Bandit's Hope

by Marcia Gruver

  Miss Vee scurried over. "My, my. Ain’t this a nice surprise?" A surprise to everyone but her.

  Chris slipped up beside Mariah and gently touched her back. "Hello, Flower." His warm eyes and affectionate tone were as familiar as a kiss.

  Tiller glared, but basking in Mariah’s answering smile kept the brash boy too busy to notice.

  Miss Vee turned a bright smile on Tobias. "I hope you’re hungry."

  Beaming, he nodded eagerly.

  Wringing a napkin into a knot, Mariah’s anxious gaze flitted between her newest guests and the six boarders.

  Tiller guessed what had her jumpy. The meal kept the men too busy to cast more than a few curious glances, but if Tobias and his boys pulled a chair alongside them, it could become a problem.

  Tipping his chin, Tiller grinned. "Not much room over there, and it looks like they’ll be busy for a spell. Why don’t we move the kitchen table out to the porch?"

  Mariah gripped his arm and whispered her thanks as she passed. "Dicey, you and Rainy drag out the table. Miss Vee, fetch a clean cloth and help with the chairs, please. I’ll see if our fishermen can spare a few pieces of their catch."

  Grinning, Tiller handed her a plate and a pair of tongs. "Careful. You may wind up with a few less fingers."

  She winked. "Not if I trade them for a slice of my strawberry pie."

  With her bright smile and coy glances, it didn’t take her long to charm a heaping plate of food right out from under the beguiled men. Passing Tiller without a backward glance, she handed the plate to Dicey and took Chris’s and Justin’s arms. "I can’t decide which of you I’d rather sit by, so let’s set a place for me in between you, shall we?"

  Watching her go, Tiller’s temper flared as hot as the bubbling grease.

  TWENTY

  Mariah sat at her dressing table dragging a brush through her hair, her riotous thoughts sure to cost her a night’s sleep.

  She scowled at her reflection, seeing Miss Vee’s self-satisfied smile. The meddling woman knew exactly what she was doing when she invited the Jones boys to supper. She figured if Tiller wasn’t enough to distract her away from Gabe, then Chris or Justin might.

  Grumbling to herself, Mariah focused her anger on the real conniving female in the room. How could she have played those simpering games—shamelessly flirting with the boys in front of Tiller just to test his reaction? It wasn’t like her to toy with men’s affections. Such behavior was indecent, especially since she planned the shortest engagement ever with another man entirely.

  She slammed the brush down hard on the vanity. Why should she feel guilty for engaging in the harmless fun considered normal courting behavior by most Southern girls?

  Yet wasn’t that her problem? A Pearl River Indian fighting to save her ancestral land was far from a normal girl.

  Besides, Tiller was guilty of toying with her affections, too. Whatever nonsense had gone on between him and Otis, Tiller wasn’t the marrying kind. He had plainly stated the fact down in the kitchen. "I’m not asking you to marry me, Mariah. I just want to court you a little."

  Blast his slippery hide. She needed a sight more than a "little" courting, and she needed it now. In her weakened state, her yearning heart betrayed her. If only Tiller intended to stick around, if he’d make his intentions clear, she could lay aside her fears.

  She could lay aside most anything for him.

  The admission pained her stomach. Gripping her middle, she rested her flushed cheek on the tabletop, weary from battling her muddled emotions.

  "Mariah? Are you all right?"

  She raised her head. If she didn’t answer, perhaps Miss Vee would go away and leave her in peace.

  The door creaked open, and Miss Vee’s wide eyes peeked around the edge. "I heard a ruckus. Is something wrong in here?"

  Mariah sighed and spun toward her. "Nothing’s wrong. Come on in."

  Miss Vee entered wearing her faded dressing gown, a tasseled nightcap, and a worried frown. "What on earth was that banging? I could’ve sworn it came from in here."

  Mariah slid her brush into the top drawer. "You can see for yourself that I’m fine." She managed a grudging smile. "Go back to bed. You must be worn to a frazzle."

  "Who, me?" She blinked. "I’m no worse off than the rest of you. We all worked hard today."

  "On the contrary." Mariah lifted one brow. "You took on the added weight of managing my personal life."

