Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Mr. Cleveland took two wide strides that brought him to Abigail’s side. “I’ll watch to be sure you treat Miss Grant like a lady, the way a gentleman should.”

  Mr. O’Dell held up both hands as if under arrest. “Easy, Mack, I was just funnin’. I admit, I ain’t keen on havin’ to do these classes—seems kind o’ silly to my way o’ thinkin’—but I’m wantin’ my wife, so I intend to earn my passin’ grade.” He stuck out his elbow. “C’mon, Miss Grant, let’s you an’ me stroll, an’ then I’ll set you loose on ol’ Firmin over there.”

  * * *

  —

  By the last evening of the commonsense etiquette classes, Abigail knew an exhaustion beyond anything she’d discovered before. Not a physical exhaustion, but one that went deeper, into the core of her soul. Preacher Doan and Medora had come to the Friday class, and afterward Abigail had confessed to Medora a new appreciation for teachers. “I will be giving the same lesson again and again, but you teach several subjects at several different levels every day. How do you do it?”

  Medora had patted her hand. “It’s all a matter of getting used to it. Practice breeds confidence, they say, and I’ve found it’s true. John and I are praying for you, Abigail. The Lord will carry you through to the end.”

  Abigail clung to Medora’s encouragement and promise of prayer while resting over the weekend. On Saturday, more than a dozen new couples from young to old came to the restaurant and asked to be added to a class list. Abigail considered their interest a compliment. After all, people must have talked about the classes in a positive way for others to want to join. But the number of attendees for the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday classes grew until by the fifth presentation, a total of twenty-five people crowded together on the church benches. To her surprise, Mr. Cleveland was among the number.

  The fifth presentation went much more smoothly than the first even though triple the people attended. She credited it in part to having memorized the material, allowing her to maintain eye contact with her audience the entire time. But she believed the greater reason was the number of women in the audience. The presence of females had a positive effect on the single men. The women were still outnumbered, of course, but none of the prospective grooms—not even one of the Fletcher brothers, who had been part of the rowdy circle of revelers in the restaurant—made snide comments or huffed or argued. Instead, they listened. Respectfully. Even, it seemed to Abigail, intently.

  As had happened the first night, when time came to demonstrate, Mr. Cleveland volunteered. But unlike the first night, he didn’t wait to see if anyone else would come forward. The moment she requested a volunteer, he bolted to his feet with his hand in the air, as eager as a child offering to taste a new batch of taffy. Several people tittered and one of the Fletcher brothers blasted a guffaw, but Mr. Cleveland strode to the front of the church with a smile and held out his hand.

  He took her on the same stroll around the periphery of the sanctuary, and no nervous flutters attacked her this time. Medora Doan’s comment that familiarity bred confidence proved true. Her level of comfort in his presence was surely due to their increased contact during the past six days. On two different occasions he’d joined her and Mrs. Bingham in the restaurant for the evening meal, both times exhibiting the manners she’d stressed in class. Sunday afternoon he’d spent nearly two hours at the restaurant, engaging her in a friendly game of checkers as well as conversation.

  He informed her of common practices in the community—including some men donning aprons and assuming the female partner at barn dances so they could at least all participate—and entertained her with stories involving skunks building a den beneath his apartment or snakes sleeping on the top edge of screen doors and dropping on unsuspecting people who crossed the thresholds. Some of the stories had made her shudder, but they painted a vivid picture of small-town Kansas prairie life, and she’d found herself both intrigued and impressed by the men and women who’d chosen to make the plains their home.

  She and Mr. Cleveland completed their stroll around the church, and she took his hand without a moment’s pause at the edge of the dais. He escorted her to the table and seated her with the same ease as before, but when he stepped around the table, his fingers brushed a path across her shoulder blades, sending a shaft of reaction down her spine and to her fingertips. She found herself momentarily discombobulated. Had he touched her intentionally? Sitting in front of a group of watchful attendees, she couldn’t ask. She couldn’t even give him a questioning look lest she inspire their curiosity. But her pulse pounded and her mouth went cottony, making it difficult to start her spiel about table manners.

