She poured three glasses of lemonade while regaining control. By the snickering and shoving behind her, the boys seemed certain her smile had something to do with them. Wouldn’t they be surprised to know it didn’t this time?
Busying her hands at the counter, Mariah pondered her distressing predicament. Three special men within the sound of her voice—thoughtful Justin, with his strong arms, broad chest, and beautiful brown eyes that pierced her soul; uncommonly handsome Chris, confident and daring, lighthearted and funny with a winsome smile; and Tiller—
Her breath caught remembering the yearning in his light green eyes, his boyish face so close she counted blond whiskers mingling with the dark red beard on his chin.
All pleasing suitors, all interested, yet she wasn’t free to choose any one of them.
Tiller’s irresistible allure frightened her the most. She needed a man she could count on to stay and protect the inn, one she could bend to her will. His need to float high and free like a dandelion seed clashed with her sense of family and strong ties to the land.
Even if Mariah could ground him long enough to marry her, she had no hope of holding him down. At the first strong wind, he’d lift to the sky and drift away again.
She took a deep breath and forced a bright smile before turning to serve the drinks. Her head should be busy with more pressing matters than fending off the wrong beaus. Like feed for the livestock and food for the guests she fervently prayed would arrive. Providing the necessities for her household, for that matter.
Not to mention persuading Gabriel Tabor to marry her before her dreadful secret blew up in her face.
SEVENTEEN
Six noisy men crowded around the breakfast table, never knowing God had used them to answer Mariah’s prayers.
They’d checked in the night before, cash in advance, and she quickly sent Rainy to buy eggs, shortening, and a rack of bacon. The merchant had only scraps of sowbelly left, but the box of ends and pieces would have to do. So far, she’d heard no complaints. They were eating too fast to notice.
She set the platter of biscuits on the table, hoping there’d be enough to go around. Glancing at the meager bowl of scrambled eggs, made without cream or butter, she winced. Father’s boast that a room at Bell’s Inn came with the finest breakfast in the state echoed in her mind, flooding her with shame. The inn’s reputation centered on her cooking skills. Whatever the cost, she had to find a way to get the supplies she needed.
It was an unjust cycle. With the last hog slaughtered and the cows sold, she needed money to buy most of her provisions. How could she fulfill her father’s promise if there weren’t enough lodgers to fill the coffers, especially now that she’d emptied her savings to ward off Dr. Moony?
Mariah grew weary with barely scraping by. Breakfast was the hardest meal to come up with, and the situation got worse every day. Rainy’s garden helped with lunch and supper, but the smokehouse was nearly empty. Miss Vee and Dicey had started to watch her with anxious eyes.
Even worse, Tiller had noticed the lack. He took skimpy portions at every meal, covering his plate when she offered him seconds, insisting he couldn’t hold another bite. Yet she caught him in the garden after supper, peeling and eating cucumbers.
Mariah chastened herself again for not riding out to see Gabe. She’d have to stop putting it off. Nothing would change until she did.
"Little lady, you got any more of these larruping good biscuits?"
She dropped a dishcloth on the three she’d saved for Tiller and turned with a pretty smile. "Mr. Lenard, it does my heart good to see such hearty appetites, but you’ve eaten the last one available, I’m afraid."
Scooping a spoonful of eggs onto his plate, she added a few extra pieces of bacon. "See if this won’t fill up your last hollow spot."
Mr. Lenard grinned as if she’d offered him treasure, his bushy mustache fanning. "Much obliged, miss." He took two bites of the eggs and glanced up. "Any chance there might be more biscuits tomorrow morning? If so, I’d be willing to stay one more night."
Mariah’s heart soared. "If you gentlemen are here in the morning, I’ll make you a double batch." She patted his back. "Along with butter and homemade peach jelly."
"You’ve got a bargain," he said, his eyes lighting up. "Put us down for one more night."
His companions, their faces buried in their plates, mumbled agreement around mouthfuls of food.
Near tears at the unexpected blessing, Mariah busied herself at the sink. Maybe her cooking was the key to saving Bell’s Inn after all.
