Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She hastened back up the stairs and entered the hallway as Abigail’s door opened. The young woman was completely dressed in a hopelessly wrinkled green-and-tan plaid frock. She’d twisted her braided hair into a fat bun. Obviously she’d been awake for an hour or more already.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bingham. Since our proprietor didn’t see fit to fill the washbowls, I’m going downstairs to request fresh water.” Abigail turned toward the stairway, and the toe of her button-up shoe hit the clay pot. She came to a stop and frowned at the object. “What’s this?”

  “It’s an aloe plant.” Helena picked it up and placed it on the washstand inside Abigail’s door. “Mr. Cleveland delivered it last night.”

  “Mr. Cleveland…was here…outside my door…while I slept?” She touched her ruffled bodice with trembling fingers.

  If Abigail had witnessed the man’s concern, she wouldn’t behave so timorously. “Yes, and you should be grateful.”

  Abigail gaped at the plant as if she expected it to do something immoral.

  Helena resisted rolling her eyes. “Request the water for our washbowls, Abigail. I’ll help you apply aloe to your face after I’m dressed.” She closed herself in her room and chose her finest, most businesslike suit. The two-piece gown in deepest navy was far too elaborate for the little Kansas town, but she felt confident in the outfit. She would need confidence this evening when she addressed the group of eager bachelors. As she finished buttoning the bodice, someone tapped on her door. She hurried across the floor and twisted the brass knob.

  Abigail stepped into the room, bringing with her the heady scent of coffee and carrying a tin pitcher. Moist rivulets slid down the pitcher’s side and left a series of drips on the floor as she crossed to the washstand. She poured half the pitcher’s contents into the cracked bowl on the stand and pursed her lips. “I informed Mr. Patterson we would require fresh water twice a day for the duration of our stay. He informed me where I could find the water barrel.” She huffed. “This is hardly a high-class establishment.”

  Helena swallowed a laugh and picked up her hairbrush. “Was he in the middle of preparing breakfast for diners?”

  Abigail nodded. “There are close to a dozen men downstairs. Two of them”—she shuddered—“winked at me, and they all stared as if they’d never seen a female before.”

  They were likely staring at the girl’s sunburned face. The streaks, red and angry looking, were even brighter this morning than they’d been last night and resembled Indian war paint. Certainly the sunburn pained her. Would aloe decrease the boldness of the blotches?

  Helena quickly brushed her hair, once blond but now snow white, into a thick tail. Lingering tiredness made her arms ache. She sighed and turned to Abigail. “Please help me fashion my hair, dear, and then I will apply the aloe to your sunburn.”

  Abigail proved amazingly adept at twisting Helena’s hair into a french roll. When she’d secured the fat puff with several pins, she sat on the edge of the bed, face upturned, and trustingly allowed Helena to dot liquid from the broken aloe leaves onto her face. The treatment did nothing to mask the high color. On the contrary, the residue brightened the red, making it even more obvious, but when Helena had finished coating every bit of sun-reddened flesh with the clear, gooey liquid, Abigail released a sigh.

  “Oh, my. It does help take the sting away.”

  Helena dropped the broken leaves into a can she suspected previously served as a spittoon and dipped her sticky fingers in her washbowl. “Then you owe Mr. Cleveland a thank-you.”

  “Yes, I surely do.” The girl brushed her palms over her skirt’s wrinkles, her expression pensive. “I shall pen an appropriate note after we’ve finished our breakfast.”

  Helena needed to jot a quick note to Marietta, as well, so her sister would know they’d arrived safely. “Let’s spend the morning seeing to personal tasks and recovering from our travel.” Goodness, traveling had never taxed her as severely as this excursion. But she hadn’t ventured beyond the boundaries of Newton since Howard’s death ten years ago. Apparently nearing her sixtieth birthday was taking its toll. “Then this afternoon we can plan the lessons schedule for the bachelors. I want to have everything organized and ready to present to the gentlemen at this evening’s meeting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Helena placed her derringer in her reticule and looped the strap over her wrist. Linking arms with Abigail, she guided her to the stairs. They reached the bottom of the enclosed staircase and entered the dining room. As Abigail had indicated, several men were seated at tables, enjoying what appeared to be biscuits swimming in sausage gravy. Helena recognized the telegrapher, Mr. Cleveland, and a few other faces from those who had surrounded the wagon last night. She cast a demure smile across the lot and led Abigail to a table in the corner, aware of the men’s rapt attention.

