Athol held up both hands and leaned backward. “I got my own catfish pond at the edge o’ town. I got no need for them. ’Sides that, they look like they was caught a week ago. They’re smellin’ up the whole place. Get ’em out o’ here, Nance.”
Nance waved the string around. “There’s nothin’ wrong with these. Only fifty cents for the whole string.”
Athol balled his fists on his hips. “I wouldn’t pay a nickel for them things. If you don’t take ’em out o’ here an’ take yourself with ’em, I’ll sic the sheriff on you.”
The man’s grin turned menacing. “You’re bluffin’. I heard you say the sheriff’s out o’ town.” He pushed the string of floppy fish at Athol. “I’ll leave when you’ve done gave me what I’m askin’. Fifty cents.”
Athol’s shoulders stiffened. “Git, Nance.”
The man leaned in. “Make me.”
Mack pushed his chair back, ready to leap into the melee if Nance threw a punch.
“I suggest you do as Mr. Patterson requested.” Mrs. Bingham pushed between Athol and Nance and aimed the barrel of her derringer at Nance’s chest.
His glower dropped to the gun. “What’re you doin’, woman? Put that thing down.”
“I will as soon as you vacate these premises.”
Where the city woman got her nerve, Mack didn’t know, but apparently Nance believed she intended to use the weapon. He backed up, his heels scraping against the floor.
“All right, fine. I’m leavin’.” He threw the string of fish on the floor and pointed his filthy finger at Athol. “But I ain’t gonna forget this, Patterson.” He yanked the door open and stormed out.
Athol trotted after him. “Don’t show your grimy face in my restaurant again.” He slammed the door and brushed his palms together. “That’s good riddance.”
Miss Grant peeked out from the kitchen doorway. “Who was that very disagreeable man?”
Athol snorted. “Name’s Elmer Nance. He has a ranch near Coats, but every now an’ then he wanders into Spiveyville.” He stooped over and pinched the string holding the catfish between his fingers. “Trouble always seems to come with him.” He angled a grin at Mrs. Bingham. “Sure am glad you had that derringer handy. Ain’t much Nance’ll back down from, but the firin’ end of a pistol works real good.”
“Real well,” Miss Grant said.
Athol nodded. “It sure do.” He held the fish at arm’s length. “Gonna throw these things out to the alley cats an’ check on your coffee, Mack.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
With the excitement over, Mrs. Bingham slipped her derringer into her apron pocket and headed for one of the empty tables.
Mack bowed his head, said a short prayer, then reached for his fork and knife. While he ate, he watched Mrs. Bingham scrub tables with a soapy sponge. He grinned and couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “I’ve never seen Athol attack the tables with so much enthusiasm. You might wash the finish right off.”
She aimed a mock scowl at him and then laughed. “It’s quite obvious they’ve been given not much more than a half-hearted swipe with a dry towel.”
“There’ve been times my elbows got stuck to the tabletop.”
She shook her finger at him. “Never place your elbows on the table.”
He swallowed a bite of eggs, covering a chuckle. “That sounds like something Miss Grant would say. Sometimes I think she invented manners.”
Mrs. Bingham’s face clouded. She went still. “Yes. Yes, I know.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with having manners.” Mack cut a piece of ham free and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “My ma was a stickler for doing the polite thing. She’d tell me, ‘Mackintosh’—”
Mrs. Bingham’s eyebrows rose. “Mackintosh?”
Fire exploded in his face. He flicked a glance right and left. “The only one who calls me that is my ma.”
“But it’s such a stately name, Mr. Cleveland.” She crossed to his table, dripping suds on the way. “Mackintosh Cleveland. It has the sound of royalty.”
Mack grimaced. “If you promise not to tell anybody, the whole thing is Mackintosh Horatio Cleveland. It’s not quite as bad as W. C. Miller’s real name. He’s Wendlesora Clotilde.”
She gaped in open-mouthed silence for several seconds, and then she burst out laughing.