Once she got her guests fed and out the door to Father’s favorite fishing hole, she crossed to the larder and took her last three eggs out of a wicker basket for Tiller. Pouring in the few drops of cream she had left in the house, she beat them good and poured them over bacon fat in the skillet.
By the time she had them nicely set, Tiller breezed through the back door.
She met him with an eager smile. "Good morning. It’s about time you showed up. Hurry and wash your hands. Your breakfast is getting cold."
Tiller hooked his thumb behind him. "Already washed up at the pump." He gazed around the empty kitchen. "Where is everyone?"
She quirked her brows. "Dicey’s late again. I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually. Miss Vee’s upstairs cleaning. Our guests are down by the Pearl, yanking catfish for supper."
Happier to see him than she ought to be, her heart felt as light as the wind. She laughed. "With the stampede through here this morning, you almost lost your share."
Concern tightened his face. "If someone else is hungry, I can wait till lunchtime."
Mariah bit her lip, wishing she’d picked her words more carefully. "As hard as you work, mister? No one in this house deserves a hearty breakfast more than you."
In the time Tiller had been at Bell’s Inn, he’d transformed the place. No more loose rails. No squeaky boards, upstairs or down. Chipped paint was gone and a new coat applied. Gray, crooked posts had turned to shiny, whitewashed columns. With every day that passed, he brought the inn nearer its former glory.
"In fact"—she nodded for him to sit and handed him his plate with a grin—"you’re the only one who got cream in his eggs."
His green eyes flashed with alarm. "You’re out of cream, aren’t you?"
Heat rising to her cheeks, Mariah lowered her lashes. "That’s not your concern." Trying hard not to cry, she twisted her mouth to the side and nibbled the inside of her cheek.
Tiller stood and gripped her shoulders. "It might be true that it’s none of my business, but don’t tell me what to be concerned about." He lifted her chin. "Or who."
Mariah met his eyes. "I’m no stranger to lack, but we always pull through." She wriggled free and brought his biscuits, placing them on his plate. "It’s always a little tight through winter and spring. Once the roads dry up, I won’t have a single empty room to let."
Not easily put off, Tiller caught her wrist and gently turned her around. "I believed you when you said I’m part of this operation now. To be honest, Mariah, it feels grand to be part of something good." He lowered his head to make her look at him. "So, if there’s anything I can do to ease that frown from your pretty brow; say the word, and I’ll bust a gut trying."
His tender words spread warmth through her heart. "Oh, Tiller. That’s the nicest thing to say." Despite her resolve, she leaned into him. Nestled close to his chest, she felt safe, comforted.
The nearer she pressed, the tighter Tiller’s arms drew her. His fingers touched the base of her neck and slid to her chin, pulling her face up to his. His searching eyes consumed her, and the warmth of his quick breath fell on her lips.
Mariah slid from his arms, keenly aware of a sudden emptiness. "I can’t do this."
Worry creased his brow. "I didn’t mean to … I wasn’t—"
She spun away. "I can’t be with you."
On her heels, he followed her to the counter. "Why not? You like me—I know you do."
She stepped aw
ay and crossed her arms. "It’s not enough."
"It’s a start." He ducked low to see her face. "I’m not asking to marry you, Mariah. I just want to court you a little. Find out if we’re suited for each other."
She tightened her lips and turned her head to the side.
Tiller teased the top of her hand with his finger. "Do you want me to wait and ask your pa? Is that it? Because I don’t mind waiting."
Frowning, she jerked away. "You’re wrong for me, Tiller McRae."
Anger flashed on his face. "Why do you think so?"
"Because you’re a dandelion," she spat.
"A what?" His voice came out shrill. "Woman, you’re not making any sense."
Her fury rose to meet his. "You live like the wind, with no ties to anything. The roots you shun have me bound to this place heart and soul."
Understanding softened his eyes. "Mariah, there’s more to me than an aimless drifter. If you’d take the time to get to know me—"
Tears washed over her cheeks in an unexpected flood. "That’s just it. I’m out of time." Darting past him, she bolted for the door.