  As she and Abigail seated themselves, a wiry man with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache to match rose and moved with a bowlegged stride in their direction. The tin star pinned to his leather vest caught the light as he came. He stopped next to their table and slid his thumbs into his trouser pockets, sending an unsmiling look over both of them. “Good mornin’, ladies. I’m Bill Thorn, sheriff of Spiveyville. I understand you two arrived yesterday evenin’.”

  Helena rose and extended her hand. “News travels quickly in Spiveyville, just as you must have to be back in town so soon. We were told you weren’t expected until later today at the earliest.”

  His eyes, as pale blue as cornflowers, narrowed into slits. “I s’pose you was countin’ on me stayin’ away.”

  “To the contrary. I was merely repeating the information we were given.” He still hadn’t taken her hand, so she linked her fingers and rested her hands on her waist. “It’s very kind of you to introduce yourself, Sheriff Thorn. I am Mrs. Helena Bingham, owner of Bingham’s Bevy of Brides, and this is my assistant, Miss Abigail Grant.” Abigail gave a slight nod, her brown eyes wary. “I am pleased you returned in time to attend the town meeting at the church this evening. I confess, it’s a bit disconcerting to be without a gentleman escort in an unfamiliar town. Perhaps you would be willing to accompany Miss Grant and me to the meeting? We’d feel much safer.”

  He snorted. “Safer for you or for the fellas?” He glanced at the reticule with its gun-shaped lump lying on the edge of the table. “You keep that thing loaded, do you?”

  She slid her fingers over the derringer’s outline, keeping her smile intact. “Yes, sir, I do. But I only fire it if an ornery skunk refuses to listen to reason.”

  His mustache twitched and something akin to amusement sparked in his eyes. “Shootin’ at a skunk’s sure to raise a stink.”

  “Sometimes a skunk raises its own stink.”

  He chortled—one snort of humor that he stifled with a fist against his lips. He cleared his throat and rocked on the worn heels of his boots. “I’ll walk you an’ the young lady to that meetin’, ma’am, an’ I’ll stay to hear everything you have to say. An’ I’ll be watchin’ the two o’ you. I ain’t one to stand by an’ allow any kind o’ shenanigans in my town. A purty dress an’ fancy airs don’t mean nothin’ to me. You break the law, you’ll wind up sittin’ in a cell same as any ratty ol’ bum. Just wanted you to know.”

  Helena met the man’s gaze. “The only thing Miss Grant and I intend to break, Sheriff, is the wall between the unmarried men of Spiveyville and the brides waiting to exchange vows with them.” She pinched her chin and deliberately pasted on a speculative grin. “By the way, are you married, Sheriff Thorn?”

  He gave a little jolt, his jaw shifting back and forth. “Uh…no, I ain’t.”

  “Then might you be interested in securing a wife?”

  Seven

  Abigail

  If Abigail didn’t know that the matchmaker was trying to expand her client list, she’d presume Mrs. Bingham wa
s flirting with Spiveyville’s sheriff. Apparently the sheriff didn’t know better, because he blushed and harrumphed under his breath. He took a shuffling sideways step away from their table, seeming as unsettled as Mr. Cleveland’s horses had been when the tumbleweeds rolled across their path.

  “Fellas tol’ me the meetin’ is set for seven thirty, so I’ll fetch you ladies at a quarter after. That’ll give us more’n enough time to make the trek—it’s just a three-block walk from here.” He glanced at Mrs. Bingham’s reticule. “An’ I’ll ask that you not tote your weapon tonight. Might not be a ’ficial church service we’re attendin’, but we are gatherin’ in the house of the Lord. Nobody brings guns into the church.”

