A scuffle rose from one corner of the room. Abigail couldn’t resist peeking, fearful Mr. Patterson and the baker had broken into another round of fisticuffs. But it was only W. C. Miller on his feet, bouncing in place and poking his hand upward like a schoolboy.
Mrs. Bingham frowned. “Yes…Mr. Miller, is that correct?”
“Yes’m.” He jammed his hand into the pocket of his trousers. “I ain’t trying to be quarrelsome”—he whisked a look at the sheriff—“but I’m wonderin’ how long you’re thinkin’ o’ lookin’ us over before you bring us our brides. We’re movin’ into winter, a slower time for most o’ us ranchers, and it’d be fine to get settled in with our women before spring comes. Durin’ the spring, we’ll hafta spend more hours out workin’ than at home spoonin’ the way new-married couples do.”
Several other men nodded, and a few of those sitting next to wives hunched their shoulders and snickered. Abigail ducked her head at the image the man’s comment conjured. Clearly, Mrs. Bingham overestimated her ability to bring decency into these men’s lives. She longed for the courage to race up the aisle and out the door.
Preacher Doan rose from his spot on the front bench. “W. C., if I have to come back there and sit next to you, I will.”
The cowboy’s grin didn’t fade, but he slid into his seat. Preacher Doan glowered in his direction for a few silent seconds before turning and sitting again.
“I shall now speak to every person who chose to attend the meeting this evening.” Mrs. Bingham continued her slow back-and-forth trek, her heels clicking softly on the raised wooden platform. “God Almighty Himself created the institution of marriage, claiming that man and wife should become as one. Contrary to Mr. Miller’s inference, being a husband means more than having the freedom to enjoy the physical side of the relationship. Certainly a husband should be his wife’s lover—”
The benches squeaked. Whispers, some shocked and others holding notes of elation, filtered to the rafters. Abigail closed her eyes and wished the floor would rise up and swallow her.
“—but being a lover goes beyond the physical. A woman’s heart is a precious thing. Women wish to be cherished, to be wooed.”
“Even by their husbands?” A short, red-haired man in rancher’s attire squawked the query.
A female voice from the center of the crowd answered. “She sure does!”
More mutters and self-conscious laughter rang.
Mrs. Bingham raised her voice. “I wish to make certain my girls are met by men who can pass the test on how to treat a lady. Miss Grant?” Abigail reluctantly met the matchmaker’s gaze. “Will you please—”
Clive Ackley bounded upright. Hands balled into fists, he leaned toward the dais. “The ad you put in the Dodge City Courier didn’t say nothin’ about us havin’ to pass no test.”
Abigail paused with one foot on the dais, the other on the floor, her flesh tingling. The air held the same tension as the minutes before a thunderstorm descended.
Across the room, men—the same ones who’d stood at Mrs. Bingham’s invitation a few minutes ago—bolted to their feet.
“Clive’s right. You ain’t bein’ fair.”
“I ain’t no snot-nosed schoolboy who needs learnin’.”
“What kinda test can figure out what kind o’ husband I’ll be?”
“I want my woman now!”
In two broad strides, the sheriff reached the front of the church and held both arms in the air. “Settle yourselves down!” The furor continued.
Preacher Doan rose and faced the crowd. “You heard the sheriff! You aren’t in a saloon or a barn. Have some respect. For the love of all that’s holy, sit down and be quiet!”
The men continued to mutter, but one by one they plopped back onto the benches. The preacher positioned himself at one end of the dais, the sheriff at the other. From the corner of her eye, Abigail observed Mr. Cleveland shifting to the foot of the center aisle, inside the doors. He planted his boots wide and crossed his arms, his serious gaze darting left and right. The room fairly crackled with compressed fury, but finally all was quiet, and the preacher nodded at Mrs. Bingham.
