Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Her verbal attack formulated, Helena opened her mouth to speak.

  Mr. Cleveland blew out a breath. “Tobis Adelman’s pa helped found Spiveyville. The older Mr. Adelman loaned money to nearly every rancher and business owner in the area, so a successful town means money in his pocket. Tobis inherited the bank and inherited the loans, and he’s protective about the town—the way you said I was about my store, Miss Grant.”

  Abigail lifted her pale face and aimed an aghast stare at Mr. Cleveland. “Are you saying he was correct to come in here and…and threaten me?”

  Helena gasped. “He threatened you?”

  “Yes. He said he would watch me.” Abigail stretched to her full height and angled her head in a regal manner. “I told him he would be wise to keep silent about his ridiculous notions about me or I would file charges of slander against him.”

  Helena burst out laughing. She knew she shouldn’t, but she’d met Mr. Adelman. At least six feet tall and built like a bull, he cut an intimidating figure. But Abigail—petite, civil, nonthreatening Abigail—had stood her ground. She gave the girl a squeeze. “Good for you. I’m proud of you.”

  Mr. Cleveland rested his elbows on the counter, his back curving into an apostrophe. Worry creased his face. “Sheriff Thorn will probably come talk to you two about what Tobis said. He’ll want to assure himself there’s no reason for anybody in town to worry about Miss Grant doing something…illegal.”

  “And I will most certainly assure him.” Helena grabbed Abigail’s limp hand and gave it several brisk pats. “You have nothing to fear, Abigail. You’ve done nothing about which to be ashamed.”

  The girl hung her head. Tears filled her eyes again, turning her lashes into moist spikes. “I appreciate your efforts to cheer me, but I cannot accept your statement as fact. It’s true I’ve done nothing illegal or immoral, but that meant nothing in Boston. My father’s guilt spilled over on Mother and me regardless of our innocence. We lost our home, we lost our friends, my fiancé rejected me…The officials came to auction our belongings and sell our home, and our former friends swept in like buzzards to oversee the bidding so they could be sure they would be recompensed for their losses, little caring about what we lost. Even when Mother died, no one came to offer condolences or apologies for abandoning us in our time of deepest need.”

  She lifted her head, and the pride that Helena had come to associate with her returned. “I thought coming to the West would mean leaving my past and its dark stains behind, but now I know they will always be with me. I am forever tainted by my father’s foul actions. I…” Her brave countenance, or perhaps her moment of vulnerability, crumbled. She took a stumbling step toward the door. “Now that you have returned, Mr. Cleveland, I shall leave your store in your capable hands.” With her fist pressed to her lips, she fled.

  When the little bell stopped its clamor, Helena turned a stern look on Mr. Cleveland. “Sir, I must ask you to keep in confidence everything Miss Grant disclosed. She is a very private person, and only deep duress would compel her to share something so intimate with someone who is basically a stranger to her.”

  He stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Is all that she said true? Her intended and her friends all abandoned her because her pa stole?”

  Helena pursed her lips. Would Mr. Cleveland understand the inner workings of the elite? “He didn’t merely steal, Mr. Cleveland. He stole from his business partners, who were also his friends. He betrayed an entire circle of people who are not in the habit of forgiving disloyalty.”

  He waved one hand at the door. “But that shouldn’t have anything to do with her.”

  Helena smiled sadly at his vehemence. “Ah, have you not read the accounts of Moses’s conversations with God found in the book of Exodus? God is loving and compassionate, but even He remembered the father’s sins unto the third and fourth generations. Do you truly believe mortal men, who lack God’s deep compassion, would do anything less?”

  Mr. Cleveland folded his arms over his chest. “It’s not fair.”

  “No. No, it certainly isn’t.” There were many unfair happenings in her small corner of the world. Was it fair that Marietta was passed by for matrimony, leaving her alone and bitter at an age when love rarely bloomed? Was it fair dear Howard was taken from her long before she was ready to bid him goodbye? Was it fair for a weather calamity to strike the community and postpone bringing brides to the eager grooms of Spiveyville?