  Mrs. Bingham drew back, clicking her tongue on her teeth. “Why, with you serving as our escort, Sheriff, I shall have no desire to…tote…my weapon.” She smiled and tipped her head at a coy angle. “Thank you for your kindness to Miss Grant and me. We will be ready when you arrive at a quarter after seven.”

  The man’s ears turned bright red. He nodded, turned, and scuttled to join Mr. Cleveland, the telegrapher, and a third man, who wore a three-piece suit and wired spectacles. The moment the sheriff plopped into his chair, the trio of men leaned in and seemingly began pelting him with whispered questions.

  Mrs. Bingham seated herself. Her cunning gaze remained fixed on the sheriff and his cohorts. “Wouldn’t I like to be a fly on the wall, listening to their conversation. I can well imagine it.” She turned a grin in Abigail’s direction. “Men like to complain that women are the gossips, but I daresay those of the male persuasion are equally guilty of indulging in tittle-tattle. Perhaps even more so.”

  Having been the subject of slanderous talk after her father’s tumble from grace, Abigail had no desire to indulge in gossip. Mother had always cautioned her to even avoid inquisitiveness, which could be deemed as being snoopy—a vile trait. Yet curiosity nibbled. “Mrs. Bingham, did you deliberately bait the sheriff with”—should she ask?—“coquettishness?”

  The woman released a soft trickle of laughter, smoothing a wispy strand of hair away from her forehead. “Why, yes, Abigail, I did. You see, it’s a very useful tool for measuring a man’s true character.”

  Abigail frowned and then winced when her tender skin panged. She forced her face to relax. “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Bingham laced her fingers together and placed her hands on the edge of the table. “Sheriff Bill Thorn approached with an air of crusty authority. My mild flirtation—harmless, I assure you—uncovered a glint of amusement. Where amusement resides, tenderness is frequently a close neighbor. We need an ally in this town, and the sheriff would be the most effective one in terms of our safety. After seeing his reaction to my subtle coquetry, I feel certain Sheriff Thorn will prove a protective, helpful asset to us over the next two weeks.”

  Abigail had no greater understanding after the matchmaker’s explanation than she’d had before, but what did she know about reading a man’s character? The man she’d trusted and revered above all others had betrayed her, and on her deathbed, Mother had extracted a promise from Abigail to utilize great caution in opening her heart lest it be trampled again. Abigail vowed anew to be watchful.

  “Miss Grant?”

  Abigail jolted, shocked to discover Mr. Cleveland very near the table, his hat in his hands. The well-dressed man from his table stood next to him, seeming to examine her face. How had they crept up on her unaware? And while she was secretly vowing attentiveness? She clutched her throat. “Y-yes?”

  “This is Hiram Kettering—the doc I told you about yesterday. He gave me the aloe plant I left for you.” Mr. Cleveland’s gaze roved over her nose and cheeks. “Looks like you made use of it.”

  Under the scrutiny of the two men, Abigail battled the urge to squirm. If she had a napkin or handkerchief available, she would toss it over her face the way he’d advised her to do on their ride from Pratt Center. Her dry tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, denying her the ability to respond.

  Mrs. Bingham smiled at the men. “I applied the aloe liberally to the sunburned patches, and Abigail declared it eased her discomfort.”

  A slight smile creased the hardware store owner’s face. “Glad to hear it. Doc wanted to get a look at you, Miss Grant, an’ make sure the burn wasn’t blistering.”

  The doctor leaned in, his thick brows pinching together. Abigail instinctively leaned back the same distance, and the doctor gripped her chin between his thumb and finger. “Keep your face to the light.”

  Abigail curled her fingers around the seat of her chair and gritted her teeth, painfully aware that every patron in the restaurant observed the examination. Such indignity! Shouldn’t a doctor possess at least an ounce of decorum? Doc Kettering tipped her face this way and that, his unsmiling gaze so close she could see her reflection in his round glass lenses.

  Finally he released her and straightened, giving a firm nod. “You got a bad burn. Apply the aloe every hour and keep a cold, wet cloth draped over your face as much as you can today and tomorrow. It’ll take the heat out and put moisture in your skin. Even so, you’ll likely peel.” He folded his arms over his chest and shook his head, crunching his lips into a scowl. “Before you go out in the sun again, make sure you put a poke bonnet on your head, young lady.”