He laughed, too. “Awful, isn’t it? No wonder the poor man goes by W. C. As for Mackintosh Horatio, you might think it has the sound of royalty, but it’s the kind of name that can get you into fistfights in a school yard. So I’d rather go by Mack.”
She covered her mouth and brought her laughter under control, but the corners of her eyes stayed crinkled. “Your secret is safe with me. But what was it your mother used to tell you?”
He’d forgotten what they were talking about. He rolled his eyes upward and searched his memory. “Oh! She’d tell me, ‘Mackintosh, there are always two ways to respond to people—the polite way and the rude way. No matter what others do, always choose the polite way. Then you’ll carry no regrets.’ ” He huffed a brief, sad laugh. “She led by example, too. I never heard her say a rude word to anyone. Not even to someone who really deserved it.”
Mrs. Bingham’s expression turned thoughtful. “You come from good stock, Mr. Cleveland. Were you raised here in Spiveyville?”
“No, ma’am. I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri. I came out here to Spiveyville to help my uncle start his hardware store.” He’d never admit he came not as much to help as to escape a mighty anger. “Halfway through building it, he took sick and died.”
She slid into a chair. “Oh, how sad.”
“It was a hard time, I won’t deny.” Mack fiddled with his fork, memories of those difficult days marching through his mind. “Even though we were newcomers, folks rallied around me. Helped me finish the store and convinced me to add a little apartment off the back where I could live.” They’d restored his faith in people, that was for sure. “By the time we had it all finished, I’d decided I wanted to make this town my home. So I didn’t go back to Kansas City.” He shrugged. “I miss Ma and Pa, but I don’t want to live in the city again. I like this prairie. Even when the wind blows.”
Unsmiling, she seemed to search his face. Then she stood. “Mr. Cleveland, thank you for sharing this with me. You’ve given me much to consider.”
He didn’t know what he’d said that was so important, but he had enough manners to know how to respond. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
She returned to the table she’d vacated, and Athol came puffing across the room, carrying the coffeepot and two cups. Athol splashed coffee in both cups and sat across from Mack with a big smile.
“Miss Grant’s in there doin’ up the dishes, so I got time to sit. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” Mack took a slurp of the strong brew. “Mmm, that tastes good.” The eggs had grown cold, but he chopped off another piece and popped it into his mouth. He swallowed the bite and tipped his head in Mrs. Bingham’s direction. “It’s nice of you to work out a deal with the ladies. I imagine it’ll cost you some.”
Athol poked out his lips. “Some.” He leaned in and dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “To be honest, I’m not sure how I’ll keep two of ’em busy. They work a lot faster’n I expected ’em to. It’d be better for me to keep the deal with only one, but it’d seem spiteful to go back on my word now. So unless somethin’ comes along that takes ’em elsewhere, I’m pretty much stuck with ’em.”
Mack pushed the last piece of ham around on his plate. “They’ll be busy with those classes, won’t they?”
“In the evenin’. But not durin’ the day.” Athol held his big hands wide. “Up ’til now, they’ve stayed in their rooms all day. But since we decided to barter, they’re down here askin’ me for things to do. It’s only the first day, an’ I’m alrea
dy wonderin’ what I’m gonna do with ’em.”
Mack slapped the table. “I know.”
Athol jumped. “What?”
Mack grinned. “Let me talk to Mrs. Bingham first. In case it won’t work. But if it does, we’ll both be happy.” He scooted back his chair, leaped up, and marched toward Mrs. Bingham. “Ma’am, I have an idea.”
Abigail
“Now, are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Abigail smoothed her hands over her green-and-tan plaid skirt front and met Mr. Cleveland’s gaze. His apprehensive tone and the lines of worry marring his brow didn’t inspire confidence. If he didn’t believe she was capable of manning his store for a few hours, perhaps he shouldn’t have asked.
