Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He chewed the corner of his mustache. “You only brought one bride for sixteen men?”

  Helena laughed softly. “Miss Grant isn’t a bride. She is my assistant.”

  He bounced his hat against his thigh, his face set in a scowl that couldn’t quite mask his rugged handsomeness. Strength, as well as impatience, emanated from the man. “Then are the brides coming on the next train? I didn’t expect to stay in Pratt Center for the whole day.”

  Helena cleared her throat. “As I said, it’s only the two of us.”

  If his frown deepened any further, his eyebrows would form a V. “Ma’am, there are sixteen eager grooms in Spiveyville expecting me to bring back a wagonload of brides.” He twisted the brim of his hat, pausing to bite at his mustache again. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’ve got going, but I won’t play a part in it.”

  Indignation flooded Helena. She matched his scowl with one of her own. “Mr. Cleveland, I operate an honest business. If I intended to swindle people, why would I make the long and tiring journey from my comfortable home in Massachusetts to the barren plains of Kansas?”

  He peered at her for long, silent seconds with his brows tugged low and his lower lip poked out. Finally he sighed. “All right, then. But where are the brides?”

  “They will come when I’ve assured myself that decent, law-abiding husbands are awaiting them.” Helena held her hand toward the little wagon. “Will you kindly load our luggage and help us into your conveyance? If it’s a four-hour drive”—she cringed, imagining the discomfort of riding in that rattling wooden box for so many hours—“we should be on our way as expediently as possible.”

  Without a word, he grabbed the handle on the rolling cart and pulled it across the platform. Helena and Abigail followed.

  While he loaded the trunks into the back of the wagon, Abigail leaned close to Helena’s ear. “I hope the hotel offers hot baths. We’ll be completely coated with dust by the time we reach Spiveyville.”

  Abigail had whispered, but apparently Mr. Cleveland heard, because he turned a sheepish grimace in their direction. “I hate to disappoint you, but Spiveyville doesn’t have a hotel.”

  Wariness tiptoed through Helena’s frame. “No hotel? Then perhaps a boardinghouse?”

  He shook his head. “But there’s a saloon-turned-restaurant. The upstairs has some rooms where the, er, working girls stayed before Governor St. John brought an end to alcohol sales.”

  Abigail gasped and Helena clasped her own throat, which had gone suddenly dry.

  “Over the years, a few visitors to town have made use of those rooms.” The man tossed Abigail’s carpetbag over the tall side of the wagon. “Athol Patterson owns the place. You can talk to him about renting a room or two when we get to town. That is”—he propped his elbow on the wagon’s frame and peered at them from beneath the brim of his hat—“if you still want to ride on to Spiveyville with me.”

  Helena licked her lips. If she hadn’t only recently lectured Abigail about being too finicky, she would order the man to put her trunks back on the platform and she would board the first train heading east. But how could she turn up her nose now without looking hypocritical? Besides, settling more than a dozen brides was too lucrative a deal to reject. The fees were appealing and, even more than that, sixteen happy grooms in one fell swoop would certainly boost her business.

  She forced a smile. “Please assist us into the wagon, Mr. Cleveland, and let’s be on our way. I am most eager to make the acquaintance of the men in Spiveyville.”

  Three

  Mack

  Worry held Mack’s tongue for the first hour of their journey from Pratt Center. It wouldn’t surprise him a bit if the band of men gathering on the streets of Spiveyville to welcome their brides turned into a lynch mob the minute they saw the empty wagon bed. But they wouldn’t string up these two women. They’d go after his neck.

  Mack ran his finger under the collar of his shirt. October—shouldn’t it be cooling down by now? The thermostat on the side of Louis Griffin’s barbershop had showed seventy-two degrees when he set out for Pratt Center. It felt twice that hot now riding under a cloudless sky, all snugged up against the puffy skirts worn by the owner of Bingham’s Bevy of Brides, the sun high and bright and the wind blasting him.

