Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Nance lurched upright and shoved the chair aside in one smooth motion. The legs screeched across the floor, and several people drew back. He leaned toward Athol, raising his clenched fists, and instinctively Helena reached for Abigail. The girl clung to her hands. Athol held his ground. He didn’t even unfold his arms. After several tense seconds of both staring into each other’s scowls, Mr. Nance sent a snarling glare across the entire dining room and took a backward step.

  “I gotta get back to my spread.” He pointed at Helena. “You got my down payment. Get me a wife.” He turned and stomped out of the restaurant, leaving the door open.

  One of the diners jumped up and closed the door. Then, with a nervous laugh, he turned the lock. At the click, everyone in the place began talking at once, creating a cacophony that drowned out the frantic pulse beating in Helena’s ears.

  Athol put his hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

  Helena forced a laugh. She released Abigail and pretended to smooth a wrinkle from her skirt. “We’re fine, Athol. Perhaps a little rattled, but there was no harm done. I’m sorry I invited him inside. I thought I would be safer talking to him in here than out on the porch.”

  Athol shook his head, his lips set in a grim line. “There’s no safe place to try an’ reason with a man like Elmer Nance. He’s been banned from half the towns in Pratt County. Everywhere he goes, he causes trouble.”

  Abigail’s brown eyes widened. “But why?”

  “How should I know?” Athol shrugged, and the noisy chatter of moments ago quieted. It seemed everyone in the room was listening to the restaurant owner. “Mebbe he’s got grudges against certain people. Mebbe he’s just plain mean. Some people are, you know. He’s stayed overnight in every jail in the county at one time or another on account of bein’ disorderly. I’d trust a rattlesnake before I’d trust that feller.”

  The silence, along with Athol’s explanation, sent a shudder through Helena’s frame. “Such a temper. If he behaves so badly in a public place, what must his poor family witness in the privacy of their home?”

  Athol grimaced. “Nothin’ good. He’s a bad ’un for sure. Wouldn’t be surprised if he even raises his hand to his wife.”

  “He no longer has a wife.” Abigail’s voice quavered. “He said she left him and sent divorce papers.”

  “Good for her.” Athol retrieved the chair Mr. Nance had slid aside and brought it close. He sat and propped his elbows on his knees as if suddenly weary. “I’m gonna send one o’ the fellas for Sheriff Thorn. I want you to tell him everything Nance said. An’, ma’am, don’t you fetch that man a wife no matter how much he begs or how much money he gives you. No woman should have to put up with the likes o’ Elmer Nance, an’ that’s a fact.”

  Twenty-Six

  Mack

  Canned beans made a sorry Sunday dinner, but at least they filled his stomach. Mack clanked his plate and fork into the tin washbasin and dipped water from his water barrel over them. He’d figured out letting his dishes soak for a while made the cleanup a lot easier. He liked keeping things neat, but he also liked little tricks to make the job go faster. It left him more time for his store.

  Even though he was never open on Sunday—the day of rest, Pa always said—he usually checked the inventory on his shelves on that day. It was quiet then. No customers or clanging bells. Just him and the stock and the smells of wood and leather and turpentine. Not a mixture that would sell in a bottle, but he liked it. And it was easier to focus when he didn’t have to worry about someone coming in and distracting him. He grabbed his ledger and a pencil from under the counter and headed for the shelves at the front of the store.

  A horse and rider pounded past the windows. He got only a glimpse, they went so fast, but the rider was bent forward over the horse’s neck and must have been pulling hard on the reins, because the horse’s mouth was open and its eyes rolled even as it galloped.

  Mack pressed his face to the glass and looked after the rider, then searched the street. When someone ran a horse that hard, they were either chasing someone or trying to avoid someone. But he didn’t see anyone else, so he said a quick prayer for the man’s—and the horse’s—safety and turned his attention back to the shelves.

  He’d barely made it halfway down the first section when someone pounded on the door off the alley. He left the ledger and pencil on the shelf and trotted to his apartment. Sheriff Thorn peered at him from the other side of the filmy material serving as a curtain over the square pane of glass in the door.