  She sighed. “Life is often unfair, and we cannot change it. We can only do our utmost to make the best of what we’ve been dealt and perhaps try to bring a little happiness into others’ lives. Isn’t that what the Bible advises—to love one’s neighbor as oneself?”

  He scowled, but Helena believed it was a thoughtful rather than a vengeful scowl. “Mrs. Bingham, I know what it’s like to be alone. It happened to me right here in Spiveyville when my uncle died. If the folks in town hadn’t rallied around me, I don’t know what I would’ve done. And the folks here didn’t even hardly know me yet. It pains me that people she’d called friends turned on her. I know how it—” He pushed upright and gazed toward the door, which Abigail had left ajar in her haste to depart. “It seems to me what Miss Grant needs more than anything is a friend.”

  Warmth flooded Helena’s chest. “Are you volunteering to be her friend?”

  He looked at her, both indecision and determination playing in his expression. “If I did befriend her, it might go a long way in convincing the other businessmen in Spiveyville they don’t have a reason to suspect her. I have”—a delightful self-conscious flush stained his cheeks—“a good reputation in town, so…”

  She rounded the counter and placed her fingertips on his upper arm. “I am deeply touched by your concern and your willingness to befriend Abigail. Especially considering your standing in this community and how it could be tarnished if Mr. Adelman’s suppositions about her character were proved true.”

  “They’re not true, though, are they.” A statement, not a question.

  She liked this man more with every passing minute. “No, Mr. Cleveland. They are definitely not true. Abigail has resided beneath my roof for a little over three years, and not once in that time has she dipped so much as her little toe into the pool of impropriety. She is honest, sometimes to a fault, and staunchly moral. Her father’s choices will never be something she emulates.”

  He gave a firm nod. “Then I’m gonna have a talk with Sheriff Thorn about Tobis. And I’m gonna do what I can to let Miss Grant know she can depend on me to stand up for her if need be. Like you said, we’re called to love our neighbors as ourselves.” He grinned. “I guess, for me, that includes you and Miss Grant since you’re living right next door.”

  Twenty

  Abigail

  Her only saving grace, as Mother would have called it, was that Tobis Adelman had a wife to cook for him, so Abigail didn’t need to worry about him coming to the restaurant for his dinner after their unpleasant exchange. Thus, she relished her evening of peace. Well, if not peace, at least an evening with enough busyness to distract her from thoughts of the pompous man and his untrue assumptions.

  She stacked dirty dishes and carried them to the washtub in the kitchen. Mr. Patterson, large metal fork in hand, looked up from his spot at the massive stove. “Everything goin’ all right out there?”

  The mingled savory and sweet aromas of fried pork chops and brown sugar-glazed carrots made her mouth water. After her foul encounter, she hadn’t expected to be hungry, but now she wished she’d had the chance to sit down and eat before the restaurant owner put her and Mrs. Bingham to work. “Everything is fine. The men seem to be enjoying the pork chops.” She paused in the doorway, ignoring the drip-drip from the sudsy scrub cloth. “Do you think you’ll have enough for…everyone?”

  He grinned. “I already set aside two nice thick chops for you an’ Miz Bingham. Don’t worry.”

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nbsp; How had he known what she meant? Embarrassed, she scurried out of the kitchen and nearly plowed into Mr. Cleveland. “Oh! Excuse me.”

  “Excuse me.” He held his hat flat against his stomach with both hands. “I was gonna holler in to Athol that I’ll take the special. It smells pretty good.”

  She skirted around him. “Yes, it does.”

  “But not as good as the cellar. Have you been down there yet?”

  Why did he have to mention the place where the previous owners had stored their kegs of beer? Had she not suffered enough angst today? “No, I haven’t, nor do I intend to. Excuse me, Mr. Cleveland.” She hurried to the table she’d cleared and gave its top a thorough scrubbing.

  As she turned to take the cloth back to the kitchen, she discovered Mr. Cleveland in her path again. She started to step around him, but he held out his hand.