  He risked a glance at the business owner. Not young anymore, but not old, either. Sixty, maybe? Ma would have his hide if he asked. The woman sat ramrod straight, toes of her button-up shoes peeking out from the hem of her bold-blue dress, gloved hands clutching a lumpy coal-black pouch in her lap, and steely gaze aimed beyond the horses’ rumps. She dressed like a fancy woman, the kind Uncle Ray called “wilting violets” after the Wilhelmina mess—“All show an’ no go,” he’d mutter with disdain—but the only thing wilting on Mrs. Bingham was her hat. Or, more accurately, the feathers on her hat.

  The puffy white plumes had slowly lost their fluff during the ride and turned into flattened strips that drooped down her neck. Did they tickle? If so, she wasn’t letting on. He suspected Mrs. Bingham was no wilting violet, but it remained to be seen if she was a swindler.

  The other woman, the younger one with puckering rosebud lips and lashes so full and thick they threw a shadow on her cheeks, clung to the edge of the jouncing seat and braced her feet against the wagon’s toe board. Her pale skin bore a pink hue—sunburn. A woman who came to the plains of Kansas ought to have sense enough to wear a bonnet instead of a little straw hat that covered only the front half of the top of her head. Even so, he felt sorry for her. She’d be hurting bad tonight.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Grant, if you’ve got a handkerchief in that bag of yours, you might want to hold it over your face.”

  She shot a short glare past Mrs. Bingham. “For what purpose?”

  “To keep the sun off.” The glowing yellow ball was on its downward trail as afternoon waned, but it was still plenty bright.

  “If I release my hold on the seat to keep a handkerchief over my face, I will surely bounce over the side. This is the roughest road I have ever traveled.” The wagon wheel hit a rut, and her teeth clacked. She set her jaw.

  Mack chuckled, more amused than offended. “Well, I’m not sure we should call it a road. It’s more of a trail, carved by cattle being driven to market. Now that the Chicago, Kansas & Nebraska Railway has a line going through Pratt Center, I figure in a year or two enough wagons will have come this way to make it an official road. I don’t guess that helps much right now though, huh?”

  A soft snort gave him a reply. She didn’t reach for the bag hanging on her wrist. “We’ve already determined Spiveyville has no hotel. Does it also lack a livery?”

  Mack frowned. “No. Hugh Briggs—you likely got a letter from him—owns the Spiveyville livery. He’s a fine farrier and wainwright. Also does a little veterinary work for the local ranchers.”

  “Most liverymen have carriages to rent.”

  Mack shifted the reins to one hand and scratched his cheek. He couldn’t make sense of this conversation. “That’s true enough.”

  “If you’d rented a carriage, Mrs. Bingham and I could be riding comfortably out of the rays of the sun. We also wouldn’t have to squeeze ourselves onto such a small seat.”

  Hugh didn’t own an enclosed carriage. The only enclosed carriage in all of Spiveyville belonged to the town’s banker, Tobis Adelman, and he never let anyone else drive it. Mack shrugged. “I’ll grant you it’s a tight fit.” His left hip ached from rubbing against the lip of the seat. “I can stop and let you climb in the back if you’d like. Either of those trunks would make a fine seat for the rest of the ride.” Maybe she could hunker behind him and Mrs. Bingham, where their forms threw a shadow over the bed.

  “I do not wish to sit on a trunk in the back of the wagon, Mr. Cleveland.”

  “But if you—”

  “Abigail, Abigail…” Mrs. Bingham patted Miss Gr
ant’s knee and offered Mack an apologetic smile. “Please forgive my assistant. She’s quite weary from our lengthy train ride, and tiredness is making her short tempered.”

  Mack wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a hint of warning in the older woman’s tone. If so, it wasn’t intended for him. “No offense taken, ma’am.”