  Miss Vee’s shoulders slumped. "So you caught me." Shuffling to the bed, she plopped down with a grimace. "I’m not very skilled at trickery, am I?"

  "At least have the grace to seem contrite."

  She leaned to squeeze Mariah’s knee. "I don’t mean to meddle, honey. Please understand, I feel responsible for you in your father’s absence." Her eyes widened. "What would John say if he came home to find his daughter rubbing cozy shoulders with the likes of Gabriel Tabor?"

  "I think Father would find my interest perfectly reasonable. After all, Gabe stands to inherit his father’s plantation one day."

  Startled, Mariah realized it hadn’t stung to speak of her father’s homecoming. Did it mean she’d grown callous in her deceit? Or had she pretended so long she’d started to believe it herself?

  Disgust flickered in Miss Vee’s eyes. "That’s what this is about? With a man like Tiller McRae pining after you, you’d sell yourself for a patch of Mississippi dirt?" She shook her head. "Minti Bell’s daughter or not, I wouldn’t have believed it in a hundred years." Standing, she gazed at Mariah in disbelief. "It’s possible that what I said earlier is true. I don’t suppose I’ve ever really known you."

  Tiller glanced at the ceiling then back at Otis.

  Otis stared overhead, his brows raised so high he looked owlish. "That’s a lot of throwing things and slamming doors, even for a couple of women."

  Tiller scooted to the edge of his chair. "Should I go see what’s going on up there?"

  Otis grinned. "I wouldn’t. You might get your ears handed to you."

  They listened together as a set of stomping feet reached the end of the hallway. After a last wall-rattling slam that shook the oil fixture above their heads, silence fell over the house.

  The old man blew out a breath. "See what I mean?"

  Tiller couldn’t help but chuckle. "For two people whose hearts seem so close-knit, Mariah and Miss Vee go at each other with shocking regularity."

  Otis nodded. "Just means they’ve passed up friends and turned into family." His smile dimming, he shivered suddenly and tugged his blanket up around his shoulders.

  Tiller helped him tuck the covers around his thin frame then patted his bundled arm. "Sit tight. I’ll throw on another log."

  They were into the second week in June, but the weather hadn’t bothered to check the calendar. The days were mild enough that the meager daytime heat didn’t carry into evening, so at night Miss Vee had Rainy bank fires in all the hearths. Otis’s burned all the time.

  Before long, the extra wood ignited to a roaring blaze. They sat quietly in the close little room, so warm and cozy Tiller felt drowsy.

  The glowing fire wasn’t the only thing that set his heart at ease. Sitting beside the strange little man beneath the quilt soothed Tiller without a word ever passing between them. When they did share long talks, especially when Otis spoke his God-words, Tiller’s heart soared to receive them.

  The only blight on their peculiar friendship was the dreadful truth. Tiller’s part in the terrible thing that happened to Otis was a leaden weight around his shoulders.

  He sat forward and patted Otis’s arm. "Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get for you tonight?"

  Otis shook with laughter. "Not since the last time you asked. Or the time before." He cocked his head. "You ain’t gettin’ befuddled same as me, are you?"

  Tiller longed to confess his sins and purge his sore conscience, but a streak of yellow held him back. He forced a grin. "I’m just trying to make sure you’re comfortable."

  Otis s
at up in bed. "You know, boy … there is one thing I sure would like, if it’s not too much trouble."

  Eager to please, Tiller leaned closer. "Anything at all. Just name your poison."

  The rheumy old eyes darted past the foot of the bed. "I’ve been locked inside these four walls for quite a spell. I’d sure like to see what’s outside that door."

  Warmth flooded Tiller’s heart. "You know what that means, don’t you?"

  Childlike, Otis glanced up and shook his head.

  "It shows you’re getting better."

  "Sure enough? Well, how about that?"

  Tiller slipped one arm around his shoulders and helped him sit up.

  Otis swung his feet to the floor and scooted to the edge of the bed.

  "Take it slow, now," Tiller warned. "Are you ready?"

  He nodded. "A little shaky, but I think I can make it … as long as you don’t turn me loose."

  "There’s not a chance of that happening. Let’s go."

  With a grunt, Otis pushed to his feet. He’d grown so thin and frail, holding him took no more effort than steadying a child.

