Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Her cheeks went pink and she smiled all wobbly. Gave him some pleasure to know he’d pleased her. He took another quick slurp and shrugged. “ ’Sides, it ain’t fair to blame Miss Grant or think ill o’ her for what her pa done. Mack said so, too, an’ he was real forceful about it. Prob’ly ’cause o’ what happened with his own pa before he come to Spiveyville. That’s why I knew he’d be willin’ to take my place.”

  Mrs. Bingham jolted like somebody’d poked her in the back with a stick. “What happened with his pa?”

  Bill had said too much. He drained his coffee cup and reached for the pot to fill it again.

  She grabbed the pot first. Bill stuck out his cup, but she held the pot hostage. “He told me about his uncle, who was nearly taken in by a dishonest woman. But he hasn’t mentioned anything about his father.”

  Bill bounced his cup. “An’ I ain’t gonna mention nothing more about it neither. That’s Mack’s story to tell if he wants to.”

  She stared at him, a hint of the devil returning, but finally she sighed and poured coffee into his cup. “You’re a mule-headed man, Bill Thorn.”

  “An’ you’re a mule-headed woman, Helena Bingham. An’ I reckon it’s served both of us pretty good over the years.”

  She smiled. A soft smile, the kind Ma used to wear at the end of hymn singing at Sunday morning service. “Yes, I suppose so. I would like to ask you a favor, though.”

  He took a sip of the coffee, squinting at her over the rim of his cup. “What’s that?”

  “If Mr. Cleveland is going to continue to attend more than one class a week, please have him explain his purpose in being there to Miss Grant.”

  “Why can’t you tell her?”

  “I think it will mean more coming from Mr. Cleveland.”

  “Why?”

  Her smile turned sly. “I have my reasons, but I believe I will keep them to myself.” She stood and draped her hands over her chair’s back. “We’ll use the dining room for lessons on the subject of proper table manners.”

  He remembered his burp. He took another gulp of his coffee.

  “I excused Abigail from kitchen cleanup and sent her to her room after class to ready her notes for tomorrow’s lesson, but I’m sure there are still some dishes to be washed, so I’d better go help Mr. Patterson. May I presume you won’t attend the class tomorrow since Mr. Cleveland has signed up for Thursdays?”

  “I might be in here havin’ my dinner. I eat most o’ my meals with Athol an’ put it on the town’s tab. But I won’t listen in.” Maybe he should, though. If all the other fellas in town started putting on airs and minding their manners while he didn’t, he’d stick out like a possum in a canary cage.

  “Very well, Sheriff. I’ll leave the pot with you in case you want another cup of coffee.” She rounded the corner, the hem of her skirt skimming the floor and making it look like she glided.

  Bill held his cup between his palms and stared after her. She was a handsome woman. Smart. Sassy. Even funny. Granted, she wasn’t what his pa would call a spring chicken anymore, but she still had plenty of life left. She was busy matching up other women with fellas. Why didn’t she try to latch on to one her age for herself?

  Abigail

  Abigail lay on her back on the lumpy mattress and stared unseeing at the gray ceiling. She was so tired—emotionally spent, Mother would have said—but sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind refused to stop dredging up memories of the evening following Father’s arrest. She and Mother had sat alone in their parlor, too anguished to speak, and then the door chime rang. With hope rising in her chest, she dashed to the vestibule and peeked out. Her heart had rolled over in relief when she spotted Linus Hartford on the small square porch.

  He’d dressed impeccably, as he always did, in a three-piece suit of charcoal gray with a crisp white shirt and a deep goldenrod cravat nearly the same color as his hair lying just so at his throat. She opened the door and spoke on a sigh. “Oh, Linus, I’m so happy to see you.” How she’d needed him, and here he was. Tears of joy and relief sprang into her eyes. She tipped her cheek for his customary hello kiss, but he stepped past her, stopped in the center of the foyer’s marble-tile floor, and turned to face her.

