Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He sighed. “Well, ma’am, I’m gonna pray that these stubborn men in town will pay attention to Miss Grant’s teaching and decide to be the kind of husbands you want for your girls. Because if your girls are all you say they are, the men would be downright lucky to marry up with them.”

  Mrs. Bingham smiled. “I like to think so.”

  Mack leaned back and hooked his elbow over the back of the chair. “What you described reminds me a lot of my ma. She’s a kind woman. Sensible. She has a good disposition, too—hardly ever gets angry. She tries to be like the woman from Proverbs. You know the one I mean?”

  “The one who ‘looketh well to the ways of her household’?”

  He nodded. “So her husband and children would ‘arise up, and call her blessed.’ That’s her. Pa adores her. I do, too.” Loneliness for his parents hit hard. He lowered his head. “I miss them.”

  Mrs. Bingham curled her hand over his wrist. “Clearly, they set a good example for you. I can see you’d make a fine husband. Are you sure you—”

  He gently removed his arm from her touch. “I’m sure. But thanks.” He rose and looked out the window. Dust was still blowing, but it didn’t look as heavy as it had before. “I better get home before it’s full dark.” He grabbed up his jacket and strode to the doors. Then he glanced back. “Will I see you ladies in church tomorrow?”

  “Most certainly.” Mrs. Bingham gave a firm nod. “I never miss.”

  He looked at Miss Grant. “And you…too?”

  She nodded, but not with any enthusiasm.

  Something was bothering her, maybe making her sad, and he wished he knew what. But he didn’t ask. He couldn’t be pushy.

  Fifteen

  Helena

  Helena awakened with a start. She sat up and looked around, groggy and confused but uncertain why. Finally awareness dawned. The horrendous wind that had rocked the building and caused it to groan like a wild thing during the night was still. Instead, the cheerful single note of a songbird graced her ears, and she smiled. “Ah, the calm after the storm.”

  She slipped out of bed and reached for her dressing gown, chuckling. After Howard’s untimely death, she began the silly habit of speaking out loud to herself. The large house she and Howard failed to fill with children had been far too quiet without voices, and hearing her own voice was better than hearing no voices at all. Now the house was generally filled to the brim with prospective brides awaiting their opportunity to travel west, but the habit of speaking to herself remained. A harmless habit, most certainly, but she would be embarrassed if someone overheard her.

  She donned silk slippers for her morning trek to the necessary. When she opened the door to the outside staircase, she froze in place and gasped. The entire yard was littered with tumbleweeds, clumps of dried grass, and what appeared to be broken shingles. She stepped to the edge of the little landing and peered both directions, examining the buildings for signs of damage.

  The patter of footsteps came from behind her, and Abigail joined her on the landing, clutching her robe closed at the throat. Helena gestured to the mess in the yard.

  “The wind carried more than dust in its stead. I can’t see the roof of the restaurant, but I hope those shingles came from a different building.”

  Abigail’s brown eyes widened. She gripped the railing and gazed downward, seeming to examine every tumbleweed and piece of displaced wood. She pointed. “What is that next to the necessary’s wall?”

  Helena squinted, and then she laughed. A pair of matted long johns lay in a crumpled heap snug against the outhouse’s lap siding. “Someone neglected to take his clothes off the line, and the wind stole his underwear. At least, we can hope it was stolen off a line and not off a person.”

  The pale pink patches where Abigail’s face had peeled blazed red, making them stand out like roses on a bed of snow. “Oh, my.”

  Helena took the younger woman by the arm. “Let’s finish our morning ablutions and hurry to the dining room. I suspect we’ll hear many stories about the storm’s damage from those who come in for breakfast.”

  Her supposition proved true. Men complained about downed fences, broken windows, and missing shutters. Each seemed determined to top the previous one’s report, but everyone fell silent when Preacher Doan entered the restaurant, his face stricken.

  Mack Cleveland left his eggs and bacon on the table and hurried across the floor to the minister. “What’s wrong, Preacher?”

  Several others repeated the question, and Helena set aside her cup of coffee and gave the minister her full attention.