She held her hand to Abigail again, and on shaking legs Abigail stepped up next to her. She faced the crowd, her stomach jumping the way popcorn kernels explode inside a kettle on a hot stove. Mrs. Bingham guided Abigail to the preacher’s podium and then stepped aside.
Abigail curled her fingers around the edges of the simple wooden podium and held tight. “I…I am Miss Abigail Grant, and I’ve come to Spiveyville at Mrs. Bingham’s request”—should she be truthful and admit she’d been coerced?—“to conduct classes in social dancing, dining, courtship, conversation, and commonsense etiquette.”
Too late she realized she’d left the note concerning the classes in her pocket, but she didn’t think she’d omitted anything. She cleared her throat, eager to finish and return to her dismal room above the restaurant. “Although only the men who requested a bride from Bingham’s Bevy of Brides will be required to attend the classes, anyone in the community is welcome. This includes couples who are already married but who might like to broaden their horizons and strengthen their bonds of matrimony.”
All across the room, jaws dropped. Eyes grew wide. Most of the women looked eager, but she was certain if she wasn’t a lady and Sheriff Thorn wasn’t standing guard, the men would stampede her and chase her out of town. She licked her dry lips and forced herself to finish the speech she and Mrs. Bingham had planned.
“The classes will take place Monday through Friday evenings, for a duration of no more than two hours per night, and—”
“Wait, wait…” Mr. Ackley bounded up again, waving both pudgy hands. “Where’re we gonna be doin’ these classes?”
Abigail looked at Mrs. Bingham, and Mrs. Bingham looked at Preacher Doan. The matchmaker held out her hands in query. “Do you have a suggestion, Reverend?”
The preacher lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. “I s’pose you could use the church for the classes on conversation, courting, or—what’d you call it?—et…et…”
“Etiquette,” Abigail and Mrs. Bingham said at the same time.
“That’s it. Etiquette. But there’s not room in here for dancing or dining.”
Mr. Patterson spoke up. “Makes sense to do the dinin’ in my restaurant, long as you don’t get in the way of me seein’ to my customers.”
A man in the front row, the best dressed of any of the men in the room, slapped his knee. “A barn’s always a good place for dancin’. Maybe Hugh Briggs’ll letcha use the loft in the livery stable.”
A shy-looking man with a prominent nose unfolded himself from a bench on the opposite side of the room. “That’d be me.” He gulped. “I’m Hugh Briggs, I mean. An’ sure. If you wanna dance in my loft, I don’t mind.” He sat so quickly the bench popped.
A small flutter of excitement worked its way through Abigail’s center. They were cooperating, more than she’d expected. Perhaps this idea would work after all.
Another man, this one holding a cowboy hat against his chest, stood and aimed his unsmiling gaze at Abigail. “Little gal, I’m willing to excuse you ’cause you ain’t from these parts, but the town fellers ought to know that me an’ the other ranchers can’t be traipsin’ into town ever’ night for classes on dancin’ or dinin’ or that etta-whatever. Leavin’ your spread unattended is an invitation for rustlers to come sweepin’ in.”
“You tell her, Firmin,” W. C. said, and several others nodded.
The pretty, dark-haired woman who’d sat quietly at the end of the first bench next to Preacher Doan stood and shook her finger at the complaining men. “Firmin Chapman and W. C. Miller, I’m ashamed of both of you, pickin’ on Miss Grant this way. I know your mamas taught you better, and so did I.”
Firmin sat and W. C. slunk low in his seat.
The woman joined Abi
gail on the dais. “Miss Grant, I’m Medora Doan, Spiveyville’s schoolteacher. It won’t be an easy thing, teaching this motley crew, but I’m more than happy to help if you need it.”
Abigail wouldn’t reject an ally. Especially one who could make W. C. be quiet. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Doan tapped her lips, her brows furrowing. “It is a problem, however, to expect the men from the ranches to come to town every day. Are you willing to teach each of the classes more than once?”
