Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He settled the globe in place and crossed to the single window in his one-room apartment. A half moon hung high and bright in the dark cloudless sky, surrounded by stars that reminded him of the freckles scattered across Miss Grant’s cheeks. Funny how the sun had left its mark behind in those pale-brown dots. The freckles, coupled with her petite frame, made her seem years younger than her true age, which Mrs. Bingham had divulged was twenty-five.

  He frowned, drawing circles where his warm breath had fogged the windowpane. If the article Tobis showed Sheriff Thorn was five years old, that meant she was twenty when her father went to prison. Twenty…the same age he’d been when Wilhelmina Wilkes bilked his family’s church out of its benevolence fund. Only a year younger than he was when he made the trek to Kansas with Uncle Ray. A tender age. What Ma would call a blooming age. Mack had bloomed here in Spiveyville, thanks to the community’s open acceptance. But Miss Grant hadn’t been given the chance to bloom. She’d been forced to wither instead.

  Wither…into bitterness.

  He swallowed the bitter taste that filled his mouth. He must still be half-asleep to let his thoughts get so morose. He busied himself making his bed—not as neatly as Ma would have done it, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the covers all rumpled. He dressed in his usual tan trousers and blue plaid button-up shirt. After tugging on his boots over thick gray socks knitted by Ma and mailed to him last Christmas, he made a dash to the outhouse. The temperature had dropped even more during the night, and he created little clouds with his huffing breaths on the trips to and from the little wooden structure.

  Back inside his warm apartment, he stood at his tin washbasin and used his toothbrush and powder to clean his teeth. A lot of the men in town didn’t bother with the toothbrushing, but he’d seen too many of them with gaps in their mouths where teeth used to be to ignore the childhood habit Ma instilled in him. The sweet taste of the powder rid him of the unpleasant flavor from his long-ago memories.

  Fully dressed and with his morning chores complete, he was ready for breakfast. But according to the windup clock on his bedside table, Athol wouldn’t open his door for another half hour. So he plopped down at his little table with the most precious book he owned—Ma’s Bible.

  He riffled the worn, gold-stamped page edges with his thumb, hooked a spot, and let the Bible fall open. An underlined passage caught his attention, and he leaned in and began reading aloud. “ ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal…’ ” He continued reading, his low voice welcome in the otherwise quiet room. He read the entire chapter of 1 Corinthians 13, and when he reached the end, he followed the words with his fingertip. “ ‘And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.’ ”

  Mack could hear his mother’s voice in his head, reading these same words to him before tucking him in at night. He remembered Pa standing behind her, listening while she read, nodding at times. When Ma finished, Pa always sat on the edge of Mack’s bed and prayed with him. Pa didn’t speak with the eloquence of the Bible, the way Ma could thanks to the schooling she’d received, but he always sounded confident—like he knew without a doubt God was close and listening. The same warmth that carried Mack into dreamland as a boy filled him now in the remembrance. Good memories…

  But what kind of memories did Miss Grant carry? Before her pa’s arrest and conviction, had her childhood been warm and loving? Had someone prayed with her before tucking her in at night? She’d been taught manners—that much he knew—but had she been taught to love Jesus?

  Once more, the Scripture Mrs. Bingham had mentioned whispered through his heart. “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” Words spoken by Jesus Himself. Mack had come close to discarding the whole idea yesterday evening. Miss Grant held him at a distance the way he’d avoid someone who’d been sprayed by a skunk. But maybe God woke him up early and let the Bible open to verses about love for a reason.

  He wouldn’t give up. He’d be Miss Grant’s friend. Because she—like every other person ever born—needed faith, hope, and charity. Maybe she needed it even more than most, caught in the shadow of her father’s sins.

  Twenty-One

  Bill

  Bill stood back and admired the lay of crisp new shingles on Jerome Reed’s barn. Here it was, only Wednesday afternoon, and the wind-caused damage was set to right. Not only at Jerome’s place, but at every ranch and house in Spiveyville. By splitting up and scattering across the area, the townsmen had finished Bill’s whole list in half the time he expected.

