Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Bill rocked back and forth with the cage balanced against his belly. Should he tell Mack what the banker told him first thing that morning? He might not’ve believed it if Tobis hadn’t shown him the article from a back issue of the Boston Times from five years ago. Funny the things that Tobis held on to. Inside his house Bill had seen empty oatmeal tins stacked up like totem poles, a small mountain of shoes—most of them had seen more’n enough use—in the corner of the kitchen, and a wardrobe full from bottom to top of newspapers.

  Most folks put their old newspapers in the stove or the outhouse instead of stockpiling them. If Mrs. Adelman hadn’t decided she wanted the wardrobe for her spring dresses, the newspaper with the article that got Tobis all worked up might never’ve been seen. But Tobis had seen it, and he’d shown Bill, and Bill couldn’t put it out of his mind. Now, knowing Miss Grant was all by herself in Mack’s store with access to the cash register, Bill faced a dilemma. Telling Mack would probably wipe the smile off his friend’s face, but he had to say something.

  Mack grabbed another cage and took a step in the direction of the coop. Bill moved into his path. “Uh, Mack?”

  “What?”

  The peaceful contentment on his friend’s face stung Bill. He cleared his throat and made himself be honest. “Tobis come to see me this mornin’. Said he had some news about one o’ the city ladies that needed tellin’.”

  “What was it?”

  Bill cringed. Right now Mrs. Bingham was handing sandwiches around and smiling, talking, carefree as a lark. She sure didn’t look like a swindler. But what successful swindler would look like one? He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Now, most times I wouldn’t pay no mind to Tobis. I dunno how he keeps that bank runnin’ when he’s got so little common sense. If it hadn’t been for me findin’ Miss Grant closed up in the church with Otto Hildreth, an’ Otto all worked up about somethin’ she didn’t wanna talk about, I’d just ignore it, but…”

  “C’mon, Sheriff, what’re you trying to say? I’d like to get these cages set down and get a sandwich before they’re all gone.”

  Bill gathered up his gumption and let the secret spill out. “Tobis said Miss Grant’s pa is sittin’ in a Massachusetts penitentiary for stealin’ from his business partners.”

  Abigail

  Even if Mr. Adelman hadn’t brought a sandwich with beef tongue between the thick slices of bread, she wouldn’t be able to eat. Disgrace weighted her, nearly bending her in two. Her legs turned wobbly, and she sank onto the closest nail keg and stared at the yellowed newsprint bearing her father’s stoic image. A two-column article filled half the front page, outlining his wrongdoings, quoting statements made by the trial judge about him, and proclaiming his sentence.

  “Is that your kin, young lady?”

  For one moment, Abigail considered denying it. But Mother had taught her to never tell a falsehood. She swallowed the bitter bile filling her throat and nodded.

  The man folded his arms over his chest, his smile smug. “I thought so. When I seen the name Grant on the paper an’ saw how he was from Massachusetts, same as you, I figured he had to be kin. I’m guessin’ he’s your pa. Right?”

  Miserably, she nodded again. She hadn’t realized her father’s sins would be known even on the plains of Kansas. She folded the paper to hide Father’s face and handed it to the banker. “Have you told anyone about…him?”

  “Yes, I did.” The man bounced the folded pages against his thigh. “The sheriff needed to know there’s a thief here in Spiveyville.”

  Indignation chased away her humiliation. She sat upright and glared at him. “I am not a thief.”

  “You come from a thievin’ family.”

  She couldn’t argue that statement.

  “To my way of thinkin’, the apples don’t fall far from the tree. My pa was a banker. Now I’m a banker. Sam Bandy’s pa was a baker. Now he’s a baker. Your pa’s a thief. So now…”

  Fury filled her. Fury at her father for putting her in this uncomfortable, undeserved position. Fury at the banker’s pompous attitude. Fury at her helplessness to refute the facts. She curled her hands into fists and rose from the keg. “I cannot deny that my father made a dreadful error of judgment. He is paying for his crime.” So had Mother. So was she. “But I can assure you I was taught right from wrong, and I have never—never!—engaged in unlawful activities nor dabbled in behavior one might consider even remotely indecent. I greatly resent your implications, Mr. Adelman, and I will ask you to take your vile suppositions out of this store.”