  Mack grinned and swung the door wide. “Hey, Sheriff, did you come for a game of checkers?” He’d enjoyed teaching Miss Grant how to play the game last weekend, but he wouldn’t need to give the sheriff any lessons. The man won more games than he lost.

  The sheriff entered the apartment and dragged his hat from his head. “No time for checkers today. Sorry.”

  Mack doubted Miss Grant had time, either. She didn’t have time for him anymore for anything. He’d made a promise to Mrs. Bingham to befriend the younger woman, but she didn’t make it easy. “What do you need?”

  “I come to ask you a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to ride over to Coats tomorrow, take some money to a fella who left it behind over at Athol’s.” Sheriff Thorn rolled the brim of his hat while he talked, a nervous gesture. “Gettin’ to Coats ain’t an unreasonable distance, but there’s no tellin’ how this fella will take to gettin’ his money back, so there’s a good chance I won’t be here to sit in on the dinin’ room lessons tomorrow. I’d ask Preacher Doan, but Sunday’s a busy day for him an’ he generally takes his rest on Monday, so…”

  Mack gave the sheriff a pat on the shoulder. “It’s no problem. I’d be glad to keep watch.”

  Sheriff Thorn grimaced. “An’ about that…Make sure you don’t say you’re keepin’ watch over Miss Grant. I guess she got kind o’ prickly about it, thinkin’ we was watchin’ her.”

  Mack frowned. “Aren’t we?”

  “Well, sure.” He scratched his head. “Miz Bingham said it this way—watchin’ out for her.”

  “Ah…” Such a small difference, but Mack understood why it mattered. And now he understood why she’d gotten, as the sheriff put it, prickly. “I’ll be careful what I say.”

  He grinned, his graying mustache lifting at the corners. “Ladies can be hard to please, but there’s no sense in goin’ out o’ our way to offend her, seein’ as how she’s a guest in town.”

  Mack hadn’t meant to offend her, and he’d be sure to tell her so when he saw her next. If he could get her to stand still and listen.

  Helena

  “Athol, I refuse to argue with you about this.” Helena gave the apron strings a firm yank, securing the bow. She pointed to the doorway leading to the dining room. “If you’re to take the class, you need to be sitting at a table, not coming in and out of the kitchen all evening.”

  Athol stared at his stove the way a mama stared at a baby reaching for a stranger. “But I ain’t never let anybody else cook at my stove. It feels plumb unnatural.”

  “It’s only for one night. Tomorrow you can return to cooking and serving, but tonight you are not a cook. You are a student.” She gave him a little push toward the door. “So let me take care of things in here, and you pay attention to Miss Grant.”

  He scuffed across the floor, his shoulders slumped and his head hanging low. “Ain’t bad enough Miss Grant picked the supper menu for these classes. Now I got somebody else cookin’ up the food.”

  Helena couldn’t resist laughing at the dismal picture he painted. “You will survive, Athol. Trust me.”

  He flung one last forlorn look over his shoulder, then entered the dining room.

  Still chuckling, Helena set two frying pans on the stove and reached for the crock of bacon drippings stored on a shelf nearby. She hummed as she spooned milky-looking fa
t into the pans. When Howard was still alive, she’d prepared elaborate dinners for the two of them, finding joy in his appreciation. For the past several years, she’d allowed the girls who were awaiting matches to take turns with cooking chores in her home, and they chose the same simple fare to which they’d grown accustomed in their childhood homes. She’d nearly forgotten the joy of cooking.

  Not that she was preparing anything elaborate tonight. Abigail had requested ham steaks and seasoned root vegetables, with rolls from Sam Bandy’s bakery. Helena had retrieved the rolls from the bakery and listened to Sam’s sad soliloquy on how his business would likely come to ruination when all the brides arrived so he’d better enjoy selling buns while he could. She wasn’t sure her pat on his bony shoulder and verbal assurance that many would still enjoy the convenience of bakery-bought bread had helped. But there was little else she could do, so she might as well focus on the task at hand.

  She inhaled deeply. The chopped carrots, yams, and turnips were already in the oven, sending out a heavenly aroma of rosemary and thyme. A ham from Athol’s own smokehouse was sliced and ready for the frying pan. She chuckled again, recalling his reluctance to leave his stove. How could he remain so proprietary when he’d done all the preparation and left her with nothing more than heating the steaks?

