porch."

  Mariah laughed. "I doubt that."

  Grinning, he gaped at her. "Well don’t. It’s a fact." He sobered and shook his head. "I have family up in North Carolina that used to care about me a little. My uncle Silas and aunt Odell plus a few rowdy cousins and a handful of friends." He sighed. "But I haven’t seen them in a good long while."

  Mariah tilted her head. "How long?"

  "Oh, about ten years now."

  "Gracious. Why?"

  Tiller offered a shaky laugh. "That’s a long story, and I won’t bore you with it."

  Her steady gaze said he hadn’t fooled her. "Tell me about them."

  He tucked his chin. "Really?" She nodded.

  Crossing his arms, Tiller leaned against the stall in deep thought. "My folks are Lumber River Indians from a place called Scuffletown." He shrugged. "Come to think of it, I suppose I am, too. At least a part of me."

  "You’re Indian?" The fact seemed to please her. "With that crop of red hair?"

  Tiller grinned. "That’s the other part, I suppose." He feigned an accent. "The Irish."

  With an air of fascination, she scooted closer. "Keep going."

  "You’re sure you want to hear all this?"

  "Positive."

  Her earnest answer stirred his heart. "I suppose Uncle Silas sticks out in my memory the most." Warmth he’d not felt in a while made him smile. "The old man could spin a yarn from here to China. Farfetched tales about warriors, giants, and magic lanterns." He laughed. "I was nearly sixteen. Old enough to know better, but he had me believing most of the things he said."

  Mariah giggled. "What about your aunt Odell?"

  Tiller stared at the ceiling. "Ah yes, Aunt Odie. She worked magic with a frying pan the way Uncle Silas did with his stories."

  He shot her a sidelong glance. "If I remember right, her cooking was almost as tasty as yours." He winked. "Not quite, but close."

  She bumped him with her shoulder. "And what of the cousins?"

  Tiller called out their names, ticking them off with his fingers. "There was Hooper. His brother, Duncan. Their little sister, Ellie." He grinned. "And Miss Dawsey Wilkes, who was Ellie’s twin sister, but no kin to the rest."

  She frowned. "That makes no sense at all."

  "You’re right, it doesn’t, but I’ll try to explain. You see, Ellie was raised by my aunt and uncle instead of her real parents, so the girls never knew they had a sister until they ran into each other by accident."

  Mariah angled her head. "Are you making this up?"

  Laughter bubbled up from Tiller’s belly, the first genuine glee he’d felt in a while. "That story’s a doozey and would take all day to tell." He waved his hand. "Don’t get me started."

  Mariah joined in the laughter. "It sounds fascinating. You’ll have to make time one day to fill me in."

  The warmth of her arm pressed against his. Sobering, he turned his head toward her, wondering how she wound up so close. "I sure will, if you want me to."

  "I want you to." Her big brown eyes, inches away, lured him.

  His breath grew shallow, and he couldn’t draw air. The floor seemed to tilt, and his ears buzzed like they were stuffed with honeybees. He longed to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, and his fingers twitched with the urge to touch her bottom lip. "Mariah, I—"

  Behind them, the pony snorted and pawed the ground, jolting Tiller’s heart. Blushing, he leaped to his feet. "Look at me dawdling again. I suppose I’d best get going. I’ve got a roof to mend."

  Mariah glanced up with a shy smile. "By all means. Now that you’re part of this operation, you’ll have to toe the line. I can’t have an idler on my payroll."

  With ease that came of much practice, Tiller slid into his cocky role as smoothly as slipping on his boots. "Well, if you’ll excuse me, ma’am …" He tossed his hat on his head, bowed, and turned to go.

  "Tiller?"

  He pivoted on one heel. "Yes, boss?"

  "You should go up to North Carolina. Pay your folks a visit. Sounds like you’re long overdue."

  Tiller worked to keep his roguish grin in place, but his traitor mouth trembled. Drawing in his bottom lip, he scraped it hard with his teeth. "Nah, it’s too late. After all this time, they don’t remember my name."

  THIRTEEN

  Tiller’s mama is dead?"

  Hooper tensed. "I’m sorry to say it’s true, Pa." For a moment, he wished they’d heeded Dawsey’s inclination to wait a bit before they sprang the news, but with Pa sniffing around, the story was bound to come out.