  He backed up two steps, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.

  Fortified by his cowardly retreat, she took one step in his direction and pointed at his florid face. “Furthermore, I insist you keep this information to yourself, or you may find yourself facing charges of slander.”

  His face remained blotched with red, but he blasted a snide laugh. “You can’t charge me with slander for tellin’ the truth.”

  “The truth about my father does not extend to truthfulness about me, sir, and you would do well to remember it or I shall have need of contacting my lawyer.” She had no way of following up on such a threat. She knew lawyers, of course. Linus Hartford’s father was one of the finest in Massachusetts, and she’d once believed he would be her father-in-law. But where would she find the fees to secure his services? She could only hope Mr. Adelman didn’t know she was nearly penniless and therefore wouldn’t call her bluff.

  Her bluff…Shame swooped in again. Where had she learned to mislead someone so? Maybe she possessed some of her father’s unsavoriness inside her after all. The thought did little to cheer her despite the banker’s continued uneasy harrumphing and blushing.

  He stomped to the door and aimed a glare over his shoulder. “The sheriff’ll be watching you, young woman, an’ I will be, too.”

  “Go ahead and watch, Mr. Adelman. But watch in silence if you don’t wish to be brought up on charges of defaming my character.”

  He charged out of the store.

  The door’s slam stole her bluster. Her legs gave way, and she sank back on the nail keg. Her pulse pounded in her ears so fast and loud she battled dizziness. They would be watching her, the banker said. She buried her face in her hands. How unfair that she should pay for the sins of her father. How unfair that her mother’s legacy of appropriate, upright, moral living should be tarnished through no fault of her own.

  She sat up and stared across the quiet store, blinking back hot tears of both anger and anguish. Somehow she would set things right. Somehow she would force the shortsighted banker and anyone else who dared to make suppositions about her to cast aside their concerns. She would rise above Father’s illicit choices and erase all vestiges of his mistakes from everyone’s mind.

  She clenched her fists and vowed anew, “They will find no fault in me, for I shall exhibit nothing but unblemished refinement.”

  Mack

  Mack finished securing the latch on the gate to the brand-new chicken pen and stepped back. A cheer rose from the men who’d spent the day building the coop. Norm Elliott stood in the middle of the group, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Let’s take the chickens out o’ their cages now an’ let ’em run,” Norm said. “Poor hens—they sure ain’t been happy all closed up in those little boxes o’ wire.”

  W. C. Miller gave Norm a sock on the arm. “Prob’ly feels like jail to ’em.” The men roared in response, but Mack didn’t laugh. There wasn’t anything funny about jail. Especially not today, with the truth about Miss Grant’s father fresh in his mind.

  Sheriff Thorn had returned to town and took Mrs. Bingham with him right after lunch. Before he left, he’d filled Mack’s ears with all kinds of troubling ideas fed to him by Tobis Adelman. Such as maybe Miss Grant meant to take the fees from Spiveyville’s hopeful grooms or sneak off with the contents of Athol’s cashbox. Som
etimes people did steal because they’d learned it from the one who should’ve been teaching them better.

  Worry nagged at him. His cash register drawer was pretty full. He’d developed the habit of making one big deposit the last day of every month, so the bills and coins got stacked fairly high by this time of the month. If someone had come in and made a cash purchase and Miss Grant opened the drawer to drop in the coins, she’d notice what was in there. Would it tempt her?

  He didn’t want to think such things about Miss Grant. Didn’t he know all too well that some accusations were made without real evidence? He’d never forget how folks his family had known his whole life accused Uncle Ray of partnering with Wilhelmina Wilkes when all he’d done was innocently place an ad.

  He groaned under his breath. This was all Tobis’s fault. That man’s money-hungry ways trickled over into ridiculous suspicions. Why should anybody listen to him?

  “Hey, Mack.”

  He gave a jolt. Melvin Fletcher stood close, a wiggling brown hen tucked under his arm.

  “Couldja step aside? We’re gonna let these cluckers loose.”