  Two tumbleweeds rolled across their path, and the horses skittered sideways, rocking the wagon. Miss Grant squealed. The horses flattened their ears, and their muscles flexed. Mack double-fisted the reins and prepared in case the horses took a notion to run wild. He’d had to make several circles on the open prairie outside of town before driving into Pratt Center when the train’s whistle startled them earlier that day. If he tried the same tactic now, he’d spill either himself or Miss Grant over the edge. If she went, he’d never hear the end of it. If he went, the wagon would be driverless. He couldn’t decide which situation would be worse.

  “Easy, easy now.” He kept his voice low, calming. The horses snorted, but their ears relaxed and they settled back into a slow, steady clip-clop. He released a sigh, sending up a grateful prayer. Then he turned a stern look on the younger of his travel companions. “Miss, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make that noise.”

  “What noise?”

  Did she think he would imitate her? “That one you made—the high-pitched noise.”

  She sniffed. “My apologies, Mr. Cleveland, but when the horses reacted to those large clumps of…whatever they were, it startled me.”

  “Those were tumbleweeds, miss, and you’ll likely see more of them. They blow around out here a lot. The horses aren’t fond of sudden movements, but they like sudden noises even less. Shrill noises, especially, spook ’em. If they get spooked, they might run. If they run, the wagon could tip, and then…Well, I figure you’re bright enough to understand what could happen.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bingham said, humor lacing her tone, “we wouldn’t want to spill my trunks all over the prairie. My belongings could blow all the way to Nebraska.”

  Mack coughed a short laugh. “Well, ma’am, considering the wind is coming from the north, they’d more likely end up in Oklahoma Territory. But I wouldn’t want to dump your trunks. Or anything else.”

  “Nor would I.” Once again, the older woman placed her hand on the younger one’s knee. “She will control her outbursts. Am I right, Abigail?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But she sounded more aggravated than agreeable.

  Mack chewed his mustache for a moment. “Ma’am, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course you may.”

  “Back at the train station, you said Miss Grant is your assistant. What exactly does she do?”

  A sly smile curved the woman’s lips. “I believe I will answer your question when we’ve reached Spiveyville. In the meantime, Mr. Cleveland, would you be kind enough to tell us about the town? The letters I received from prospective grooms spoke clearly of the senders’, er, needs in a life partner, but none offered much information about Spiveyville as a community.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  He scratched his chin, searching his mind for something interesting about Spiveyville. He shrugged. “How about I start with its history?”

  “That would be fine.”

  Even though Mack had no connection to any of the founding members of Spiveyville, he took pride in the little town he now considered home. He enjoyed sharing the details of Spiveyville’s humble beginning as an army fort and trading post at the edge of Indian territory. “When houses started springing up around the fort—built by settlers who felt safe close to the small army base—they decided to name the area Spiveyville in honor of General Spivey, who was in charge of the fort. I never met him, but everyone says he was a fair, honest, kindhearted man who humbly served the Lord.”

  Both women gazed at him attentively. Their interest encouraged him to keep talking. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gave the reins a little flick to keep the horses moving.

  “The fort was closed in 1867 by President Johnson, but the settlers stayed, and a town sprang up where the fort used to be. We have our own church and school, and a post office with a telegraph.” He envisioned the main street and traveled it in his mind. “There’s a bank and land surveyor’s office, a restaurant, a bakery, a tailor, a barbershop, a livery stable—I guess I already mentioned Briggs’s livery, didn’t I? We’ve got a good-sized general merchandise store with groceries, dry goods, and household items. Grover Thompson—he wouldn’t have asked for a bride because he already has one—owns the mercantile and makes sure to stock anything we need. We’re lucky to have Doc Kettering. He treats people and pulls teeth as well as sees to livestock. He has a little apothecary in his office, too. Then I own the Spiveyville hardware store. That’s all the businesses.”

  Miss Grant’s fine eyebrows pinched together. The top of her nose was as bright as a ripe cherry. “No dress shop or millinery?”

  Mack shook his head. “The ladies in Spiveyville sew their own clothes or order ready-made from the catalog.” Her dismayed expression stole a bit of his pleasure in the telling. “I guess Spiveyville’s not much of a town when compared to big cities in the east, but it’s clean and made up of mostly fair, honest, good-hearted men who serve the Lord. A fitting tribute to its namesake.”