She pressed her palms against her jumping stomach and forced a smile. “As you said, Mr. Patterson is right next door, and Mr. Ackley only beyond that if Mr. Patterson is unavailable. I don’t expect to bother them, though.” She’d never heard of anyone robbing a hardware store, and every able-bodied man was applying his hands to Sheriff Thorn’s list. She needn’t fear anyone accosting her today. “I’ll record any purchases in the log, the way you showed me. As long as customers don’t expect me to carry something heavy, I shouldn’t have any trouble at all.”
“Well…” He fiddled with the door handle, his uncertain gaze drifting from corner to corner. Then he ducked his head and laughed. A short laugh, full of self-deprecation. “A person would think I was leaving you in charge of my newborn baby.” He peeked at her. “Sorry.”
He looked so boyish, she battled a smile. “It’s all right, Mr. Cleveland. You’re proud of your store, and you’ve operated it on your own for many years. You should feel…protective. And possessive. I understand.” She had very little left of her former life. She clung to those few things as if they were her very breath.
Finally he smiled, the ends of his neatly trimmed mustache twitching and his blue eyes beneath his thick dark brows sparkling. “Mrs. Bingham said you’re responsible and hardworking. I won’t worry one bit about you.”
His statement filled her with unexpected pleasure.
He opened the door. “I better get the team hitched. Athol promised to have sandwiches out to the work crew by noon, and it’s almost eleven thirty already.” He put one foot out on the boardwalk. “You enjoy your afternoon, Miss Grant, and if anything—anything at all—goes wrong, just hightail it to the restaurant and get Athol.” He hovered there, one foot in and one foot out.
If she didn’t give him a shove, he might stay forever. She hurried from behind the counter to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Cleveland.”
He sent one more slow look across the store. “Bye now, Miss Grant.” He stepped out of the building.
Abigail closed the door behind him, then leaned against it, shook her head, and laughed. She’d seen this kind of reluctance before. Twice she’d gone to her father’s office with him when she was on break from school and Mother had other obligations. On both occasions, he’d given her a simple task—the first time alphabetizing a stack of contacts, and the second time addressing envelopes to send to clients—to keep her occupied. Both times he’d hovered near, watchful, as if anticipating she wouldn’t be able to complete the assignment without his supervision.
Memories of Father erased all hints of amusement. She hung her head, unpleasant thoughts torturing her. Had Father not trusted her? Or, even more distressing, had he been trying to hide illegal dealings from her even then? She bolted upright and strode to the counter. She didn’t want to think about Father. She’d learned long ago that busyness prevented her from thinking, so she snatched up the feather duster from beneath the counter and set to work swishing the feathers over every item on every shelf in the store.
When she’d finished dusting, she located a broom in the closet at the rear of the store and applied it to the floor, meticulously attacking every corner and reaching as far as possible beneath the sturdy shelves. She recovered very little dust, a testament to Mr. Cleveland’s impeccable care, but what little she found she pushed out the door, across the boardwalk, and into the street, where the wind could carry it away.
Back inside the store, she stood with her hands on her hips and tried to decide what to do next. Organize things? She set off on a slow exploration up and down the walk space between shelves, examining the little crates of hinges, bolts, doorknobs, cabinet pulls, and dozens of what she called “what-have-yous.” Nothing seemed out of place. Mr. Cleveland’s perfectionism almost rankled, but she wasn’t sure why.
She locked her hands behind her back and strolled to the spot behind the counter. She tamped the stack of scrap papers he used to tally up a customer’s purchases. Sharpened every pencil in the cup next to the cast-iron cash register and swished the shavings into a waste can. Carried the waste can to the back and emptied it. Tamped the scrap papers again.
She peeked at the clock hanging on the wall. Not even one thirty? Mr. Cleveland planned to work until dusk. She still had hours to burn. And absolutely nothing to do. She chewed the inside of her cheek. Might Mr. Cleveland keep a book or two lying around somewhere? If so, she could sit on one of the nail kegs and read. She started toward the closet.
The door swung open and Abigail turned in its direction. “Good day. Welcome to Spiveyville Hardware and Implements.”