  Mack stepped back and the men dropped the hens one by one into Norm’s pen. The chickens explored every inch of their new patch of ground and fresh-built coop, wings flapping and feathers flying. The men pointed and laughed like they’d never seen such entertainment. After their long day of work, they deserved some cutting up, but their jollity rankled when Mack considered the sheriff’s worries about Miss Grant.

  Melvin threw his arm across Mack’s shoulders. “One down, thirteen to go.”

  Confused, Mack frowned.

  Melvin grinned, showing a gap between his front teeth. His brother, Millard, had a gap exactly like it but one tooth over. “Thirteen more projects. Still a couple hours of daylight left. We’re headin’ over to the Circle L, gonna at least get a count on the busted fence posts. You comin’?”

  There were half a dozen men besides him on the work crew. How many would it take to count fence posts? Shaking his head, Mack eased away from Melvin. “I think I’d better get to town, make sure everything’s all right at my store.”

  Melvin smirked. “It’s likely gone all to pieces, what with you leavin’ it in the hands o’ that little city gal.”

  Mack broke out in a cold sweat. The sheriff wouldn’t have told the other men about Miss Grant’s father. That would be a vindictive thing to do, and Bill Thorn had never been vindictive. But Mack wouldn’t put it past Tobis to spread gossip. He’d done it before. Mack forced his dry throat to release a sharp question. “Why do you say that?”

  Melvin shrugged. “ ’Cause she ain’t likely ever had to mind a store before. Who knows what kind o’ mistakes she might’ve made.”

  Mack nearly collapsed with relief. Before he’d left, Miss Grant had stated she understood why he’d feel possessive and protective of his store. He caught himself feeling protective now, and he thought he understood why.

  He nodded and forced a grin. “You’re right, Melvin. I better go make sure the place is still standing.”

  Melvin’s laughter followed Mack to his wagon. He climbed in, released the brake, and flicked the reins. He wouldn’t hurry the horses. Hurrying them wasn’t a safe thing to do. But he couldn’t deny eagerness to get to Spiveyville as quick as possible to assure himself all was well. Not with the store. With Miss Grant.

  Nineteen

  Helena

  Helena hung the last of her and Abigail’s laundry on the line strung from the corner of the restaurant to the corner of Mr. Patterson’s smokehouse. The dresses, petticoats, slips, and camisoles filled every inch of the line and flapped gently in the breeze, sending out the scent of roses from the bar of soap she’d dissolved in the tub of hot water. She wanted to wash their sheets, too, but the line wouldn’t accommodate even another sock. She would have to wait for another day.

  She picked up the empty basket Mr. Patterson had loaned her for transporting the wet clothes to the backyard and climbed the stairs. Abigail would probably be embarrassed when she realized Helena had gone into her room and gathered up her soiled clothes for washing, but Helena had time to spare and the wash needed to be done. Perhaps she’d allow Abigail the privilege of washing the sheets tomorrow to help her feel less beholden. The girl’s intense sense of honor disallowed her owing anyone a favor.

  Helena dropped the basket on the landing inside the back door and entered her sleeping room. She crossed to the dresser, picked up her comb, and smoothed some stray hairs into place. Her reflection revealed a smile she didn’t even realize she was wearing. She released a soft chuckle, recognizing its source. She’d enjoyed the day—her morning in the restaurant, the drive to Norm Elliott’s Rocking E Ranch, engaging in casual conversation with the men. They used uncultured speech, which occasionally made her cringe, but she’d seen their unfettered willingness to help a friend, and it had heartened her. Even dipping the clothes in the hot, scented water proved pleasant. How nice to be busy rather than stuck in this dismal room, staring at the plain walls.

  Had Abigail enjoyed her day of usefulness, too? She glanced at her little pendant watch, which hung from a pin on her left shoulder. Mr. Patterson wouldn’t need her for another half hour, so she had time to go next door and check on Abigail. She slung her shawl around her shoulders and headed down the stairs, out the front door, and across the short expanse of boardwalk to Mr. Cleveland’s hardware store.