  Preacher Doan pulled in a breath that expanded his chest, held it for a few tense seconds, and blew it out in a whoosh. “I needed to let you know church services are canceled this morning.”

  “What? How come? You sick, Preacher?” The confused, concerned voices carried from every corner of the dining room. The men’s genuine disappointment gave Helena an unexpected lift. If missing a worship service pained them, there was decency in them.

  The preacher slid his hands into his trouser pockets and aimed a sorrowful look around the room. “The church lost part of its roof in last night’s storm.”

  Abigail released a little gasp and planted both palms on her bodice. “Oh, no. Did a tornado come through?”

  Preacher Doan offered a sad smile. “It wasn’t a twister, Miss Grant. Just good ol’ Kansas wind. But it was strong. Strong enough to tear off a good number of shingles and lift the sheathing underneath. It broke some windows, too.” He hung his head. “The sanctuary’s a mess with dust and dried grass blown in all over. I can’t have anybody in there until we get things cleaned up and the roof repaired.”

  Helena experienced a jolt of guilt. Were the shingles behind the café from the church roof? She hadn’t intended to wish damage on the house of the Lord. She hoped God wouldn’t hold her errant comment against her. She stood. “How can we help?”

  A clatter of offers to do whatever they could rose. Helena’s heart flooded. Yes, despite their crusty exteriors, these were good-hearted men underneath, as Mr. Cleveland had said.

  Preacher Doan lifted his face. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I was hoping you’d ask. Sheriff Thorn’s making the rounds right now, finding out how many other places suffered damage. He’ll come see me when he’s done, and we’ll put together a list of all the folks who’ll need help with repairs.”

  Hugh Briggs shuffled from side to side. “We don’t need to wait for the sheriff, Preacher. No matter what’n all else needs doin’, the church comes first. Let’s get started.”

  “Hugh’s right.” Mr. Cleveland placed his hand on the preacher’s shoulder. “There’s no sense in waiting. Let’s get the church done. Then Sheriff Thorn can post the other places that need fixing. Folks can come in and sign up—just like they did for Mrs. Bingham’s classes—to give our neighbors a hand.”

  Helena’s heart had lifted at the men’s eagerness to restore the chapel to its proper order, but now worry descended. The classes on etiquette were to be held in the church’s sanctuary. Would they face a delay? If so, her time in Spiveyville might be extended yet again.

  Bill

  Consarn wind.

  Bill wasn’t much for cussing. Every now and then his pa had let fly. Generally when he was aggravated to the point of fury. But his ma had frowned at it. So Bill tried not to do it. But as he stood looking at the dozen dead chickens in Norm Elliott’s yard, he cursed the uncontrolled wind and the damage it’d left behind.

  Norm toed the ground, his head low. “Took the whole coop, Sheriff. I heard the splinterin’, but with the dust so thick, I couldn’t tell what had busted apart. So I stayed inside an’ prayed the house would hold. If I’d knowed my chickens were blowin’ around, I would’ve come out. Least tried to save ’em.”

  Bill pointed to the planks and boards thrown all over the yard. “An’ you might’ve go
t clonked in the noggin an’ would be lyin’ there alongside your chickens if you had.” He slapped his arm across the man’s shoulders. “Hard as it is to lose the birds, it’d be a lot worse if we’d lost you.”

  Norm nodded, but he didn’t look too sure. Everybody knew how fond he was of his livestock. Treated the critters more like pets. He grew corn, the only one to farm instead of raise cattle because he didn’t like the idea of sending his animals to slaughter. Some of the fellas in town made sport of Norm and his tender heart, but Bill couldn’t think of a one who would see anything funny about the dead birds.

  “Lemme help you bury your chickens, and then I gotta be headin’ on. Checkin’ everybody else’s spreads.”

  “No, you go on. I can tend to ’em myself.” He sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his watery eyes. “But I wouldn’t turn down help in buildin’ a new chicken coop. A sturdier one this time.”