  “I wanted to tell you…” He shot a glance across the dining room. He leaned down slightly. “I talked to Sheriff Thorn, and he said he’d make sure Tobis doesn’t pester you again.”

  She wanted to be grateful, but his comment about the cellar was too fresh. But even if she didn’t feel grateful, she could be polite. “Thank you.”

  “He also told me you had some kind of fracas with Otto Hildreth at the church. Was it about the same thing?”

  Abigail gritted her teeth. How many conversations had the men in this town had about her? “No.”

  “Then what?”

  She sighed. “I have work to do. Would you excuse me, please?”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t bother you when you’re working.” An easy smile spread across his face. “And I’m sorry if I’m a pest about trying to send you to the cellar. But it’s the most amazing thing. All the good smells from Athol’s kitchen must soak through the floorboards and settle down there. The cellar smells like Christmas dinner.”

  Abigail blinked twice, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. “It doesn’t smell like…” She couldn’t say beer.

  “Not musty, like you’d expect from a cellar. No, I’d say Athol’s cellar is one of the best-smelling places in the whole county.”

  A laugh burbled in her throat and found its way out. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  He grinned. “What’s so funny?”

  She couldn’t possibly explain. She waved the cloth. “I need to rinse this. And I see there’s another table that requires clearing, so please excuse me.” She hurried off, but she couldn’t squelch her smile. He hadn’t wanted to send her down to sniff beer after all. The thought gave her heart more of a lift than she understood.

  While rinsing the cloth, she envisioned Mr. Cleveland’s serious face as he’d claimed Mr. Adelman wouldn’t bother her again. If only he could promise she’d never see the obnoxious man again, but that was impossible. Their paths would certainly cross. Mrs. Ethel Adelman had signed herself and her husband up for Thursday evening classes. For the first time, she welcomed the delay in beginning the classes. Would a few days of separation allow her to recover her wits and prepare for the moment when she would be face to face with the banker again? She hoped so. It wouldn’t do to dissolve into a puddle of anxious tears or give vent to the anger still coursing through her. Mother had taught her not to prove herself to be the one in the right, but in this case she was sorely tempted.

  She paused with her hand in the tepid water. She needn’t prove herself right. Mr. Cleveland had already taken care of it for her by involving Sheriff Thorn. Her heart fluttered. Why had he defended her? She didn’t know, and propriety forbade her from asking, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Perhaps he could go along to wherever she went next and be her defender there, too.

  At that thought, she dropped the cloth in the basin and scurried out the door to gather the dirty dishes. Until Mrs. Bingham finished carrying in their laundry, she was solely responsible for the cleanup. She wouldn’t earn her pork chop dinner by dawdling.

  The supper hour flew by. Even with Mrs. Bingham’s help for the last half, after being on her feet in the restaurant in the morning and behind the counter at Mr. Cleveland’s store all afternoon, Abigail was ready to sit by the time the last few diners straggled out the door.

  “Let’s get these tables cleared and the dishes washed,” Mrs. Bingham said, “and then—”

  “Them dishes can wait.” Mr. Patterson scuffed toward them carrying two plates containing pork chops still sizzling from their time in the pan and a mound of beautifully browned carrot coins. “Set yourselves down an’ eat while this is hot. Nothin’ worse’n cold pork chops, to my way o’ thinkin’.”

  Abigail licked her lips. “Oh, even cold, these would be wonderful, Mr. Patterson.” She’d eat the pork chops cold before she’d eat the roasted beef tongue hot.

  He grinned, set the plates on a table, and returned to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Bingham sat and Abigail joined her. Mrs. Bingham bowed her head and offered a brief prayer. At her “amen,” she picked up her fork and knife and cut into the pork chop.

  Abigail speared a carrot coin and carried it to her mouth. The sweetness melted on her tongue and she released a murmur of pleasure.

  Mrs. Bingham smiled. “He’s a very good cook, isn’t he? I wonder if he will ever choose to relinquish those duties to someone else. Even to his wife.”