  When Abigail finished sharing appropriate dining behavior, she invited everyone to break into pairs and practice what they’d learned. The nine married couples immediately latched arms and began moving to the outer edges of the sanctuary. The seven single men without a partner gathered near the dais, looking sheepishly at each other. She and Mrs. Bingham had developed the practice of taking turns partnering with the prospective grooms, but with so many of them this evening, they might not all get a chance to practice.

  She offered the men an apologetic grimace. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Bingham and I will do our utmost to take a turn with each of you, but it might be necessary for two of you to partner up, with one taking the role of the lady.”

  Mrs. Harriet Thompson, the mercantile owner’s wife, drew her husband to a halt in their progress around the benches. “Miss Grant, what if some of us”—she waved her hand and indicated the other wives—“took a turn with the fellows? We can practice with our husbands at home. Matter o’ fact, they can stroll us all the way home.”

  Light laughter rolled and Abigail joined in, surprised at how easy she found it to do so. “That’s a splendid idea, Mrs. Thompson, as long as you’re all willing and your husbands don’t mind sharing you.”

  A white-haired man with twinkling hazel eyes caught his equally white-haired wife by the shoulders and set her aside. “You can borrow my Judith. Jest don’t bring her home past nine ’cause you’ll hafta carry her. She’s always asleep by eight forty-five.”

  Judith gave her husband’s chest a light slap, but she laughed so merrily they all laughed with her.

  “All right.” Abigail arched her brows and placed her hands on her hips. “Gentlemen, please offer your elbows.”

  With one accord, they jabbed their elbows outward, some offering their left, others their right.

  Abigail tsk-tsked. “Right elbows, please.”

  With some good-natured grins and teasing remarks, they all stuck out the correct elbow.

  Judith and Harriet were the first to take hold, choosing Mr. Cleveland and one of the Fletcher brothers, respectively. Other wives moved away from their husbands until every unmarried man, even bashful Hugh Briggs, had a partner. Two couples remained linked, and those two led the group in a stroll around the church.

  Abigail stayed on the dais and watched the parade. Mrs. Bingham, who wasn’t needed with so many other women in the group, joined her. The matchmaker slipped her arm around Abigail’s waist.

  “Things are going well, Abigail.”

  Abigail’s cheeks hurt from smiling, her flesh still tender from the scorching it had received, but she didn’t attempt to squelch the smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’m so relieved.”

  “As am I, but I am not surprised.” Her arm tightened slightly, an almost hug—something Abigail hadn’t experienced since Mother died. “I knew you’d be able to bring decorum to the men.”

  Abigail basked in the woman’s praise. She blinked rapidly to stave off tears of pleasure. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “As a matter of fact”—the woman’s tone turned musing—“you’d make a fine teacher.”

  Abigail tucked the comment away in the corner of her mind to contemplate later.

  At eight thirty, Preacher Doan arrived, and everyone except Mr. Cleveland left
with a flurry of farewells and women holding their husband’s elbows. The preacher beamed a bright smile at Abigail. “That looks to be a happy bunch.”

  She hugged herself, reliving the successes of the evening. “Yes, sir. They all seemed to enjoy the class.”

  “That’s good. Let me extinguish the lanterns and see to the stove, and then I’ll walk you ladies to the restaurant.”

  Mr. Cleveland stepped forward. “I’d be glad to escort the ladies, Preacher. I’ve gotta go that way anyway.”

  The minister seemed to notice Mr. Cleveland for the first time. “Why, Mack, I thought you were signed up for the Thursday class.”

  He shrugged. “I am. I’m here tonight for—”

  Abigail held her breath, anticipating hearing her name.

  “—Sheriff Thorn.”

  Preacher Doan frowned. “But the sheriff is signed up on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

  Mr. Cleveland nodded. “I know. He expected to come tonight, but he got called out to the Double Diamond. Something about a barbed-wire fence that got cut. He wasn’t sure he’d make it back to town in time for the class, and he wanted somebody watching Miss Grant, so I said I’d do it.”