  A bell above the door jangled merrily as she entered, and she smiled in response to it. But when her gaze fell on Abigail’s tense, unsmiling face, her joyful spirit received a splash of cold water. Clearly, the girl had found reasons to complain. Mostly manufactured reasons, Helena presumed. She strode to the counter and braced one fist on her hip. “What has upset you this time?”

  Abigail’s chin quivered. With her face still blotched from the healing sunburn, she made a pathetic picture. But Helena determined not to give way to sympathy. Without intervention, this girl would succumb to self-pity and pettiness the way Marietta had so many years ago.

  Helena arched an eyebrow. “Do you intend to answer me?”

  Abigail angled her gaze aside. Her chin stopped its quiver and gained a stubborn tilt.

  Helena sighed. “Let me see if I can guess.” She glanced around. Nothing seemed out of place. The store was quiet. Peaceful, even. She turned to Abigail again. “All right, I confess, I’m flummoxed. You’ll have to tell me what has displeased you.”

  Hinges squeaked, a door slammed into its case, and boots thumped from the back of the store. Abigail sucked in a breath and gripped her clasped hands to her throat. A puzzling reaction. Helena shifted her attention to the rear entry, and moments later Mr. Cleveland strode in. His rugged face wore an expression of determination, and his squared shoulders and ready fists gave the impression of one prepared for battle. His gaze skimmed from Abigail to Helena, and he gave a little jolt that halted his progress.

  “Mrs. Bingham…” His thick eyebrows descended slightly. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “I came to check on Abigail, to assure myself her day was going well.” She glanced at Abigail. Her face had gone white except for the pale-pink patches of peeled skin. The freckles that had sprung up in those patches seemed even bolder. “I presume it didn’t, but she refuses to talk to me.” An idle thought trickled through her mind, and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Perhaps she will tell you what transpired to bring about her doldrums.”

  Abigail whirled, pinning a fierce glare on Helena. “I have no doldrums.”

  Mr. Cleveland grimaced. His hands relaxed, and he slid his fingertips into the pockets of his tan trousers. He sauntered forward, his blue-eyed gaze seemingly pinned on Abigail’s face. “Did the sheriff come talk to you?”

  Tears swam in Abigail’s eyes. Helena’s irritation melted in light of the girl’s true distress. “Why would the sheriff have ne
ed to speak with Abigail? Did someone harass her?” She addressed her questions to Mr. Cleveland. Despite the sheriff’s dire warnings about Abigail or her being harassed, she hadn’t experienced a smidgen of unease until that moment.

  He stayed focused on Abigail as if Helena hadn’t spoken. “Did he?”

  Abigail shook her head.

  He groaned. “Then did Tobis?”

  Helena’s patience flew out the window. She stomped her foot. “Would you please stop tiptoeing around the subject and tell me what has transpired?” Abigail was her employee. If whatever happened would affect her business, she had a right to know.

  Mr. Cleveland sighed and settled his weight on one hip. “Mrs. Bingham, do you know where Miss Grant’s pa is?”

  If Abigail’s face lost any more color, she would collapse. Helena darted behind the counter and put her arm around the younger woman’s waist. “Yes. I do.”

  Mr. Cleveland looked grim. “Well, so does our town’s banker. He told Sheriff Thorn. And I’m guessing that Tobis, being Tobis, couldn’t keep from coming in here and asking Miss Grant about her father’s crimes. Am I right?”

  A single tear slid down Abigail’s cheek, and she batted it away with a vicious swipe of her hand. “He not only asked about my father, he accused me of…of following in his footsteps.” Her entire body trembled, and Helena tightened her grip. “I am not a thief.”

  Mr. Cleveland jutted his jaw and chewed his mustache, his brows pulled low.

  Words formed on Helena’s tongue—words of anger toward Tobis Adelman, who dared to accost a helpless woman, words of frustration toward Abigail’s father, who’d caused such turmoil for his child, and words of defensiveness. If she’d thought Abigail was capable of stealing, she would never have accepted her into her program. Abigail had many faults, the worst of which were perfectionism and haughtiness, but she was honest. Helena would staunchly defend her against any allegation to the contrary.