  Despite the dismal report, Hooper rejoiced at being home. Inside the tiny cabin, the folks he loved most in the world huddled in a tight circle around Papa’s rocking chair. The cheery fireplace crackled, stoked by Ma to ward off the morning chill. The smell of breakfast hung so thick in the air, he could almost taste crispy bacon and golden, flaky biscuits. The only thing missing from the familiar scene was his younger brother, Duncan, who married a Lumber River girl and moved across the swamp.

  Papa gripped the arms of his rocker. "So my poor brother’s widow passed on?"

  "Yes, sir. Aunt Effie’s neighbors found her five days ago. We had to bury her right away." He glanced at the twins playing a board game around the table and lowered his voice. "She’d been gone a day or so when they found her. She died all alone, though I think she might’ve preferred it that way."

  His eyes red-rimmed and moist, Pa sat forward in his rocker. "Effie perished more than a week ago, and I’m just now finding out?"

  Hooper swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He hadn’t shared the worst yet. "There were … complications, Pa. This is the quickest we could come."

  "You couldn’t send a wire?"

  Hooper and Dawsey exchanged glances.

  Before Hooper could answer, Pa lost interest in the question. "Poor old soul." He reached over his shoulder for Ma’s hand. "Effie never had much of a life, did she, Odie?"

  Mama shook her head. "She did without things most folks take for granted. Her plight grew even worse after Sol died, God rest him."

  Papa’s jaw tightened. "If he’s resting, I don’t see how. I’m ashamed to speak ill of the dead, but the truth is my brother didn’t provide well for his family. He left Effie and Tiller penniless, living off the kindness of strangers and begging for crumbs of bread. It’s no wonder Effie sent Tiller to live with us. She didn’t want the poor lad to starve."

  With a quick look at Dawsey for courage, Hooper waded in. "You’ve got it all wrong, Pa. The only one starving Tiller was Aunt Effie. She lived poor all right, but she didn’t have to."

  Papa frowned. "Don’t talk foolish. No sane person would live Effie’s life if they had a choice."

  Ma nodded in agreement. "Papa’s right. What are you saying, son?"

  Hooper stared at their puzzled faces. "I’m saying Aunt Effie wasn’t sane. Tiller’s plight grew worse when his pa died, because Uncle Sol wasn’t there to stand between the boy and his mother’s greed."

  The high color faded from Pa’s wrinkled cheeks. "Come again?"

  "I’m saying Aunt Effie was a miserly old woman who never spent a nickel she didn’t pinch. She died richer than Ma’s apple potpie."

  Mama gasped, and Pa swung his chair around and stared.

  "It’s true," Hooper said. "The bed Aunt Effie died on was stuffed to bursting with money." They gasped, and he nodded. "A treasure in greenbacks and gold coin."

  Ellie touched Hooper’s arm. "How is that possible? Tiller was a bag of bones when he came here to live."

  Hooper patted his sister’s hand. "I remember. He couldn’t keep his trousers on without a tight pair of suspenders."

  A purple vein stood out on Papa’s neck. "Effie’s been squirreling away money since my brother died?"

  Hooper snorted. "A far si
ght longer, considering her bulging nest egg. The old skinflint tucked nearly every dollar Uncle Sol earned in her cotton tick mattress. Besides being tight with her family’s purse strings, she inherited a sizable fortune from her parents when they died. I doubt she spent a dime of it."

  Papa stared around the circle with bulging eyes. "Which means …"

  "Tiller’s a wealthy man," Mama finished, her brows lifted to her hairline. "And he don’t even know it."

  Hooper nodded. "I’ve deposited the money in a Fayetteville bank in Tiller’s name. It’s sitting there waiting for him." His fists clenched. "When I think how Aunt Effie starved that boy, made him go without, I get mad all over again."

  Lowering his face to his hands, Papa groaned. "All these years I’ve judged my brother a shiftless no-account, begrudging his wife and son the necessities of life. When all the time, his sin was not having the backbone to stand up to Effie."

  "In fairness to Uncle Sol," Hooper said, recalling his own daunting encounters with the fearsome woman, "she was a mighty hard person to stand up to."

  Papa began to cry quietly, the only evidence his quivering shoulders.