Abigail and Mrs. Bingham had discussed the possibility of repeating a class if the men didn’t thoroughly grasp the concepts of manners and morals in one setting. “I’m not averse to the idea.”
A bright smile broke across the woman’s face. “Then I suggest focusing on one subject a week. The ranchers could choose a day to come in when their closest neighbor stays home so the spreads aren’t left completely unattended. Townsfolk who want to take the classes can join in whenever it suits them. Surely over five days, each of the men who requested a bride will be able to come at least once.”
Abigail’s mouth fell open. A full week per topic? But there were five topics in all. That would mean remaining here in Spiveyville for more than a month. “Oh, I—”
Mrs. Bingham clasped Mrs. Doan’s hand. “What a splendid idea. We’ll make a schedule chart and post it on the message board at the post office. The ranchers and townspeople can sign up. You’re brilliant, Mrs. Doan.”
The woman blushed prettily. “I’ve learned how to organize my students into groups so I can meet all their needs.” She laughed and lowered her voice. “As you’ve probably figured out from listening to them fuss this evening, teaching these men won’t be much different than teaching children. Except you won’t be able to make them stand in the corner if they misbehave.”
The humor in her expression faded. She flicked a look across the room, then leaned close to Abigail. “I’ll make sure either Sheriff Thorn or my husband attends the classes, too, Miss Grant. We want to keep you…safe.”
Eleven
Bill
The church sanctuary buzzed with excitement, every soul yammering either in a whisper or out loud. Bill didn’t try to hush them since the three women on the platform along with Preacher Doan, Hugh Briggs, and Athol Patterson had their heads together, all yakking at each other. He scanned the group, looking for signs that somebody was ready to bust into something more than talk, and thought over what he’d heard from the fancy women.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected them to say, but their talk about classes for manners and so forth took him by surprise as much as it did those who’d sent off for a bride. Not that the fellows in town couldn’t benefit from a little settling down. They were mostly cowpunchers, after all, not city gentlemen. But the comments about what a woman wanted from a husband surprised him the most.
His pa’d been a strong man, a hard worker who took pride in seeing to his family’s needs, and his ma had never voiced one word of complaint. At least, not where Bill heard. But Ma’d always been quiet, going about her work without many smiles or laughter. Could it be she’d felt cheated somehow? The idea niggled like a bad itch.
Mrs. Bingham stepped to the edge of the platform and raised her hands. “Excuse me. Excuse me, please.”
Everybody quieted and looked to the front, including Bill.
“Since it will take a few days to ready our locations for the classes, we will begin with the first topic, commonsense etiquette, on Monday, the twenty-second, at six thirty in the evening right here in the First Methodist Church.”
Groans broke from several of the men. Vern O’Dell jumped up and balled his hands on his skinny hips. His face was as red as his unruly hair. “Aw, c’mon, lady, we’ve already waited two months. Let’s get these classes done so our women can get here.” Mutters rose.
Bill stomped his foot, ending the complaints, and pointed at the red-haired man. “You want a wife, Vern, you gotta follow the rules.”
The fiery rancher grumbled some, but he sat.
Mrs. Bingham went on just as easy as if nobody’d said a word. “I’m not unsympathetic to your eagerness, but by waiting until next week to begin, each of you will have sufficient time to visit the post office and place your name on the day that best meets your personal schedules. It will also allow time for those of you who have children or animals you cannot leave untended to make arrangements for their supervision.”
W. C. jabbed his hand in the air again. “When you gonna have that list ready?”
“Mrs. Doan, Miss Grant, and I intend to create the charts this evening. They will be posted the moment Mr. Ackley opens for business tomorrow.”
“Ackley shuts down early, though. Some o’ us can’t get into town before five o’clock.”
W. C. didn’t know when to hush up, but he made a good point. Bill cleared his throat. “There’s two businesses in town that stay open late to accommodate the ranchers—Patterson’s restaurant an’ Cleveland’s hardware store. Mebbe the charts could go up in one o’ them places instead.”