  Believing his formality was to appease Mother, who could hear and see everything from her spot on the settee, Abigail held out her hands. “May I take your hat?”

  He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shook his head. “I won’t be staying.”

  She slowly lowered her hands and linked them behind her back. “Not even for a cup of tea? Or an apple tart? The cook baked apple tarts this afternoon. Your favorite treat, yes?” Surely the promise of an apple tart, and her consideration in saving one for him, would bring a change to his stiff demeanor.

  His cold expression remained unchanged. “I don’t care for tea or an apple tart. I’ve come to end our betrothal.”

  The words struck like blows, stealing her ability to breathe. She stumbled sideways and connected with the wall. She pressed her frame to the gold-brocade wall covering, her entire body breaking out in a cold sweat. “W-what? But why?”

  He rolled his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Abigail, what else would you expect after today’s fiasco at the bank?”

  She couldn’t answer. The pain of Father’s admitted illegal activities was still too raw.

  “Would I choose to wed the offspring of a murderer? Or a drunkard? Of course not, because I couldn’t give my fine name to someone of such low bloodline. The same applies to the child of a professed thief. I’d forever watch you, wondering when the temptation to steal would rise in you. I’d forever worry about my name being sullied. No.” He shook his head, the action adamant. “I cannot honor our agreement. It is customary for gifts to be returned, but I shan’t request the brooch. It’s too late to return it to the jeweler, and I would never be able to gift another with it, so you might as well keep it.”

  She touched the lovely brooch pinned to her left shoulder, imagining its stone of smoky quartz, as large as an apricot pit, and its circle of delicate gold rope. Smoky quartz…the color of her eyes. The color of Father’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to keep it.

  “No. No, you take it.” Her hands shook too badly. She couldn’t unfasten the clasp.

  He gripped the doorknob and gave it a wrench. “I shall have a retraction of our agreement printed in the newspaper by the end of the week. Goodbye, Miss Grant.”

  He’d slammed the door on his departure, and Abigail gave a jolt on her lonely bed in the dark room even though the slam was only in her memory. Tears came. Tears of mortification and heartbreak from that night, and tears of humiliation and anger for having been forced to live it again.

  “I’d forever watch you,” Linus had said.

  “He wanted somebody watching Miss Grant, so I said I’d do it,” Mr. Cleveland had said.

  Neither of them trusted her. Linus Hartford was long gone from her life. Mr. Cleveland was much too close.

  She rolled to her side and closed her eyes tight, willing sleep to come, but her thoughts refused to quiet. If only Mother were alive to sit on the edge of the bed and sing. If only God hadn’t abandoned her family. Then she could talk to Him about her aching heart. If only…

  Twenty-Five

  Helena

  After church on Sunday, Mack offered to walk Helena and Abigail to the restaurant. But just as she’d done on every other opportunity to be in the hardware store owner’s presence, Abigail declined him before Helena had a chance to reply. The man settled his hat over his thick dark hair and strode off without a word or even a flicker of anger on his face, but the heavy set of his boots against the ground told Helena he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be.

  Helena secured the tails of her shawl—the wind was, once again, blowing from the north—and looped arms with Abigail. “Come along, dear.” They set off in the direction of the r
estaurant. The cold wind wheezing between buildings and throwing dried grass and dust in their path inspired Helena to hurry, but Abigail moved stiltedly, the opening of her bonnet aimed at Mr. Cleveland’s retreating back. She kept them a good twenty paces behind him.

  How long would Abigail hold herself aloof from the man? Helena admired him for his persistence and continued kindness in the face of Abigail’s rejection, but she wouldn’t blame him if he abandoned the efforts. Temptation to scold the girl and very emphatically inform her that she was mistaken pulled hard, but Helena resisted. Abigail, despite her fine manners, was one of the most headstrong people she’d ever met. At times, the trait served her well. It had given her the courage to care for her mother after her father’s incarceration and to march into Helena’s office while still in the throes of mourning her mother’s unfortunate passing and request the opportunity to become a western bride. It held her on task in a roomful of restless listeners. But at other times, such as this one, it kept her from seeing beyond her jaded expectations to the truth.

