Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Abigail trailed Mrs. Bingham down the stairs. If Mr. Patterson served soup, she would have an opportunity to demonstrate the correct way to utilize the spoon. Yesterday she’d seen half a dozen men, one woman, and two children pick up their bowls of milky morning porridge and slurp from the rim.

  Mrs. Bingham stepped around the corner and paused, scanning the room. Abigail peeked past her. The restaurant’s dozen tables were already occupied. The aroma of something savory stirred Abigail’s hunger, but at the same time relief swooped in. She touched Mrs. Bingham’s sleeve.

  “We’ll have to come back a bit later, when some of the customers have departed.” If they waited an hour or so, every table would be empty and they could eat without men gaping at her or offending her by chewing with their mouths open and smacking their food.

  Mrs. Bingham nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” She turned toward the staircase.

  “Ma’am?” Mr. Cleveland sat alone at the table closest to the stairs. He gestured to them. “You ladies can sit with me, if you don’t mind sharing a table.”

  Mrs. Bingham’s face broke into a smile. “That’s very considerate of you, Mr. Cleveland.” She caught Abigail’s elbow and drew her to the table.

  He jumped up and pulled out chairs for both of them. A few of the other men in the room pointed, guffawed, and nudged each other, but Mr. Cleveland didn’t seem to notice. He stood close by until Mrs. Bingham and Abigail sat, then he plopped back into his own chair and picked up his fork.

  He jabbed the fork into a mound of greasy-looking sliced potatoes and grinned. “You ladies are new around here, so you couldn’t know the Wednesday special is the most popular with the men in town. It runs out quick, so everybody comes early.”

  Mrs. Bingham raised her brows and peered at his plate. “What exactly is the Wednesday special?”

  “Fried catfish, fried potatoes, stewed tomatoes, an’ corn dodgers.”

  Abigail sneaked a look at the wrinkled skin, picked-clean bones, and smears of grease decorating Mr. Cleveland’s plate. Her stomach gave a little lurch. “H-how unfortunate that it runs out quickly. I suppose we’ll have to eat a sandwich instead.” She hoped a sandwich—something other than fried fish—was on today’s menu.

  “Athol can always make you a sandwich if the fish is all gone and you don’t want to order the chicken ’n’ dumplings.” Mr. Cleveland smiled, the corners of his mustache curling upward with the gesture. “There’s always chicken ’n’ dumplings the day after fried chicken, which is Tuesday’s special. It lets him use up the leftover chicken. Of course, the dish is always a little heavy with dumplings since there’s never much chicken left.”

  “That will likely change once the brides arrive in Spiveyville.” Mrs. Bingham rested her linked hands on the edge of the table and glanced across the other patrons. “Many of the diners seem to be those who have requested a bride. They will likely eat fewer meals in Mr. Patterson’s restaurant and more meals at home when they have a wife cooking for them.”

  Unease attacked Abigail. She recalled Mr. Hildreth’s reaction to Mr. Ackley’s comment about the wives taking care of the men’s stitching. The arrival of the brides would change the balance of the entire town. Were the town’s businessmen prepared for the change?

  Thirteen

  Mack

  Mack swallowed the last bite of potatoes and pushed away from the table. “I’ll go see what’s keeping Athol. You ladies enjoy your lunch now.” He headed for the kitchen, weaving between tables. Several men called out teasing comments about him cozying up to the city ladies, but he ignored the taunts and kept going. His pa had taught him a quiet answer turned away wrath, and he saw no sense in inviting more ridiculous comments by responding to them.

  Athol was at his massive cookstove, stirring something in a big pot while sweat poured down his face. He shot a frown at Mack. “What’re you doin’ in here? You know I don’t like nobody comin’ in my kitchen.”

  Mack grinned. Athol would have to change that tune when the future Mrs. Patterson arrived in town. “Wanted to let you know you’ve got some new customers out there. Mrs. Bingham and Miss Grant are ready for lunch.”

  Athol groaned. “I plumb forgot about them two, what with keepin’ up with everybody’s orders for fish. I gotta keep stirrin’ this milk for tonight’s pudding or it’ll scorch. You s’pose they’ll mind waitin’ a little longer?”