Tiller watched Mariah go with sickening dread. Every step she took pounded deeper regret into his wounded soul. He’d felt the same empty sorrow while fleeing Scuffletown, a sense of sudden, irreplaceable loss.
What had she meant by "out of time"? It could only mean she planned to send him packing now that he’d finished most of the repairs.
Tiller slapped the counter so hard his palm stung. He’d miss the hard work. The garden. The little room he’d made his own. Teasing talks with Miss Vee and Dicey. Long walks along the Pearl with Mariah.
Without her, he’d miss the childlike pleasure of a new porch. Bible lessons from a nodding sunflower. Bare feet and muddy toes.
In a rush of certainty, Tiller knew he couldn’t leave her. He belonged with Mariah as surely as they both belonged at the inn. He had to find a way to make her believe it.
Reaching the back door in purposeful strides, he yanked it open.
Mariah stood on the top step, watching a big man climb down from his wagon.
Tiller tensed, his eyes jumping to the hammer he’d laid outside the door.
Mariah didn’t seem threatened, though she drew back her shoulders and stiffened her spine. "Morning, Gabe. Did you read my thoughts?"
The man’s bulging stomach reached the steps before him, his large, drooping mouth seconds later. Hauling the rest of him closer, he hitched up his pants and tilted his head to the side. "I ain’t read nothing, Miss Mariah." His bushy brows drew to a frown. "You know I can’t read."
She laughed as if he’d said something funny. "Oh, Gabe. I just meant that I was thinking about you, and here you are."
"You was?" He drew in his fat bottom lip, no small feat, and slurped, catching a string of drool before it escaped down his chin.
"I was indeed."
"Well, I’ll be." A leer replaced his befuddled stare. He didn’t have enough sense to hide his lurid thoughts. "I’ve been thinking about you, too."
The garden gate squealed on rusty hinges, and Mariah’s head swiveled toward it.
Miss Vee puttered along the path with a basket of vegetables, headed for the house. Raising her head, she missed a step then came to a full stop, staring at Mariah and her guest.
With a quick glance at Tiller, Mariah took the steps to the ground and linked her arm with Gabe’s. "Walk with me."
"Sure thing." His heavy gaze fixed on Mariah like she’d asked him to supper and she was the bill of fare. "Where to?"
Tugging his bulk into motion, she ignored his question and hurried him along beside her. "I’ve been meaning to ride out and check on you and Mr. Tabor. How is your father’s health these days?"
They strolled past Gabe’s rig, their voices still carrying but not their words.
Miss Vee reached the porch, stopping with one hand on the rail to stare after them. "My eyes tell me Mariah just left with Gabe Tabor hanging off her arm like a bloated tick. My common sense can’t believe it."
Tiller blew out a breath. "Your common sense lost the bet."
"What’s she doing hugged up to the likes of him?"
Leaning for the hammer, Tiller wiped it clean with the tail of his shirt. "I was wondering the same. Who is he?"
Miss Vee pursed her lips like she wanted to spit. "Little vermin owns the neighboring farm. At least he will when his ailing pa dies. More’s the pity. Won’t be long before Gabe runs that place underground."
Tiller took the basket from her hand. "Why’s that?"
"He’s simpleminded. Lacks the sense to keep his boots strapped. His daddy does all but wipe his nose for him." She shook her head. "Gabe makes it hard to feel sorry for him though. He’s full to the brim with mischief."
Tiller stiffened and stared toward the river just as their bobbing heads disappeared down the sloping bank. "Should I go after her?"
"Mariah can take care of herself. She knows how to handle Gabe."
Miss Vee frowned over her shoulder as if battling second thoughts. "But if she’s not back soon, you and that hammer might want to take a stroll." Patting Tiller’s shoulder, she pulled his gaze from the Pearl. "Have our fishermen returned?"
"No ma’am. Not yet."
She grinned. "I hope that means catfish for supper. I think I can scratch up enough meal for a nice creel of fish. Enough for a batch of corn fritters, too, if we’re lucky."
"That sounds pretty good on an empty stomach."
Her green eyes widened. "Mariah didn’t fix your breakfast?"
"She did." He glanced toward the river. "I got a little distracted from my plate."