  Abigail’s ire rose. Was she a child to be scolded for misbehavior? His high-handed approach required much gentling. He also needed a lesson in fashion. Poke bonnets had gone out of style in the city at least two decades ago. “I do not own a poke bonnet.”

  “Grover Thompson has a good selection at the mercantile. Buy one and wear it.” He clomped back to his table.

  Abigail turned her disbelieving gape on Mrs. Bingham. “Have you ever…”

  Mrs. Bingham patted Abigail’s wrist. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to say to Mr. Cleveland?”

  She’d forgotten the hardware store owner was present. Heat flooded her face, making her sunburn prickle like fire. She shifted slightly and raised her chin to meet the man’s solemn gaze. “Thank you for delivering the aloe plant, Mr. Cleveland. Although I found it quite disconcerting to think of you lurking outside my door late at night when I was unaware, I do appreciate the gesture.”

  His mustache twitched. His eyes glittered. He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and sniffed again. “You’re welcome. Glad it helped.” He hustled away, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

  Abigail frowned after him. “What a peculiar man.”

  Mrs. Bingham huffed and rolled her eyes. “What a peculiar thank-you.”

  Abigail held her hands outward. “Did I say something untrue?”

  Mr. Patterson approached their table, coffeepot in one hand and two tin cups dangling by their handles from his other hand. “Sorry it took me so long to—” He stared at Abigail. “They wasn’t kiddin’ when they said you looked like somebody sandpapered your face. You’d best see Grover Thompson. He sells sunbonnets.”

  First the doctor and now their server. Did none of the people in this town understand advice should not be offered unless invited? Pointing out one’s imperfections was particularly abhorrent. These men were too far gone for teaching. Only a fool would expend her time attempting to change them.

  Abigail pushed back her chair, its legs squealing against the floorboard, and rose with as much poise as she could muster. “Mrs. Bingham, I have lost my appetite. I am returning to my room.”

  Bill Thorn

  Bill took a noisy sip of the hot coffee. Behind him, someone muttered on a moony sigh, “There she goes, fleet as a deer.” He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the younger of the two city women slip around the corner to the staircase. Pret’ near every man in the room gawked after her, slack jawed and starry eyed. Bill harrumphed. Those women were gonna be more trouble than the county’s ne’er-do-well, Elmer Nance, when he was rip-roaring drunk.

  He raised o
ne eyebrow and turned to Mack, who wasn’t staring after the little gal. “You sure you got no idea what them ladies plan to say durin’ tonight’s meetin’? My pa used to say forewarned is forearmed. I’d like to know ahead o’ time if a full-fledged war is gonna break out right there in the First Methodist Church.” ’Specially since everybody—including him—would check their weapons at the door.

  Mack shrugged and dragged his fork tines through the smear of greasy gravy left on his plate. “I asked, but Mrs. Bingham said I’d have to wait like everybody else. She’s a secretive woman.”

  And a sassy one, if Bill didn’t miss his guess. He chewed the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling, thinking about what she’d said about skunks. She might be a city gal, but she’d lived long enough to know country critters fairly well. “Don’t make a lick o’ sense to me why she’d show up here without the brides the men ordered unless she plain ain’t got enough of ’em to go around. I’m downright fearful she’s plannin’ to auction off the only one she brung to the highest bidder.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Mack dropped his fork and sent a quick look at the woman, who held her glazed clay mug like it was made of fine china. “She told me to spread the word for anybody in town to come to the meeting—even married folks. I can’t think she’d offer up a woman for grabs to men sitting next to their wives.”

  “Maybe not…” Bill stroked his beard, fighting a yawn. He’d hightailed it back to Spiveyville, leaving Granger hours before the sun had made its appearance that morning, and tiredness tugged at him. But he didn’t dare catch a nap. Not with half the men around Spiveyville acting like lovesick coyotes baying at the moon. “But she’s got somethin’ up her frilly sleeve, an’ I ain’t gonna be able to rest easy ’til I know what it is.”