  Mack doubted Mrs. Bingham would complain about a wait, but Miss Grant didn’t seem too keen on staying in the dining room any longer than necessary. Not that he could blame her. Half the fellows gawked at her like they’d never seen a woman before. With her face all blotched up like a leper from the Bible, she probably felt more self-conscious than usual. He peeked into the pot. “You want me to stir that while you go take their orders?”

  “Baked puddin’ is a particular thing. I gotta take this milk off the heat at just the right time or the puddin’ won’t set. If you’re bound to help, I’d rather you took their order an’ served ’em.”

  Mack already knew what they wanted. “Where’s the chicken ’n’ dumplings?”

  Athol bobbed his head toward a huge kettle at the other end of the stove.

  Mack grabbed two crockery bowls from a shelf and dipped plump dumplings into each. Then he fished through the creamy broth for as many chunks of chicken as he could find and added them to the bowls. He plopped the bowls on a tray and frowned. Sure didn’t look like much. “Where do you keep your pickles, Athol?”

  “You’re a real pest, Mack, you know that? Pickle crock’s in the cellar.”

  Mack headed for the cellar door.

  “Take a saucer with you. An’ put some o’ my pickled onions on the plate, too. They go real good with dumplin’s. They’re in a smaller crock next to the cucumbers.”

  Mack reversed his steps, snatched up a saucer, and took the dirt stairs to the cellar. The smell under the kitchen was so heady—a combination of all the foods Athol had cooked over the past two days plus the tang of pickles—he was tempted to stick around and sniff. But the women were waiting.

  He pinched out four good-sized pickles and added a full dipper of onions to the plate. The vinegary smell teased his nose as he headed back upstairs. He put the saucer on the tray along with two spoons and forks and some checked cloths that looked clean. As he lifted the tray, he realized the ladies didn’t have anything to drink. He paused beside the stove. “Should I take ’em coffee?”

  “Mrs. Bingham likes coffee. Miss Grant is partial to cold milk.”

  Mack had no idea why, but thinking of Miss Grant drinking a glass of frothy milk made him want to smile. “I’ll come back for their drinks. Don’t want these dumplings to get cold.”

  “Thanks, Mack.” Athol swiped sweat beads from his forehead with his arm and kept stirring, his gaze aimed into the pot.

  Most of the men had cleared out during Mack’s time in the kitchen, leaving dirty dishes scattered over the tables and their chairs all askew. He eased between the tables, bumping chairs out of the way with his hip. He grinned and settled the tray between the two women. “Here you go. I forgot your drinks, but I’ll get those now. Coffee for you”—he bounced a nod at Mrs. Bingham—“and milk for Miss Grant.”

  The younger woman blushed, her newly sprouted freckles almost disappearing beneath the red flush. “I’m fine, Mr. Cleveland. Thank you.”

  He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. “You sure? I don’t mind.” He chuckled and smoothed his mustache. “It’d give me an excuse to go back into Athol’s cellar. The good smell down there makes a man want to take up residence.”

  Miss Grant turned her face away. Her blush increased. Mack frowned. What had he said now?

  Mrs. Bingham chuckled. “Not to rob you of your opportunity to partake of the cellar’s, er, unique aroma, but we don’t wish to trouble you any further. Thank you for delivering our lunch, Mr. Cleveland. As usual, yo
u are most accommodating to us ladies in need.”

  “You’re welcome.” He dug out payment for his dinner and dropped it on the table. “I guess I’ll get back to my store now. You ladies enjoy your dumplings.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure we will,” Mrs. Bingham said.

  Miss Grant still wouldn’t look at him. Mack headed for the door, shaking his head. She was one peculiar woman.

  Abigail

  Abigail hadn’t forgotten the previous purpose for the cellar. Just when she’d begun to think there was one man in town who possessed a modicum of decency, Mr. Cleveland admitted he liked the smell of malt liquor. Disappointment sagged her shoulders. After the way he’d pulled out their chairs, engaged them in conversation, and served their lunch, she’d held on to a thread of hope that the other men could be taught manners, too. But underneath the polite surface lurked one who found pleasure in the smell of alcohol. He’d let her down.