  “He says no.” Abigail took two more bites, forgoing placing her fork on the table in between.

  “Well, then, I shall have Marietta review the applicants for the Spiveyville grooms.” Mrs. Bingham cut into her pork chop. “Every now and then, one of the prospective brides indicates a lack of enthusiasm toward cooking. I don’t quite recall, but it seems as though Delphine Peabody wasn’t keen on kitchen duties because she’d spent half her childhood serving as a cook’s helper. Perhaps she would be a good match for Athol.”

  Abigail nearly swallowed her tongue. Had Mrs. Bingham just referred to the restaurant owner by his first name?

  “But we will have to wait and see. Just as we won’t know if Jemima Willoughby will take a shine to Norm. Remember Norm, from the Rocking E? His and Jemima’s mutual love for animals leads me to suspect they would be compatible, but—”

  Abigail dropped her fork. “Mrs. Bingham, forgive me for interrupting, but why are you referring to the gentlemen by their first names?” She’d been betrothed to Linus Hartford and she hadn’t called him by his given name except in those rare moments they were alone and no one would overhear. “Isn’t it a bit too, er, familiar?”

  Mrs. Bingham shrugged. “Familiar is merely another word for friendly, don’t you think? I need to be friendly with these men in order to get to know them better.” She stabbed a carrot coin with her fork and held it up the way a schoolteacher held a pointer. “You might discover it’s easier to connect with them during the classes if you call them by their given names.”

  Abigail drew back. “Oh, no, ma’am. I couldn’t. It would feel much too unseemly.”

  Mrs. Bingham chewed a piece of carrot and swallowed, her face a study of contemplation. “Hmm, given your position as instructor, you might be right. Especially considering some will be in the company of their wives. So a more formal bearing is appropriate there.” Then she brightened. “But let’s discuss the men who aren’t taking the classes. Would it hurt, or be too unseemly, for you to relax and allow yourself to be friendly with those who don’t intend to sit beneath your tutelage?”

  Abigail searched her memory, but she extracted only one man. Mack Cleveland. Heat flooded her face. “I…I don’t know if I could. I…I…”

  Mrs. Bingham reached across the table and took Abigail’s hand. “My dear, I think you could. Even more than that, I think you should. You might find it quite freeing to bend your stiff rules in this one instance.” She withdrew her hand and picked up her fork and knife again. “I am quite certain Mr. Mack Cleveland would not be offended nor find you improper. Considering his k
indness toward you, using his given name even seems an appropriate response.”

  Abigail lowered her gaze to her plate, but in her mind’s eye she saw Mr. Cleveland’s smile when he questioned what she’d found amusing. An inviting smile rather than condescending. So different than the expressions her former fiancé sometimes turned in her direction when she’d said something of which he disapproved or found uninteresting.

  “Abigail?”

  She pulled herself from her reverie and looked at the matchmaker. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We still have tables to clean and dishes to wash. We should finish our dinner and see to our responsibilities.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She cut into the pork chop. As she lifted the bite to her mouth, she allowed herself to think the simple name Mack. Mack. She gave a start. “Mrs. Bingham, do you think Mack is really Mr. Cleveland’s given name? Generally Mack is the shortened version of a formal name, such as Mackenzie or Macauley.”

  An odd, teasing smile appeared in the woman’s eyes, but her mouth remained in a serious line. “Perhaps, Abigail, that is a question you should ask the man yourself.”

  Tomorrow afternoon Abigail would return to the hardware store so Mr. Cleveland could help one of the ranchers with repairs on his barn. Maybe, if she was able to gather her courage and if Mother’s admonitions didn’t prove too difficult to overcome, she would bend the rule about avoiding inquisitiveness and ask.

  Mack

  Tuesday morning Mack awakened early, before the sun had so much as peeked over the horizon. The room was dark as pitch, but he rolled out of his cot anyway and felt his way to the table where his oil lamp waited. Familiar with his surroundings and the process, he lifted the globe, struck a lucifer against the underside of the table, and touched the flame to the lamp’s wick. A warm glow filled the room.