  Bill pulled the little pad of paper where he’d recorded others’ needs and added Norm’s request—Bild chicken cup for Norm Elliott—to the list. He slipped the pad into his shirt pocket. “I’ll make sure some fellas come out an’ lend a hand. Wouldja be willin’ to help out at other places, too?”

  “Sure will, Sheriff.” He eased in the direction of the barn. “Gonna get my shovel now an’ put these birds in the ground. Thanks for checkin’ on me. I appreciate it.”

  Bill swung himself into the saddle and clicked his tongue on his teeth. His black-and-white paint, Patch, broke into a steady canter that carried Bill off the Elliott land, past the fallow cornfields, and up the road toward Firmin Chapman’s place. Surprisingly, the only damage at Firmin’s ranch was a downed sign—the one Firmin had carved to announce Double C Ranch. The wind had tore the sign from its post. Firmin didn’t need any help, but he promised to come in and help repair the church’s roof. Bill thanked him and headed on.

  By late morning, he reached the Circle L, Clifford Lambert’s ranch. Cliff wasn’t there. He’d probably gone into town expecting to attend church services. Bill snooped around on his own and made a note about a downed fence and some broken shutters on the barn. He stood in the sunny yard with the breeze—calm now but cold—raising gooseflesh on his arms and examined the list. Except for Firmin, every rancher within a five-mile reach of Spiveyville would need some help putting things back to right on their property. Bill scowled at the lengthy list. It’d take a heap of days to fix everything. He’d supervise it all to make sure nobody got neglected.

  He jammed the pad into his pocket and aimed his boots for Cliff’s porch, where he’d tied Patch to the railing. So many broken things in need of mending. It’d take a goodly chunk of time to organize it all, which meant he’d have less time to keep an eye on the city women. He’d bumbled, letting Otto sneak in on Miss Grant. Or maybe Miss Grant had been tryin’ to pull something on Otto. He wasn’t quite sure which way that situation leaned because neither of them was talking. If he was tangled up in these repairs, it’d leave the women free to do some swindling or leave them open to some rowdy fella taking advantage. Neither thought set well. Sometimes wearing this badge was a bigger burden than he wanted to admit.

  He passed Cliff’s chicken coop, and the image of the dead chickens and Norm’s sorrowful face swooped in. He paused and pulled out his pad.

  Git chickens for Norm.

  With a nod of determination, he returned the pad to his pocket and trotted across the hard ground to his waiting horse.

  Mack

  “Hey, Athol, toss up another bundle o’ those shingles, wouldja?” Mack braced himself at the edge of the roof and held out his hands. With a grunt, Athol heaved the bundle skyward. Mack snagged it and sat back on his haunches. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Athol shielded his eyes with his hand. “Be careful up there, huh? Don’t need anybody fallin’ off the roof.”

  Mack had no intention of falling. He tucked the bundle under his arm and crab-walked to Sam and Hugh, who sat ready with a bag of nails and hammers from Mack’s store. “Here you go. This ought to finish ’er up.”

  “Good thing you had these extra bundles, Hugh.” Sam grinned at the livery owner. “They’ve sure come in handy.”

  Hugh’s narrow face flushed pink. “Kinda embarrassed about how I fussed at ol’ Tobis for miscalculatin’ how many I’d need when I added on to the livery. Even thought maybe he’d told me to get too many on purpose so my loan’d be higher at the bank.”

  Sam chortled. “Oh, that Tobis, he does enjoy droppin’ a penny in his coffers.”

  “Yep. But I ain’t unhappy about it no more. Seems like God knew this wind’d be comin’, an’ He made sure we were ready for it.”

  Whistling, the pair set to work, Sam holding the shingles flat while Hugh secured them with square-head nails. Watching them, satisfaction filled Mack. This—this was why he’d decided to stay in the small town instead of going back to Kansas City after Uncle Ray died. Maybe Spiveyville didn’t have conveniences like cable cars or a variety of restaurants or an opera house, all the things some folks held important. But Spiveyville had something better. Camaraderie. Community. Compassion. As much as he missed his parents and wished he could see them every day, he wouldn’t move back to Kansas City. And not because he was still mad at how folks in the church turned up their noses at his family. Spiveyville was home.