  Mrs. Bingham bowed her head, and Abigail followed her example even though she only sat quietly instead of offering a prayer of thanks for the food. Her heart was too heavy to craft a prayer.

  They had finished their meal before Mr. Patterson emerged from the kitchen and began stacking dirty plates on a large tray. “You ladies get enough to eat?”

  Mrs. Bingham dropped the cloth over her empty bowl. “Yes. The dumplings were quite flavorful. You’re an excellent cook, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Thanks, ma’am. Miss Grant, did you like the dumplin’s, too?”

  “Yes, sir. They were very tasty and filling.” Abigail chose not to add that the simple fare was very different from the dishes her childhood cook had prepared for her family. Could Mr. Patterson roast a leg of lamb or prepare quail stuffed with chestnut dressing? Her mouth watered, thinking of her favorite childhood meals.

  Mr. Patterson ambled over, his smile wide. “Well, you’re in for a treat tonight. I bought some beef tongue from the Fletcher brothers, Melvin an’ Millard—they run the Crooked F Ranch out west o’ town.”

  Abigail’s stomach rolled. Tongue? These people ate a cow’s tongue?

  “Gonna roast it with carrots, taters, an’ onions. I ordered up a batch o’ fresh rolls from Sam, an’ for dessert there’ll be plum puddin’. I just now tucked it in the oven for a slow bake. It’ll set up thick as a cake. You wait an’ see.” He beamed at them. “Don’t that sound good?”

  “Doesn’t that sound good.” Abigail snapped the correction, hoping to chase away the awful images parading through her mind. They remained.

  He nodded. “Glad you think so.”

  She swallowed against the desire to gag. How could she possibly eat tongue? “W-what else do you plan to include on tonight’s menu?”

  “Why, nothin’. Can’t imagine why anybody’d order something else. Besides, it takes a heap o’ planning to roast the tongue an’ vegetables an’ get that puddin’ just right. I only got two hands.” He held up his large hands and examined them as if he expected them to perform some marvelous trick.

  Mrs. Bingham rose. “I’m sure it will be a great relief to you when your wife arrives and assumes some of the cooking duties.”

  His eyes bulged and he drew back. “She ain’t gonna step up to my stove. Huh-uh. She’s gonna be servin’ customers, clearin’ tables, an’ doin’ up the dishes. I’m the cook in this restaurant. That ain’t gonna change.”

  He would have his wife serve food? Such a disagreeable position for a lady. Abigail fanned herself. “Mr. Patterson, surely you don’t mean—”

  Mrs. Bingham placed her hand on Abigail’s arm. “Thank you again for the fine lunch, Mr. Patterson. Miss Grant and I will likely be down midafternoon for a cup of tea, if that won’t inconvenience you.”

  “Not at all, long as you bring your own tea to put in the hot water. I only make coffee.”

  “Of course. I forgot. We’ll enjoy a cup of coffee.” She urged Abigail toward the stairs. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Patterson.”

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Abigail sagged against the wall. She clutched Mrs. Bingham’s wrist. “Ma’am, did you hear his intentions? He wants his wife to be a server in the restaurant. A server! No decent woman would take requests in a public eatery. He might as well hire a…a saloon girl.” She shuddered.

  Mrs. Bingham patted Abigail’s hand. “Add it to your list of commonsense etiquette—a lady does not wait tables outside of her own home.” She tipped her head. “Puzzling, isn’t it, that a task so appropriate and necessary in a home is considered immoral in a public setting? Sometimes I wonder where these rules of decorum originated.”

  Abigail didn’t know, but she could never take up such a position. Nor would she expect it from any of the young women Mrs. Bingham sent to the western towns. “It’s common sense, ma’am.”

  “Yes, I suppose so…” Mrs. Bingham moved toward their rooms at the end of the hall. “Would you like to come in and practice your presentation for the first class? I would be happy to offer constructive criticism.”

  Abigail paused with her hand on the tarnished brass doorknob. “I’m not quite ready.” She needed to set aside all thoughts of beef tongue and Mr. Cleveland’s desire to sniff malt liquor before she could focus on the classes. “Tomorrow morning, maybe?”

  “Very well.”