  Mama glanced at Hooper, and he stepped behind the chair and wrapped his arms around his papa’s neck. "Don’t weep, sir. I feel mighty bad to be bringing you this news. I know how you’ve grieved for that boy."

  "And shouldn’t I grieve? It’s my fault he ran off. At the first spell of trouble between us, I threatened to send him back to Fayetteville, straight into Effie’s stingy arms."

  He gazed up at Hooper with tears wetting his cheeks. "Son, it all makes sense now. No wonder the boy ran away. In his shoes, I’d be done with the lot of us, too."

  Pa wiped his face with his sleeve. "I wish he was standing here now, so I could tell him he’ll never have to go without again."

  Ellie squeezed in behind him and kissed the top of his head. "You tried to find him, Papa. We all did."

  He raised tortured eyes. "But we quit looking. We never should’ve stopped until that boy was home again."

  Wyatt slid his arm around Ellie’s waist. "Sir, my family searched for Nathan right alongside you. It’s tough to find someone who doesn’t want to be found."

  Ma patted Wyatt’s back. "Forgive us, dear. We get so caught up in mourning Tiller, we forget your brother’s missing, too."

  Wyatt shot her a wry glance. "You’re being kind, Miss Odie. We all know Nathan’s not missing. He ran away and hauled your nephew with him." He sighed. "Tiller was just a boy. Nathan was old enough to know better." He gripped the arm of Papa’s chair. "Mr. Silas, if anybody’s at fault, it’s my little brother."

  Pa wagged his grizzled head. "I suppose the days for blame is past, son. Ten years have come and gone since those two left the swamp. God forgive us, what did we do with the time?"

  Ellie knelt at his side. "We built homes and bore children, pitched in to help Scuffletown recover from the war. It’s been a busy time for us all, but things are quieter now." She glanced around the room. "Why can’t we start our search again?"

  Hooper gave her a tender smile. "Actually, that’s why we’re here. I aim to do just that. And this time I’m going to look until I find them."

  Ellie’s face lit up, and she shot to her feet. "I’ll go."

  Leaning to see around her, Hooper widened his eyes at Wyatt. "What do you say, old man? I’d like for you and Ellie both to come."

  A tiny frown rippled Wyatt’s forehead. "But, sugar … what about our boys?"

  Hooper nodded at his wife. "That’s one reason Dawsey’s here. She’s willing to stay behind and care for the twins."

  Wyatt flashed Dawsey a grimace then pushed back his hair with both hands. "I don’t know, Hoop. We could be gone for weeks. Dawsey doesn’t realize what she’s signing on for."

  Ma pushed into the circle, worrying a tattered dishrag. "I’ll help out, Wyatt. I’ll go over to your place every day to untie her and put out the fires."

  Dawsey’s wide eyes swung to the boys. All four wore angelic smiles.

  Hooper absently patted her shoulder, his attention turning to Ellie. "It’s a long time to be away from your boys, little sis. I wouldn’t ask if you didn’t track a man better than a hound dog."

  Pa shook his head. "There’s nothing left to track. The trail is long cold."

  "Maybe not." Hooper squatted in front of the rocker. "Aunt Effie’s neighbor spoke of a local fellow who went to see Effie a few months before she died. This man had just returned from a trip to Mississippi. He swore he saw Tiller strolling along the boardwalk in a town by the name of Canton."

  Pa’s eyes lit up. "You don’t say?"

  "Aunt Effie called him a fool among other names. She said he had to be drunk or seeing things because Tiller was dead and gone. That got him mad, so he’s had plenty to say around town. I looked him up and talked to him myself."

  "And?" Pa asked.

  "I believe him. I think the man he saw was Tiller."

  "Why do you set such stock in a stranger’s opinion?"

  "Because"—Hooper’s gaze jumped to each of them in turn—"when the stranger called Tiller’s name, he spun around to look and then ducked down an alley."

  Excitement surged in the room like the tension before a storm.

  "And Nathan?" Wyatt asked, his tone hopeful.

  "Sorry, buddy. Tiller appeared to be alone, but if he’s in Canton, Mississippi, you can bet Nathan’s close by."

  The corners of Papa’s eyes crinkled the way they did when he was thinking. "I know where Canton is. About twenty … thirty days’ ride on a good horse."