  Chills flowed through every inch of her body, as if her blood had turned to ice. The sheriff had assigned Mr. Cleveland the task of watching her? Was that why he’d joined her and Mrs. Bingham for dinner? Why he’d spent Sunday afternoon with her? He’d assured her no one would bother her, but she was more bothered by this news than she’d been by Otto Hildreth’s dire warning or Tobis Adelman’s foul statements. Because she held no fond affection for the tailor or the banker.

  She took a shaky step toward the door. “Mr. Cleveland, I’d rather walk to the restaurant with Preacher Doan.”

  Mr. Cleveland’s eyebrows rose. “Is there something you need to discuss with him?”

  “No.” She hugged herself again, a feeble attempt to hold herself together.

  “Oh. Well, then…” He took his hat from a peg and settled it on his head, his movements slow and his puzzled gaze locked on her. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening in the restaurant for the dining class.”

  He needn’t look at her as if she’d done something wrong. She turned her head aside and stared at the wall. His heels scuffed against the floor, and the door clicked closed.

  Twenty-Four

  Bill

  Bill reined in at the livery stable and swung down from the saddle. He groaned, his stiff muscles resisting straightening.

  Hugh trotted from the barn and took hold of Patch’s reins. “Hard day, Sheriff?”

  Bill massaged his lower back with both hands. “Hard ride. Make sure ol’ Patch gets double oats. He earned his keep today.” The paint had carried him almost seven miles along the fence line, bucking a cold wind the whole distance. If Patch was half as weary as Bill, the animal deserved a treat.

  “Will do.”

  Bill gave the horse’s white rump a pat and aimed himself for Athol’s. If Patch was getting a treat, Bill should have one, too. Coffee. Lots of it. And maybe something sweet. Even though it was almost nine and the sun had gone to bed over an hour ago, Athol’s place was still lit like a Christmas tree. The man must use a gallon of coal oil a day to keep all his lamps burning. Somebody—probably Mack, if Bill didn’t miss his guess—had lit the streetlamps, too, so Bill had no trouble finding his way to the restaurant.

  He creaked the big door open and stepped in out of the cold, giving a shudder of relief when the warmth hit him. Athol and Mrs. Bingham sat at a table near the potbelly stove. Bill ambled over and plopped down with them. His backside hit the chair, and Athol bounced up like the two of them rode a seesaw. Athol headed for the kitchen.

  Bill called after him. “Where are you goin’?”

  “Gettin’ the coffeepot, a cup, an’ the last piece o’ sweet-tater pie. Looks like you can use it.”

  That Athol was a good man. Bill sighed, popped off his hat, and dropped it on the table. He rested his elbows on the table and locked gazes with Mrs. Bingham. “Everything go all right at the church this evenin’? Sorry I couldn’t be there.” Truth was, he could’ve been. Jerome’s fence hadn’t been cut at all. The fool man just hadn’t dug down deep enough when he set the fence posts, and the cows knocked a few of them over. The fella had no business ranching if he couldn’t take care of a place any better than that.

  “Everything went well. There were twenty-four in attendance. Twenty-five if you count Mr. Cleveland, but we probably shouldn’t since he was there in an official capacity.”

  Did he detect a hint of sarcasm in her tone? “You can’t hardly call him official, because he don’t wear a badge. He’s just dependable an’ willin’ to help out now an’ again.”

  Athol ambled over and put a wedge of golden pie in front of Bill. He splashed coffee into a cup and handed that over, too. He held the pot to Mrs. Bingham, but she put her hand over her cup and shook her head. Athol set the pot next to Bill’s elbow. “Gonna go chop up that day-old bread for tomorrow’s bread puddin’. Sit an’ visit as long as you like.” He sauntered back to the kitchen.

  Bill picked up his fork, eager to dig into the pie. “Did we break some rule by havin’ Mack in the class twice? After all, Preacher Doan sat through two sessions, too.”

  Mrs. Bingham tilted her head and pinned a suspicious look on Bill. “Yes, now that you mention it, the reverend attended one session with his wife at his side and a second on his own. Was that at your bidding, too?”