  Tiller guided him across the room and through the door. He paused in the hallway to study Otis’s face. "How are we doing?"

  Otis grinned. "Not sure about you, but I’d take kindly to a seat in that nice parlor yonder."

  They passed under the archway and made it to the settee in mincing steps. Tiller changed his mind at the last minute and steered him to a set of overstuffed chairs pulled close to the crackling hearth. "How’s this?"

  "Fine, son. Just fine."

  Otis reached for the padded arm, and Tiller eased him down. "Can I get you anything?" He wished he knew how to make Miss Vee’s foamy white tea. "A cup of coffee or a slice of pie?"

  His movements a bit wobbly, Otis leaned to pat the opposite chair. "I just need you to sit right here beside me."

  Tiller slid dutifully into the seat.

  With a contented sigh, Otis nestled into the soft, tufted fabric. He sat quietly for so long, his mouth ajar, he appeared to have fallen asleep.

  The heat from the blazing flames toasted Tiller’s arms and face. Before long, his own eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted in a pleasing fog. Resting against the pillowed headrest, he thought to doze awhile himself.

  "She needs you, boy."

  Tiller startled awake at the voice. He spun his head toward Otis, certain he’d dreamed the grim words.

  Firelight danced in Otis’s eyes. "Mariah’s in a frightful mess." He shook his head, the weight of sadness sagging his cheeks.

  Terrified, Tiller’s breath stilled while he waited for Otis’s God-words about the woman he loved.

  "The Lord didn’t tell me." The old man pointed up the stairs. "I got this from the little missy herself."

  Swallowing hard, Tiller nodded. "She told you something?"

  "Not in words." Otis leaned to prop his chin, his thoughtful gaze fixed on the floor. "We were having a little talk. I gave her a message from God about some secret she’s keeping, and well … it hit her hard." He glanced at Tiller. "Poor girl jumped like she’d stepped on a darning needle. Nearly shook her right out of her skin."

  "A secret?" His interest piqued, Tiller scooted to the edge of his chair. "What did you tell her exactly?" He blinked. "If you’re free to say."

  Otis thoughtfully scratched his cheek. "That’s the trouble, son. I don’t know if I’m free to say or not. I can’t remember what I said."

  Frustrated, Tiller pressed him. "Try harder, Otis. It could be important."

  A pained look crossed his face. "It’s no good. I’ve strained my thinker since it happened. Nothing comes to me. Not a whiff."

  Tiller patted his trembling hand. "Easy. Don’t rile yourself. We’ll find another way to help her."

  Otis pulled his hand free to squeeze Tiller’s fingers. "I know you’ll bust a gut trying, son. Because there’s nothing but good in you."

  The flames grew unbearably hot, and the room closed in on Tiller. He ducked his head. "Please don’t call me that, sir. I’m a long way from good."

  Otis smiled. "Ain’t we all when you get right down to it? The Good Book says, ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’ We’re all sinners, boy. You’ve done no worse things than me."

  Tiller swallowed hard, but the painful knot refused to budge. He slid out of Otis’s grasp. "I reckon that’s not so. I’m afraid I’ve done far worse. In fact, there’s something you need to know about me, and it’s time I told you the truth. Otis, I—"

  Footsteps over their heads stemmed his words. Angry at the interruption, he scowled up at the stairwell.

  Mariah stood a few steps off the top landing, her hand clutching the neck of a white dressing gown and her flowing hair draping her shoulders like a lustrous black cape. She was a vision straight from a man’s dreams.

  Her expression was the only flaw, and the most striking thing about her. Sheer panic had frozen her features and paled her beautiful face.

  Gaping at Otis as if she’d stumbled onto a ghoul, she spun on her heels. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt."

  Otis stirred and reached his hand toward her. "Little missy, don’t go."

  Leaping from his chair, Tiller started after her. Before he reached the bottom stair, she was gone in a whirl of white lace.

  "There, you see?" Otis said, wonder in his voice.

  Stunned, Tiller stared over his shoulder. "For pity’s sake. She was scared stiff."

  Otis pointed a shaky finger. "That’s the same look she had when I gave her the message from God."