A barrel-shaped man wearing a three-piece suit as well made as those Linus had worn strode importantly across the floor and looked her up and down.
Instantly she broke out in gooseflesh. She darted behind the counter and picked up the feather duster. A dismal weapon, but holding something gave her a modicum of confidence. “May I help you?”
“I’m Tobis Adelman.” He spoke with the arrogance of someone who expected to be instantly recognized.
She’d heard the name, but she’d heard so many names in the past few days, the significance was lost. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adelman?”
He grunted and stared at her through slitted eyes beneath heavy, almost-black brows. “Not a thing. Athol Patterson sent me in to check on you. He thought you might be hungry an’ wondered if you wanted a sandwich.”
Her stomach chose that moment to growl. Embarrassment smote her, and a nervous titter escaped. “Um, yes, I suppose it is past lunchtime. Did Mr. Patterson want me to come to the restaurant or—”
“I’ll bring it to you. While you eat, there’s somethin’ I wanna talk at you about.”
Oh, these men and their shoddy way of structuring sentences. Without thinking, she corrected, “Something I would like to discuss with you.”
His brows pinched even deeper. “Are you makin’ fun of me?”
She hadn’t intended to make fun. But shouldn’t a man who wore the most up-to-date suit and combed his hair away from his forehead in a dramatic wave use speech that matched his appearance? He was glowering at her, waiting for a reply.
“No, sir.”
“That’s good, ’cause I wouldn’t take kindly to it.”
An uneasy thought struck. He surely didn’t intend to ask her about matrimony, did he? She swallowed a nervous giggle burbling in her throat. “I’m not making fun of you, sir. Honestly.”
He glared at her for another few silent seconds, then spun on the heel of his highly polished boot. “I’m gonna sit down, have something to eat at the restaurant. When I’m done, I’ll be in with a sandwich. Then we’ll talk.”
Eighteen
Bill
Bill tugged his hat a little lower on his head so the breeze wouldn’t carry it to kingdom come and reached into the back of the wagon for the first of the half-dozen wired cages. Each held a clucking hen. The chickens had kept up their ruckus the whole drive from Spiveyville.
He frowned at the speckled white hen jabbing its beak against the wire and clucking like somebody’d set her tail feathers on fire. “Now, settle yourself down. You’ll be out an’ peckin’ soon enough.”
Laughter exploded behind him, and someone reached around and took the cage from his hands. Bill glared over the top of the wire at Mack. “What’re you doin’ out here? I thought I told you to stay in your store so’s folks could get what they needed.”
He grinned. “You’ll be happy I came when you see the stack of sandwiches Athol sent out with me. Cold beef tongue and ham and roast turkey.”
Bill’s mouth watered. He slid a second cage from the wagon bed and followed Mack toward the brand-new chicken coop standing proud in Norm’s yard. “I thought the ladies an’ Preacher Doan was gonna bring them sandwiches. Somethin’ happen to keep ’em from comin’ out?”
“Nope. Mrs. Bingham’s with me, but I asked if I could take the preacher’s place. I plan to stick around, help finish putting up the pen around the coop.” Mack heaved a happy sigh. “I like being out here, helping my neighbors the way they helped me when I first came to Spiveyville. Remember?”
Bill remembered a sullen-faced young man with a big burden to bear. Mack had grown some since then. In lots of ways. “Sure do, an’ I ain’t surprised about you wantin’ to help. But I gotta say I’m disappointed your store’s closed. Might delay some other fixin’ gettin’ done.”
Mack placed the cage on the ground and turned toward the wagon. “No it won’t.”
Bill plopped his cage on top of Mack’s and trotted after him. “How come?”
“ ’Cause I didn’t close it.” He grinned. “I asked Miss Grant to keep store for me.”
Bill’s stomach gave a flip. “You did?”
Mack nodded. He lifted a cage holding a red hen and handed it to Bill. “I figure someone as educated as Miss Grant ought to be able to add up purchases and keep records. Athol was running out of things for her to do at the restaurant, so I put her to work at my place.”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 15