With a sympathetic smile, she tugged on his sleeve. "Let’s go see if it’s fit for warming. After you eat a bite, you can help me give Otis a bath. It’s been a week since his last one. The poor man’s ripe as a split fig."
EIGHTEEN
Still wary around Otis Gooch, Tiller followed Miss Vee inside his room with a sloshing pan of water. Each time Tiller saw him, he wondered if that would be the day Otis remembered.
He slept drawn up on his side with his face to the wall, his scrawny behind jutting halfway off the bed. They drew near, and Tiller decided Miss Vee was mistaken. Otis had passed ripe days ago. Warmed by the fire they kept stoked for the thin-skinned old man, the air sagged with the smell of rotted armpits.
Miss Vee made a face.
Tiller grimaced and shook his head.
She nudged the side of the mattress with her knee. "Come forth, Lazarus. It’s time for your bath."
Otis rolled toward them, his toothless mouth a gaping maw. Drawing in a wheezing breath, the tail end of a snore, he coughed and mumbled.
When his body relaxed into sleep again, Miss Vee banged the bed harder. "Come on, now. Time to wake up."
One eye opened a slit; then the other followed suit. "Mornin’, good lady."
"Morning is said and done. It’s nearly lunchtime."
He frowned and scooted up on his pillow. "Did I miss breakfast?"
She shook her head. "You ate hearty and enjoyed every bite. Don’t you remember?"
He didn’t answer, but doubt swam in his eyes.
Tiller scooted past her to set the water on the table. "Are you ready to get clean?"
His wrinkled face lit up. "Howdy, Tator."
"It’s Tiller, sir."
He held up his crooked finger. "I was close. I knew it had to do with growing things. How are ye, son?"
Tiller grinned. "I can’t complain."
Otis scratched his wiry head. "I sure could, but complaining don’t do any good." He motioned with his fingers. "Come close and I’ll tell you a secret, boy."
Trying not to breathe through his nose, Tiller leaned in. "Yes, sir?"
Otis squinted at him. "Did you say your name was Tiller?"
Biting back a smile, he nodded.
"Well, Tiller, I learned some time ago that a grateful heart will take you miles farther than grumbling." He nodded
firmly. "I’ll tell you something else, too. This old heart has plenty to be grateful for."
Tiller stared in disbelief. The man was penniless and sleeping in a borrowed bed. He was dressed in another man’s nightshirt with his head bashed in and strangers tending his needs. As far as Tiller could see, he didn’t have one thing going his way. What could he possibly have to be thankful for?
"Let’s get on with the washing," Miss Vee said, throwing another log on the fire.
While Otis chattered endlessly, Tiller got him shucked and scrubbed down the best he could. Discreetly holding her nose, Miss Vee traded him a clean union suit for the soiled nightshirt.
Holding the one-piece garment in front of Otis, Tiller opened and closed the button-flap drop seat in back, as if demonstrating the ease of use. He glanced toward Miss Vee, who was warming her hands by the fire, and they shared a quiet chuckle before Tiller helped him to slip it on his frail body.
Otis beamed. "I reckon nightshirts are more in fashion, but there’s nothing like a union suit for keeping a body warm." He stretched to see around Tiller and called to Miss Vee. "All done, dear lady. You can turn around."
She crossed to them and lifted the pan of dirty water. "Will you be needing anything else?"
"Not a thing. I’m much obliged for the clean clothes." He cut grateful eyes up to Tiller. "And the bath."
Tiller smiled down at him. "It’s nothing. No trouble at all."
He reached to take the dirty water from Miss Vee, but Otis caught his arm. "The Lord wants you to know He don’t see all you’ve done for me as nothing, and He’s in charge of settling accounts. He said to tell you so."
Tiller’s head began to roar. The gnarled fingers circling his wrist shot sparks to his flesh like cotton socks on a wintery morn. Unable to move a muscle, he stilled, watching Otis.
"When you do the will of God from your heart, you’re doing service to the Lord, not to men. And God will reward each of us for the good we do." Otis nodded and released him. "It’s true. The Good Book says so."
Bandit's Hope Page 13