  In the patch of sunshine beside the barn, men whooped, tossed their hats in the air, and pounded each other’s backs, as lively as spring calves playing in green grass. If Bill wasn’t wearing a tin star on his chest, he’d join them, but a sheriff shouldn’t be undignified. He couldn’t help grinning at the raucous lot, though.

  Jerome trotted over and tilted back his hat to better view the roof. “Looks fine, Sheriff. Mighty fine. Better’n it did before the wind hit, I’d reckon.”

  Bill wouldn’t say anything, because he wasn’t the rancher’s pa or his boss, but Jerome tended to be a little lazy about upkeep. His barn likely wouldn’t have lost so many shingles if the first ones had been applied the correct way. “Yep. An’ now that I’ve crossed your barn off the list, we’re all done with fixin’ jobs.”

  Jerome’s tanned face lit like a firecracker. “That mean we can get started on them classes the city lady is makin’ us take?”

  Bill scratched his cheek. “Well, I—”

  Jerome whirled to face the group of men who’d started gathering up their tools. He waved both arms over his head. “Fellas! Fellas! Ever’thing’s done! We can get them classes goin’ now!”

  Bill grabbed Jerome’s arm. “Now, I didn’t say—”

  The men swarmed him, all clamoring. “Whoopee! Gonna get our brides! Let’s git to town an’ tell the ol’ city gal we’re ready!”

  Bill pawed the air, the way Preacher Doan did when he wanted the congregation to listen, but nobody paid him a lick of attention. They took off for their horses and wagons, still prattling, still smiling, still poking their fists in the air and jumping up to bounce their heels together. Worse than schoolboys on the first day of summer vacation. He wouldn’t be able to do anything with them now.

  With a harrumph, Bill yanked his hat low and quickstepped it to his horse. He’d better beat them all back to town and give Mrs. Bingham a word of warning. She’d likely run for the hills if the whole squabbling crowd swooped in on her at once. Good thing his Patch had good wind and strong legs.

  By giving Patch the freedom to gallop, Bill made it to Spiveyville ahead of the men. He slid to the ground, looped the horse’s reins over the restaurant’s porch rail, and burst through the door. Six or seven fellows—those who’d worked somewhere other than Jerome’s Double Diamond Ranch—were sitting at tables enjoying bowls of beans ’n’ bacon and corn bread. They all looked up, and two of them rose out of their chairs when he turned the lock on Athol’s door. He didn’t mean to scare anybody, but he wanted to keep that eager throng out long enough for him to talk to Mrs. Bingham.

  He balled his hands on his hips. “Where’s the ladies?”

  Louis Griffin pointed to the kitchen.

  Bill stomped in that direction. A few of the fellas called out questions, but he kept going and pretended he didn’t hear. Mrs. Bingham was at Athol’s washbasin, up to her elbows in cloudy-looking water that smelled so strong of lye it stung his eyes from ten paces away. He wrinkled his nose and stepped close.

  “Ma’am, in another few minutes, there’s gonna be a gang o’ men poundin’ through the door, expectin’ you to be able to start teachin’ them classes tomorrow instead o’ waitin’ ’til Monday.”

  She straightened and met his gaze. “Tomorrow?” She didn’t look too ratt
led or even surprised.

  “Yes’m. ’Cause they’ve finished up all the fixin’.”

  “My goodness, they must be fast workers.”

  The lye smell was about to choke him. He covered his mouth and nose with his shirt collar. “Yes’m, they are. So—”

  Bang-bang-bang!

  Bill cringed. That’d be fists on the front door. “What do you want me to tell ’em?” More banging—louder and more insistent—came.

  Louis Griffin stuck his head into the kitchen. “Sheriff, these men’re wantin’ in bad. Can I unlock the door?”

  Athol turned from the stove and shot a frown at Bill. “Why’d you lock ’em out? They better not be tearin’ my door down.”

  “I’ll see to ’em.” Bill inched backward in the direction of the door, still waiting for Mrs. Bingham’s answer.