  Despite Abigail’s intentions, she begged off on practicing in front of Mrs. Bingham on Thursday. She didn’t practice on Friday or Saturday, either, instead spending Saturday alone in the First Methodist Church sanctuary, pacing on the dais in front of an imaginary audience in an attempt to squelch her rattled nerves. She knew the material well. She’d been taught by the most well-mannered and morally sound woman she knew—her own mother. All she needed to do was remember Mother’s voice and repeat what she’d been told. But she hoped her memory would function correctly when she came face to face with the unmarried men of Spiveyville.

  Sheriff Thorn had walked her to the church and promised to return at suppertime to walk her safely back to the restaurant. She stepped down from the dais at a little after five even though she knew he wouldn’t come until closer to five thirty. In case he arrived early, she didn’t want him to catch her midpresentation. She sat on a bench near the doors and reviewed her notes while she waited.

  At twenty past five, the clomp of boots on the stairs alerted her to the sheriff’s arrival. She unhooked her shawl and bonnet from pegs on the wall. The church door opened, allowing in a blast of surprisingly cold air, and Otto Hildreth clattered in with it. The tailor sent a scowl as black as his mustache across the empty sanctuary, slammed the door into its frame, and planted himself in front of it.

  “Miss Grant, I’m needin’ a word with you.”

  Mr. Hildreth wasn’t a large man—not like Mr. Ackley or Mr. Patterson—but his surly stance intimidated her. Instinctively, Abigail reversed several feet. The back of her knees connected with a bench and brought her to a halt. “M-Mr. Hildreth, the sheriff will be here soon.”

  “Didn’t come to talk to the sheriff.” His tone matched his harsh appearance. “Wanna talk to you.”

  She’d intended to give him a warning, but obviously he hadn’t caught the subtle hint. Her heart pounded so hard her entire body quaked, but she soothed herself with the reminder that the sheriff was coming. If she could keep Mr. Hildreth talking until then, perhaps he wouldn’t accost her. “For what purpose?”

  “About these women you an’ Miz Bingham’re bringin’ in. They all know how to stitch? To fix tears an’ such?”

  Nearly every woman she knew had the ability to perform at least rudimentary garment repair. The poor learned stitching out of necessity, and the wealthy weren’t incapable. Nearly every little girl from a high-society family learned the art of embroidery. She’d discovered that her embroidery skills transferred well to stitching small tears or replacing a button. She stared into his narrowed gaze, afraid to say yes but unwilling t
o tell a fabrication. “One always speaks the truth” was one of Mother’s most oft-quoted principles by which to live.

  She licked her lips and forced a calm, even tone. “I…I am certain they do.”

  He balled his hands into fists and growled. “Then Clive’s right. They’re gonna put me out o’ business.” His face blotched red, and he took one step toward her, his dark eyes spitting fire. “You gotta tell ’em they ain’t allowed to do any sewin’ for their hus—”

  The church door flew open and Sheriff Thorn came in with a fresh gust of cold wind. He nearly plowed into Mr. Hildreth’s back. With a frown, he grabbed the tailor by the collar of his jacket. “Otto, what’re you doin’ in here? You best not be pesterin’ Miss Grant.”

  Mr. Hildreth wriggled loose. “Wasn’t pesterin’.”

  “Then what?”

  Mr. Hildreth sent a quick glare at Abigail before answering. “Don’t matter.” He shrugged, settling his jacket in place, and charged out the door.

  Sheriff Thorn stared after him for a moment, then slammed the door and whirled on Abigail. “He looked plenty upset.”

  “Yes, he certainly was.”

  “Did you give ’im reason to be?”

  She’d never been a tattler and didn’t care to start now, but Mr. Hildreth’s verbal attack had left her unsettled, and now it seemed the sheriff was blaming her for the tailor’s behavior. She wouldn’t accept responsibility for yet another man’s choices. She sent him a caustic look. “Of course I didn’t. You might inquire after me. After all, he barged in here uninvited and…and…”

  The sheriff stiffened. “Did he hurt you?”

  At the man’s quick shift from condemnation to concern, the indignation seeped from Abigail. She shook her head. “He didn’t lay a finger on me. I’m fine.” So why did she continue to quiver?