  Bill jammed a huge bite in his mouth. Sweet filling, flaky crust. As good as the pie his mama used to bake. He chased the bite with a swig of coffee, strong and hot, just the way he liked it. Athol sure knew how to cook. He swiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “Yep.” He forked up another bite.

  “Why?”

  Bill paused with the chunk of pie halfway to his mouth. “ ’Cause it seems smart.” He pushed the pie in his mouth and chomped down.

  “Why?”

  With a sigh, Bill dropped his fork. “I’m not generally in the practice of explainin’ myself to folks, but since you’re a lady an’ what my mama would call one o’ my elders, I’ll tell you. It’s my beholden duty to keep folks safe in my town. Mack come complainin’ that Tobis Adelman went into his store an’ got Miss Grant all upset. I caught her an’ Otto Hildreth in some kind o’ disagreement in the church.”

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “You did? When?”

  He waved his hand. “Don’t get all het up. She said she was fine, an’ I been keepin’ an eye on her. Otto ain’t bothered her again.”

  “But why would he—”

  He’d never get to finish his pie if she didn’t stop asking questions. “He didn’t say, the stubborn cuss, but I speculate he was fussin’ at her about these wives you’re bringin’ in. Him an’ Sam Bandy an’ Louis Griffin are all worryin’ about the women doin’ the sewin’ an’ bakin’ an’ hair trimmin’ once they get here. Lots o’ mumbles goin’ on from them three.”

  She pinched her lips shut and stayed silent, so he grabbed a quick bite of pie and spoke around it. “An’ take Tobis Adelman. He can be a real thorn in my side. He’s too spoiled for his own good an’ that’s a fact. He likes to talk, an’ even though I’ve warned him to keep quiet about Miss Grant’s pa, I’m waitin’ for him to let the news fly an’ get everybody all stirred up. If a riot breaks out, I want somebody around to keep you an’ that little gal from gettin’ hurt.”

  He sneaked another bite and chased it with a swallow of coffee. “Then there’s the unmarried ranchers. Now, they ain’t really dangerous. Not criminal-like dangerous. But they can get high spirited from time to time, an’ havin’ a pair o’ pretty women in their midst when they’re grumbly about their brides not bein’ here is askin’ for them to not use good sense.” He shrugged. “I figgered it’s smart to have somebody in every class to help keep ’em in line.”


  Mrs. Bingham was frowning, but she’d lost some of the spark in her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that you stationed men at the church not to watch Miss Grant but to watch out for her?”

  “Ain’t that what I already said?” He chopped the last chunk of pie in half and jabbed one piece with his fork. It went down good, so he followed it with the other. Then he sat back and let out a little burp behind his hand. Guess he’d eaten too fast. “I can’t spend ever’ night keepin’ watch, so I asked Preacher an’ Mack to help me out. That’s all.”

  The woman lowered her head. The lamp swinging from a chain overhead painted a ring of light on her hair. Like a halo. He swallowed a chortle. This one could be both angel and devil all rolled into one the way she went from sweet to tart to sweet again. If he was bride shopping, he’d want a sweet and sassy woman. To keep things livened up.

  When she looked up, all the devil was gone and only angel remained. “Please forgive me, Sheriff. I feared—and Miss Grant did, too—that you placed Mr. Cleveland at the church tonight to make sure she didn’t engage in anything illegal.” She made a face. “Unfortunately, the treatment she’s received in the past has raised her defenses and made her prone to thinking the worst. I fell into the trap with her, but I should have known better. I do believe you are an honorable man.”

  Bill’s chest went tight. Folks in these parts appreciated him. He knew that because they kept electing him every year, but they weren’t much for saying it out loud. Miz Bingham was a city gal. Educated, and with more years on her than he had. Oh, she wasn’t old enough to be his ma, but old enough to hold his respect. Her words felt good. Real good.

  He sniffed, then grabbed up his cup and took a swallow so she wouldn’t think he’d gone soft. “I’ve pret’ much give up on worryin’ about the two o’ you bein’ swindlers. Did some checkin’, an’ seems your business is a fair an’ honest one.”