  "Thirty days," Ma said. "That’s a long time."

  Hooper nodded. "Yes, it is. That’s why we’re taking the train. We’ll book passage to Jackson then hire some horses. If we have to, we’ll ride every inch of the state until we find a good lead."

  Wyatt worried his bottom lip, his brow creased in thought. "Suppose Nathan and Tiller don’t want to be found, Hoop? Did you consider that possibility? We’re not looking for boys this time around. They’re grown men and likely to be settled somewhere. Raising families."

  Pa slapped the arm of his chair. "No sir, I don’t believe that for a minute. Those two have been up to no good. Only shame will keep a man away from home and family this long." He sighed. "Still … we can’t let that stop us."

  He shifted his gaze to the glowing hearth. "Tiller may not want to be found—that wouldn’t surprise me—but if the boy ever decides to come home, it’ll start by learning he’s welcome."

  FOURTEEN

  Mariah stuck her muddy foot under the spout and worked the pump’s squeaky handle. Ice-cold water shot out in a burst, splashing her bare ankles. She squealed and jumped back then forced her toes under the flow, wiggling to wash the thick, dried clay from between them.

  Next she washed the basket of lettuce she’d cut from the garden. She told herself she might as well pick a few heads while she was dressed for grubbing in the dirt. In truth, she was stalling while she found the right words to apologize to Miss Vee.

  Shading her eyes, she scanned the rooftop until she found Tiller kneeling next to the side gable. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop watching him.

  He had rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt since leaving the barn, probably once he climbed onto the sun-baked shingles. A dark circle of sweat moistened his back, and his shirttails flapped in the breeze.

  She admired the pleasing way his chest appeared chiseled and his tanned skin glistened in the sun. Even more, she liked how he’d laughed like a small boy in the barn and then gazed at her so boldly. In his own way, Tiller McRae was more fetching than the sons of Tobias Jones.

  Stop it, Mariah! Embarrassed, she tugged her attention back to washing her feet.

  She may as well get such thoughts right out of her head. No matter how striking she found him, she needed a weak-willed nahullo. One she could lead by the nose and persuade to do her will. Swaggering, self-assured Tiller simply wouldn’t do.


  By his own admission, he lived the life of an aimless drifter with no family ties. Not exactly the sort of man to trust with the reins to Bell’s Inn. Or with her heart.

  Balancing on one foot at a time, she dried them on her dress. Giving the handle one last crank, she leaned to the spigot for a drink and saw Tiller from the corner of her eye, watching from the roof. By his appreciative stare and the way his hammer slowed, Tiller found her just as much the distraction. Mariah hid her smile and pretended not to notice.

  Straightening, she started across the yard, glancing up in time to see Tiller miss the nail and hit his thumb. With a howl of pain, he shook the battered appendage then stuffed it in his mouth.

  She covered her mouth to suppress a giggle and scurried across the yard to the back porch. Ducking through the door into the kitchen, she paused at the mirror to gape at her dirt-streaked chin and messy hair, mortified that she’d sat with Tiller in the barn acting the grand lady when she looked like a windblown wretch.

  She needed to change her soggy, mud-splattered dress, but first she’d find Miss Vee and beg forgiveness.

  "Mornin’ again."

  Mariah spun, clutching her bodice, and glared at Dicey grinning from the pantry. "Dicey Turner! Must you creep around all the time?"

  Dicey tilted her head. "Since when is fetching the lard creepin’? Folks in this house mighty jumpy." Her startled gaze leaped to Mariah’s tangled locks and filthy dress. Pointing as if Mariah might not be aware of her bedraggled state, she gasped. "Look here what the cat dragged in. What done happen to you?"

  "Never mind. Just get on with the piecrusts then start kneading the bread. It’ll be lunchtime soon."

  Still staring, Dicey heaved the lard bucket to the counter. "Yes’m, but I hope you plan to wash up and change ‘fore you start messin’ about this kitchen."

  Mariah smiled. "I’m going upstairs to clean up, but I’ll come right back in to help." She started for the hall then turned. "When you’re done with the dough, run out to the smokehouse and get a ham. If I’m not back in time, trim the fat for a pot of beans and put the rest in the oven. While you’re there, bring in a link of venison sausage." Remembering Tiller, she glanced toward the roof. "Best make it three."