  TWENTY-ONE

  The road home had changed. Not because of overgrown trails or washed-out bridges—things a man might expect. Joe felt the difference in his spirit, a restless sense of going in the wrong direction.

  On other trips to Mississippi, the past lured him. Each step closer to the land of his ancestors stoked an eager fire within. This time the miles drained him as he rode away from the cabin he shared with his wife.

  The full moon overhead lit his way. After the first long day, Joe had traveled at night when most of the world rested. At first light, he sought hidden places to sleep before the roads filled with travelers. This way, he fell asleep knowing he would see trouble before it spotted him.

  He followed a winding, scum-coated creek for miles until the water ran fast and clear again. Reining the horse beside a mayhaw thicket, he eased his aching body from the saddle and lay on his belly for a drink from the rushing stream.

  After tending the animal’s needs, he built a fire to heat a tin of beans. With his bones warmed and belly full, he spread his bedroll in a clutch of trees as fiery orange rays from hvshi peeked over the tall grass on the horizon, setting it aflame.

  Overhead, a spiraling cyclone of buzzards rose and fell over a distant carcass. The birds reminded him of an ancient tale, the day the animals held a powwow to decide who would steal fire for their tribe. Brave buzzard volunteered to fly to the people of the east and return with fire, which he did without delay. Swooping close to the flames, he hid a burning ember in the long, beautiful feathers on his head. For his trouble, he got a bald, blistered skull to wear for the rest of his days.

  Smiling at the old legend, Joe yawned and smacked lazily, the pleasing taste of beans lingering on his tongue. He closed his eyes, wondering if his skirmish with John Coffee would earn him the same fate as the poor buzzard. In previous battles, they’d parted company with the stench of burning feathers in the air. He doubted this time would be different.

  Joe loved Mariah, felt a pressing weight of duty to see her marry well. He couldn’t deny that the promise of three fine horses and a passel of land sweetened the deal.

  With his niece wed to the chief’s son, Joe would move into a choice position within the tribe. With little George coming, it was a fine place to be. These things he wouldn’t bother telling John. The man seemed blind to their traditions.

  For all his trying ways, John’s love for Mar
iah was great. John’s devotion to his daughter was Joe’s biggest hindrance, but this time he wouldn’t leave Mississippi without her.

  He drew the musty blanket over his eyes to shut out the rising sun. Just a few more days to reach the Mississippi crossing. Less than a week and he’d arrive at his destination. He still had plenty of time to work out a plan to steal John Coffee’s fire. For now, his biggest need was rest.

  Hooper dashed the dregs from his coffee cup into the fire and kicked dirt over the ashes. They’d slept too long, but after days of hard riding, they were a sore and sorry lot—with a lot more ground left to cover.

  Wyatt approached, a bleary-eyed version of himself. "I’ve packed the horses, and Ellie’s scouting the trail. You about ready to go?"

  Hooper groaned. "Not in the least. What happened to us, Wyatt? Our gang used to ride the swamp for days, short on sleep and provisions with muddy water lapping our stirrups and a posse on our tails." He reached to rub the small of his back. "I don’t remember once feeling this stiff."

  Wyatt grinned. "Good thing you mended your ways, old man." He tightened the neck of his flask and slung it over one shoulder. "Hoop, that was ten years ago. We’re not that band of raiders anymore."

  "Still, it don’t make a lick of sense," Hooper said. "I work as hard as any man running my farm."

  "Not the same. It’s not easy sleeping on a train for days or riding the overgrown trails around Jackson. These saddles bore in deep after so many miles."

  Hooper lowered his voice. "Don’t let on to Ellie, but I miss my feather bed."

  Wyatt burst into laughter. "Ellie’s hero? Missing his comforts? You can bet I won’t tell her that."

  Ellie ducked out of the trees behind them. "Tell me what?"

  Wyatt spun. "Take my word, honey. You’re better off not knowing."

  Hooper nudged him. "Why doesn’t my sister look any worse for wear? She woke me up at dawn, scurrying around camp like a youngster on an outing."

  Wyatt slipped his arm around Ellie’s waist. "This stuff is in her blood." He gave her a little shake. "Besides, running after our boys keeps her able-bodied. I doubt those sweet cherubs of yours give much of a chase."