  He inched to the edge again and sat with his legs dangling. Every person who’d been in Athol’s restaurant had left their plates and breakfast behind and trailed Preacher Doan to the church. Inside, women dusted and swept. Outside, men raked debris and cleaned up broken glass and climbed all over the roof. Their industry matched that of a busy ant colony. By evening—with the exception of the broken windows because they’d have to order panes from Pratt Center—the church would be as good as new and ready for meetings again.

  As soon as they were done, Preacher Doan would probably invite everybody in and lead them all in hymns of thanksgiving. He’d read Scripture about the joy of brothers coming together in a united cause. Seemed as though Paul had mentioned such things in his letters to the Colossians. Or maybe the Philippians. Preacher Doan would know, and he’d share it with them. Mack looked forward to the service. Especially since they’d had to skip the morning worship.

  A horse and rider came up the street, and Mack squinted against the sun. He recognized the tall tan hat and the black-and-white horse. Sheriff Thorn on Patch, back from his visit to the local ranches. Mack waved, and the sheriff waved back, but he looked weary. An uneasy feeling tiptoed through Mack’s chest. He shifted to the ladder and climbed down, then met the sheriff at the edge of the churchyard.

  “Is everybody outside of town all right?” Despite damage to property, no one had been hurt inside Spiveyville. But out on the open prairie, the wind could’ve caused even more harm. He sent up a prayer for his neighbors’ well-being, the action as natural as drawing a breath.

  “Didn’t lose no people, but Norm Elliott’s whole flock o’ chickens got killed when the coop collapsed on ’em.” Sheriff Thorn shook his head, sorrow in his pale-blue eyes. “Sure don’t like to see helpless critters in that kind o’ state. Was pretty hard on Norm, too.”

  Harriet Thompson, carrying a broom and dustpan, stopped next to Mack. “Did you say Norm Elliott lost all his chickens?”

  “Yes’m. Not a one of ’em survived the storm.”

  She shook her head and clucked, much like a hen. “That’s so sad. I’ll ask around town, see how many folks’d be willin’ to cull one or two from their coop. There aren’t that many of us who keep chickens in town, so we can’t probably give him as big o’ flock as he had before, but at least he’ll have a few hens peckin’ in a pen again.”

  Another wave of warmth flowed through Mack. “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Thompson.”

  She shrugged, a sheepish look on her face. “Well, now, Norm gave my Betsy a chick for her Easter basket one year. It turned out
to be the best layin’ hen we’ve ever had. He’s done the same for others around town. Reckon it won’t hurt a thing for us to gift him in return.” She hurried off.

  Mack rubbed Patch’s nose. “The church’ll be all repaired by evening, thanks to the town’s help.”

  Sheriff Thorn surveyed the church and grounds. He sat tired in the saddle, but Mack glimpsed approval in his eyes. “That’s good. That’s real good. Gettin’ God’s house fixed up first is the right thing to do.”

  Mack nodded. “It meant a lot to Preacher Doan, how everybody stepped up. It made Mrs. Bingham happy, too, since she and Miss Grant need the building for those classes they’re giving. Preacher Doan said they could use it once it was all fixed again.”

  The sheriff’s brows pinched down. He shifted in the saddle, making the leather squeak. “About them classes…” He grimaced. “I’m gonna ask Miz Bingham to hold off until all the damage in town an’ at the ranches is tended to. If folks work together, like you done here at the church, it shouldn’t take too long to get everybody took care of. Mebbe a week. Mebbe a little longer. But the ladies—an’ the grooms—are just gonna hafta wait.”

  Sixteen

  Abigail

  “An entire week’s delay?” Abigail hugged herself and paced the length of her small room. How could Mrs. Bingham be so calm in the face of such calamity? “That means we must remain in Spiveyville until early December.” Of course, there wasn’t any reason for her to return to Newton. Perhaps she should celebrate the extension in this Kansas town. If she hadn’t had a nightmare about Otto Hildreth chasing her with a pair of scissors, she might be more amenable to the idea.