  As much as Helena wished to intervene, she would allow Abigail to discover on her own that Mack was trustworthy. Helena believed it with every ounce of her being. The man’s faithful attendance to church services and polite, friendly bearing each time their paths crossed proved to Helena that he wasn’t a cad, but Abigail’s hurts ran deep. It would take time for her to overcome her distrust. So Helena wouldn’t lecture. Even if she bit off the end of her tongue in her attempts to keep it still.

  Mack passed the restaurant and stepped into the gap between Athol’s building and the hardware store. The moment he disappeared from sight, Abigail’s breath whooshed out and formed a little puff of condensation at the end of her bonnet. Despite her intentions to stay silent, Helena couldn’t stifle a chuckle.

  Abigail halted, forcing Helena to stop, too. The ridiculously large brim swung in Helena’s direction, and she got a glimpse of Abigail’s frowning face.

  “What is funny?”

  Helena swallowed against the urge to chuckle again. “Have you ever heard the saying ‘He cut off his nose to spite his face’?”

  She huffed, creating another little cloud. “Of course I have.”

  “Perhaps you should take it under consideration. How many times over the past three days has Mack tried to talk to you and you’ve rebuffed him?”

  Abigail toyed with her bonnet ties, lifting her chin in an insolent manner. “As if I would keep count.”

  Helena had kept count. “Seven.” She gave Abigail’s elbow a little shake. “Seven times, which seems apropos when one considers the biblical admonition Preacher Doan shared with us this morning to forgive seventy times seven.”

  Abigail turned her face forward, and once again the bonnet hid her from Helena’s view.

  Helena stepped in front of the girl and bent slightly to peer at her through the tube-shaped opening. Wind pressed at her back, encouraging her to enjoy the restaurant’s welcoming warmth, but inside they would be surrounded by listening ears. This conversation was best suited to the privacy of the porch.

  She gripped Abigail’s upper arms. “It is quite obvious to me that you wish to be at ease with him again. Why not set aside your stubborn pride and allow him to be your friend? You’ll be much happier.”

  Abigail wriggled free. “I came to this town to teach the men proper behavior. I did not come to form friendships. Please allow me to focus on my duty so I might complete it with excellence.” She marched past Helena and entered the restaurant.

  Helena raised her gaze skyward and shook her head, sighing. “She’s cutting off her nose to spite her face, but it’s her nose, so…” Her attempt at apathy fell flat. She cared about Abigail the same way she cared about all her girls and wanted the best for them. The letter she’d received from Marietta in yesterday’s mail, a letter proclaiming her pleasure in readying the brides for their placements and the belief that something new and exciting waited around the corner for her, included a promise to pray for Abigail. Helena trusted her sister to honor the pledge.

  Of course, Helena would continue to pray as well. But what would it take for Abigail to release her fear of betrayal and to trust again? She was running headlong on a pathway to loneliness and unhappiness, and she seemed determined to continue despite the many signs warning her of its dangers.

  Standing out here in the cold wind wouldn’t solve the problem. With a shiver, Helena reached for the doorknob. As her fingers closed around it, the clop of hoofbeats approached and someone called her name. She turned, her smile intact, but it faltered when she recognized the tall, disheveled, sullen man sitting astride the roan horse.

  She moved to the edge of the porch. “Mr. Nance, why are you in Spiveyville again?”

  He didn’t remove his hat but gazed at her from beneath its low curved brim through slitted eyes. “I come to see you. Word is you’re bringin’ a batch o’ brides into Spiveyville to marry up with ranchers. Is that true?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “I need one, too.”

  Helena shivered again, but she wasn’t altogether sure she could blame it on the cold wind. She automatically reached for her reticule, but of course her derringer was in her room. No one carried weapons to church. “Mr. Nance, would you mind if we stepped inside the restaurant? It’s chilly out here.” The diners could serve as witnesses if this man proved as bad tempered as he’d been on his previous visit.