  “If you want us to start the classes tomorrow evening, Sheriff, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  He blew out a mighty sigh and grinned. “You’re an accommodatin’ woman, Miz Bingham. Thank you.” He trotted to the door, scowling at the impatient men with their faces pressed to the restaurant windows, and twisted the lock. He threw the door open and flung his arm in a gesture of welcome. “Git in out o’ the cold, fellas, an’ set yourselves up to a table. Eat hearty. An’ those’ve you who signed up for Thursday classes…you’d best plan on bein’ at the church tomorrow at six thirty.”

  A cheer rose that could’ve sent Athol’s roof into the heavens if it weren’t firmly secured. Yes, indeed, that Miz Bingham was an accommodating lady.

  Abigail

  Abigail climbed the cellar steps, balancing a large crockery bowl of pickled cucumbers against her ribs. She hated to leave the pleasant space. Cool but not cold, quiet, and—just as Mr. Cleveland had indicated—full of wondrous smells. As she entered the kitchen, cheers, laughter, boots thumping, and chair legs screeching assaulted her ears. She paused in the cellar doorway, nervous but uncertain why.

  “Bring me them pickles.” Mr. Patterson quirked his fingers at her in an impatient gesture.

  She hurried across the floor and set the bowl on the worktable. She peered in the direction of the dining room. “What’s going on in there? Is it someone’s birthday?”

  He shook his head, pinching pickles from the bowl and placing one on each of the waiting plates. “No. Miz Bingham’s got the men all excited.” He was trying to be grumpy. He held his lips in a firm downturn and crinkled his brow, but his eyes were shining. “She says we can start the classes tomorrow since all the work’s done around town.”

  Abigail’s pulse gave a leap. “Tomorrow?”

  He nodded and finally broke into a smile. “If I didn’t have a heap o’ cookin’ to do yet, I’d be out there doin’ do-si-dos with the others. Sure am glad we can get these classes done an’ bring our brides to town.” He stuck out his arm, lined plates along its reach, and headed for the dining room. More cheers erupted at his arrival.

  Abigail crept to the doorway and peeked out. The men had pushed two tables to the corner and were using the empty space to clomp in circles in a clumsy dance. They waved their hats and hooted. She clutched her throat. Such childish behavior! Had they no sense of decorum at all? Where was Mrs. Bingham? She scanned the room, but the matchmaker was nowhere in sight.

  She ducked back around the corner and pressed herself flat to the wall. Tomorrow…Tomorrow she would begin teaching these raucous, lively men. She had the lessons on commonsense etiquette prepared, but their unrestrained frivolity made her wonder if any of them would listen or respond to anything she said.

  Mr. Patterson burst back into the room. “Miss Grant?”

  “Yes?”

  He jumped. He turned around and scowled at her. “What’re you doin’ there, hidin’ like a sneak?”

  “I…I was merely—”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. Sheriff Thorn’s walkin’ Miz Bingham over to Preacher Doan’s to let him know about the classes startin’ up tomorrow. She said to tell you to go up to your room an’ study. She’ll take care o’ the cleanin’ chores by her own self when she gets back.”

  Abigail peeked into the dining room. Any man who wasn’t eating was cavorting as if he’d had access to a barrel of malt beverage. How would she find the courage to walk past the boisterous bunch to the stairs? She’d rather stay in the kitchen and wash dishes until they all went home.

  “You goin’ or what?”

  “I…”

  “Miz Bingham said—”

  “Yes, yes, Athol, I heard you.” She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. How could she have called him by his given name? These men’s improper ways were seeping into her being. She jerked her hand downward. “I’m going.”

  With her shoulders back and head high, she forced her feet to carry her out of the kitchen and around the corner. She eased along the wall toward the front of the restaurant, as far as possible from the dancing men. The long bar provided a welcome barrier between her and the diners. Once behind it, she considered crouching low and waiting until everyone left, but fear of discovery compelled her to dart to the opposite end.