Athol broke into a toothy grin. “Sure. Post ’em on the wall in the restaurant. I don’t mind.”
Vern shook his head, making his thick cowlick bounce. “Nuh-uh. Patterson’s tryin’ to score points with the ladies. He’s already puttin’ ’em up in his rooms. Most likely he’s hostin’ the dinin’ class, too.”
“I sure am.” Athol rocked on his heels, smug as could be.
“Then the scales ain’t balancin’ too good.” Vern swung his glare at the other hopeful grooms. “Anybody else thinkin’ Patterson’s got too much goin’ with the ladies?”
All across the room, heads bobbed in agreement.
Bill sighed. “You fellas are like a bunch o’ kids fightin’ over one licorice whip.” He pinned his gaze on Mack, who stood quiet and serious at the back of the church. “Mack, will it bother you any to put the charts in your store? None o’ the men are likely to accuse you o’ scorin’ points since you ain’t even asked for a bride.”
Mack gave a half-hearted shrug. “I can find a spot on a wall, I reckon, if it’ll help you out, Sheriff.”
Mrs. Bingham beamed. “It will help us greatly, Mr. Cleveland. Thank you.” She let her big toothy smile drift over every person in the room, including Bill and Mack. That lady’d make a fine politician. Or snake oil salesman. “Thank you, everyone, for your attendance here this evening. Miss Grant and I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you during the classes. Good evening.”
Folks started shuffling out, the wives holding on to their husbands’ arms and smiling up, all hopeful like. They wanted to take the classes. Wanted to—like Mrs. Bingham said—strengthen their bonds. Maybe if somebody’d come along and offered that kind of help to his pa and ma, Ma would’ve been happier.
He trailed the group, making sure they all got out to their wagons without somebody starting a scuffle. Cantankerous men. Worse than schoolkids. He called after them, “You get signed up, now, you hear me? Don’t be disappointin’ Miz Bingham an’ me.”
Louis Griffin shot a grin over his shoulder. “You planning on takin’ the classes, Sheriff? Betcha that lady could find you a wife, too.”
Bill flapped his hands at the barber. “Get on home, now, an’ don’t talk nonsense.” What would he do with a wife? And why all of a sudden did his stomach hurt?
Mack
Mack glanced at his pocket watch and gave a start. How’d the morning hour go so fast? He should have unlocked the front door to customers two minutes ago. He hurried across the floor, dropping the watch into his trouser pocket as he went, and turned the key a brisk half turn. A resounding click announced the release of the locking mechanism. He swung the door wide and gave a second jolt. Mrs. Bingham and Miss Grant waited on the other side of the doorway. At least, he assumed the second woman was Miss Grant. The poke bonnet was the same one Miss Grant wore to yesterday’s me
eting, and the slender form under the dress as dark red as a male cardinal’s chest—as well as the stiff-shouldered way she held herself—matched Miss Grant. But he couldn’t see anything of her face behind the bonnet’s wide brim.
He pushed the screen door with one hand and gestured the ladies in with the other. “I’m sorry. I hope you weren’t standing out here too long.” A gust of cold air chased them over the threshold. Seemed as though last night’s wind finally carried fall to the plains. He’d better toss a few shovelfuls of his precious coal into the potbelly stove. If the wind didn’t die down during the day, he’d want some heat in the building.
He closed the door and turned to find Mrs. Bingham holding up a rolled tube of paper.
“These are the schedule charts Mrs. Doan, Abigail, and I constructed after the meeting. Six of them in all. I am very grateful for your willingness to post them.”
“Six?” He’d cleared an area, but he wasn’t sure there’d be room for that many. He might have to move another display.
“Yes. One for each day of the week, and one with the subject and location for each week’s class.” The older woman’s gray eyes twinkled. “Perhaps having the charts in your store will tempt you to sign up for a class, too.”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 9