  His scowl deepened. “How long’s this gonna take? I left my youngsters alone an’ promised I’d be back before dark, so I don’t got a lot o’ time.”

  So he was a widower. Despite his ill-mannered behavior, a thread of sympathy wove its way through her. Perhaps losing his wife had embittered him to the point of surliness. Mourning had a way of changing people. “It shouldn’t take long. Please come in.”

  He growled under his breath, but he slid down from the saddle, wrapped the reins around the porch railing, and followed her inside. Every table in the restaurant was already taken, but Abigail sat alone at the one closest to the enclosed staircase. “Follow me, Mr. Nance. We’ll join my assistant.” He followed her so closely, his hot breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She hurried the last few feet and sat.

  He yanked a chair from the opposite side of the table, turned it backward, and straddled it. “Get on with it, then.”

  Abigail paused in eating and sent a wary glance at Helena.

  Helena forced a smile. “Miss Grant, you remember Mr. Nance, don’t you? He rode over from nearby Coats. He is a widower who would like to remarry.”

  “Never said I was a widower.” The man spoke so sharply Helena believed his words could chop wood. “My wife took a notion to try city life an’ left my two boys behind when she took off. Got some papers in the mail last week that we ain’t married no more. I’m needin’ a woman to see to my boys an’ take care o’ the household chores. She don’t have to be pretty. Just strong.” He looked at Abigail. “Not spindly like this one.”

  Abigail visibly bristled. She placed her fork next to her plate and angled her head in the proud way Helena had come to recognize as her fighting stance. “Mr. Nance, first of all, size has nothing to do with strength. Second of all, it sounds as if you’re looking for a house servant and nanny instead of a wife. Third—”

  A thunderstorm was blooming on the man’s face. Helena squeezed Abigail’s wrist. “There is an application process before I can consider matching you with a bride.”

  “I figured you’d ask for money.” He yanked off his glove and shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. He withdrew his fist and slammed his hand flat in the middle of the table. When he lifted his palm, two silver dollars and a spattering of smaller coins lay in a heap. “Got that much now. When I sell some calves in the spring, I’ll have more. But you take that as my down payment an’ fetch me a woman.”

  Helena gingerly pushed the coins tow
ard him. “Sir, let’s discuss the application first, shall we? If you would be so kind as to send me a letter explaining your needs in a wife and how you intend to see to her well-being, it will help me greatly in finding an appropriate match for you.”

  “A letter? You mean all writ down?”

  Was he unable to write? There was no denying this was a foul individual, but inexplicably, sympathy pricked again. “Yes, sir. Please mail it to the post office here in Spiveyville rather than to my home in Massachusetts, since I will likely be here for another three weeks. As soon as I have it—”

  He thumped the table with his fist again, and the chatter at other tables abruptly stilled. He leaned in, his expression reminding her of a snarling dog. “Ain’t you listened to anything I said? I don’t got time to write letters. I don’t got time to wait. We been by ourselves for comin’ up on three weeks now. My boys an’ me ’re needin’ somebody now.”

  “Nance, what’re you doin’ in here?”

  Helena jolted to her feet and rounded the table, placing herself between Athol and Mr. Nance. “I asked him to come in because it’s too cold to visit outside. Mr. Nance is interested in acquiring a bride.”

  Athol folded his arms over his chest and appeared to puff up. “You got some nerve, Nance, comin’ back in here after I told you to stay out.”

  Mr. Nance jutted his chin. “She brung me in. Besides, I ain’t sellin’ nothin’. Nor orderin’ nothin’.” He flicked a glower at the other diners, and a hungry look crossed his face.

  “You sure ain’t. An’ you ain’t gonna take up one o’ my chairs, neither.” Athol angled his bulky frame in front of Helena. “You want a bride, you do what the rest of us did an’ send a letter askin’ for one. Now get on out o’ here.”