  “What about women?” Mrs. Bingham fanned herself with her palm. “Are there fair, honest, good-hearted women in Spiveyville? I ask because I have never in my years of serving as a matchmaker received so many requests from a single location.”

  Mack sat up again and accidentally bumped Mrs. Bingham with his elbow. He excused himself and shifted as far to the left as possible. He’d be happy to get off this bench. It wasn’t made for three across. “There are some women, and I’d say they fit the description I gave for the men. But every woman who’s old enough to be married already has a husband. There’s a handful of girls—our school has almost forty kids enrolled—but the oldest of the lot’s only thirteen.”

  “And do you already have a wife, Mr. Cleveland?” No amusement or rancor showed in the matchmaker’s expression. If he’d seen either, he wouldn’t have answered.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Yet you didn’t request a bride.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Because you don’t trust matchmakers?”

  Mack trusted the Good Lord, the only one who should be matchmaking, in his opinion, but he wouldn’t insult the woman’s business. Not until he knew for sure it wasn’t legitimate. He cleared his throat. “The men who sent you letters have waited a long while to take a wife, and they’re eager to become husbands and fathers.”

  Worry struck anew. What would Clive Ackley and Hugh Briggs and Athol Patterson and all the others say when he arrived without their expected brides? He’d told Mrs. Bingham the men were honest, good-hearted fellows, but they might not act like it when they realized the matchmaker came by herself. Well, except for Miss Grant, who looked the right age to be getting married but wasn’t available. And maybe that was for the best. Her snappy tone and thinly veiled complaints didn’t endear her to him. What man wanted to marry up with a shrew, even if she was pretty to look upon? And Miss Grant was pretty. Well, except for the sunburn.

  Mack bounced a nod in her direction. “When we get to Spiveyville, Miss Grant, I’ll take you to see Doc Kettering.”

  Her eyes, with irises as brown as a doe’s, opened wide. “For what purpose?”

  “I figure your nose and cheeks are going to hurt something fierce tonight since you didn’t shade your face like I suggested. The sun’s baked it red as a clay brick.” Her eyes were red rimmed, too. The sun had baked more than her face.

  She clapped her gloved hands to her cheeks and stared at him, her mouth
forming an O.

  “Doc keeps a whole garden of aloe plants on his windowsill. If you snap off one of its leaves and rub the gooey stuff from inside onto a burn, it takes the sting out.” He flicked another look at her. “He might need to use more than one leaf on you.”

  She jerked her gaze away from him, and then she jolted and gasped. “Look at all the cows!”

  Mack glanced across the rolling prairie. Sure enough, on both sides of the road, small herds grazed on the thick brown prairie grass. If they’d encountered herds, they were closing in on the town. Which meant, very soon, he’d be face to face with a whole herd of disappointed grooms.

  He pulled in air until his lungs were so full his expanded chest strained his shirt buttons, held the breath for several seconds, then blew it out. He’d never backed away from a confrontation or hid behind a woman’s skirts before, but depending on how the eager men of Spiveyville reacted to his empty wagon bed, today might be the first.

  Four

  Spiveyville, Kansas

  Abigail

  Abigail cupped her hand above her sore, wind-dried eyes and surveyed the town appearing by increments as the wagon topped a slight rise in the road. Small—not unlike some other towns to which she’d traveled and from which she’d fled—but neat, with buildings of red brick or stone blocks lining both sides of the wide dirt street that divided the town in half. No trash blew about in the wind. Spiveyville was certainly better kept than the grounds around the sod house in Nebraska, which had been littered with food scraps, animal droppings, and various broken implements.

  She squinted, trying to make out the strange construction in the middle of the street. “Is there a statue in the center of Spiveyville, Mr. Cleveland?”

  The man gave her a puzzled look. “Statue? No. Although the fellows have said if we ever build a town square, they’d like to have someone make a statue of General Spivey.”