  As she stepped clear of the bar, the dancers stopped their stomping and formed a circle. They linked elbows, swayed from side to side, and broke into a rowdy song about buffalo gals dancing by the light of the moon. She had no idea what a buffalo gal was, but she feared it described the kind of women who’d once lived in the upstairs rooms. Her face flamed at the thought.

  Some of the diners clapped, others sang, and still others bobbed their heads and smiled. None seemed to take notice of her, however, and she continued her trek for the stairs. She’d made it halfway across the front wall when her familiar nemesis, W. C. Miller, latched gazes with her. With a broad grin, he broke loose from the swaying circle and wove between tables, still singing, and made a beeline for her. She sped her steps, and he did, too, but by lifting the hem of her skirt and running—how she hoped Mother wasn’t peering through one of heaven’s portals to witness her unladylike display—she made it to the stairs before he reached her.

  His laughter carried around the corner. Although W. C. called for her to come back and join the fun, she clattered up the stairs, the patter of her feet echoing against the plaster walls in beat with the thrum of her pulse in her temples. She reached the top and dashed the distance to her room. At her door, she glanced up the hallway and nearly collapsed in relief to find it empty. Laughter rang from the lower level, but apparently none of the men had followed her. She fell through the doorway and locked the door behind her.

  Now that she was safe, her limbs went as limp as noodles. She staggered to the bed and sank onto its edge. Tomorrow she would have to face some of that uncivilized crowd again. To teach them manners. Manners they sorely needed. W. C. hadn’t molested her, but his deliberate pursuit had frightened her, which was disrespectful at best and debauched at worst. These men must be made to understand that ladies were to be treated like ladies and not like “buffalo gals.”

  Her pulse finally calmed. She believed her legs would support her again, so she rose, crossed to her washbowl, and splashed tepid water on her face. Cold water would have been better, but the moisture revived her somewhat. She patted her skin dry with the length of rough toweling Mr. Patterson had provided, then laid it aside. Her gaze drifted to the dresser, to the stack of charts she and Mrs. Doan had constructed. Which of the men who’d behaved so callously this evening would be in tomorrow’s class?

  She hurried to the dresser and pulled the Thursday chart from the stack. She held it up and read down the list.

  Mr. and Mrs. Tobis Adelman

  Otto Hildreth

  She groaned. Mr. Adelman and Mr. Hildreth in the same class? How would she face both of them at the same time? Images of their faces—one superior and condemning, the other fierce and threatening—filled her memory. Her hands began to shake, ra
ttling the page. She read the rest of the names.

  Firmin Chapman

  Mr. and Mrs. Saul Sandburg

  Vern O’Dell

  Mack Cleveland

  She gave a little jolt. Mr. Cleveland intended to take the classes? But hadn’t he said he wasn’t interested in securing a bride? Then fondness rolled through her as sweetly as Mr. Patterson’s white sauce flowed over waffles. Mr. Cleveland…her protector. With him in the group, she needn’t fear Mr. Adelman or Mr. Hildreth or Mr. O’Dell or any of the others.

  She hugged the list to her beating heart and whispered, “Thank goodness for Mr. Cleveland.” The utterance wasn’t a prayer. Not quite. But almost.

  Twenty-Two

  Mack

  “Hey, Mack, what’re you doin’ here?”

  Mack closed the church door and removed his hat. He hung it on a peg, lobbing a grin at Firmin Chapman, who lounged on the back bench, which was shoved against the wall—the only place a person could lean back and relax. Did the rancher intend to sleep through Miss Grant’s class the way he sometimes slept through Sunday services?

  Mack pushed his open jacket flaps aside and hooked his fingers in his trouser pockets, offering Firmin a half shrug. “Same as you, I reckon.”

  Firmin’s green eyes widened. “Takin’ the class? But you don’t hafta. You didn’t order a bride.”

  “I know.”

  Firmin chuckled and patted the spot next to him. “All right, then. Why don’tcha join me?”

  Mack would sit in the front, where he could keep an eye on Miss Grant, the way Sheriff Thorn had asked. “Thanks, Firmin, but I’ll hear better from up front.”