  The grease popped, announcing its readiness, so she carefully laid a steak in each pan. Grease bubbled around the slices, leaving a lovely brown, crispy edge. She flipped them, allowing both sides to pick up a slight sear, and then transferred them to a large roasting tray at the far end of the stove, where they would stay warm until serving time. She developed a rhythm of forking the slices into the pans, watching the sizzle, flipping, and transferring. Grease spattered the front of her apron and the stove top, joining countless other stains, and the smell rising from the pans made her mouth water.

  From the dining room, Abigail began her strident instructions. “We’ve already determined the proper way to assist a lady into her chair, so tonight we will cover appropriate table manners. First, let’s discuss the ‘nevers.’ Never eat peas or any other food with a knife…”

  The list was long, giving Helena plenty of time to lay out eleven dinner plates and arrange a slice of ham, a large spoonful of vegetables, a roll, and a little dome-shaped lump of creamy butter on each. Sweat dripped from her temples and tickled her cheek, but she ignored it, determined to do as well as Athol so he wouldn’t be disappointed in her.

  She nearly laughed at the thought. Would she have considered worrying about such a thing before coming to this town? Somehow these men—rough and unsophisticated as they were—had won her affection. They were striving to please her and Abigail, and she wanted to please them in return.

  Just as she filled the eleventh plate, Abigail poked her head into the kitchen. “We’re ready.”

  Helena flashed a triumphant smile. “As am I.” By placing four plates on a tray, she was able to serve everyone in only three trips. When she put the last plate in front of Athol, he gave an approving nod that warmed her from her toes to the top of her head. She shifted aside with the tray tucked under her arm, ready to assist Abigail if necessary.

  Abigail roved around the room, creating a weaving path between the tables. “Please pick up your fork in your left hand and your knife in your right.” The attendees shuffled with their silverware, a few good-natured chuckles sounding. “Puncture the ham with your fork tines approximately a half inch from the edge of the steak. Now, holding your knife at a downward angle and using your pointer finger to guide it, slice off a piece of ham.”

  Mack raised his hand holding the knife. Lamplight bounced off the blade, creating a flash of white.

  Abigail’s lips twitched into a stiff smile. “Yes, Mr. Cleveland?”

  “Excuse me, but isn’t there something we ought to do before we cut into the ham?”

  Her face glowed pink, and she fussed with her skirt. “Oh, yes, please forgive me. Mr. Patterson didn’t have enough, er, wiping cloths to go around, but it is very proper to place a napkin across your knees before picking up your utensils.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. If we’re gonna eat, we need to say grace first.”

  The pink in Abigail’s cheeks changed to a fiery red. Helena hurried across the floor and took her hand. “I’d be glad to say grace. Everyone, please bow your heads.”

  Abigail

  Ashamed, and angry because she felt ashamed, Abigail stood as stiff as a statue while Mrs. Bingham thanked the Lord for the food. She’d asked one of the men in attendance at each of the previous classes on dining to offer a blessing for the food. Having Mr. Cleveland seated at a table, even though he wasn’t signed up for Monday, had sent her longtime habit scuttling to the back corner of her mind.

  Not once in all her childhood had she and her parents sat down to a meal without giving God thanks. Father in particular formulated lovely prayers with flowery phrases, his voice eloquent in its delivery. She at once longed to return to those days and wished she could forget them. Had he meant any of those prayers?

  “Amen.” Mrs. Bingham gave Abigail a nod. “Go ahead.”

  But now her stomach fluttered with nervousness brought on in part by Mr. Cleveland’s presence and partly by her little foray into the past. She cleared her throat, attempting to clear her head, and forced herself to concentrate. “Cutting meat…” She pulled in a breath, then released it. “Holding your knife and fork as I previously instructed, cut off a slice of meat. Please take note of the slice. Is it larger than an inch square?”

  She paused to give everyone time for examination. “If so, please make another cut, removing a one-inch portion from the larger slice. Then, when you’ve accomplished it, carry that piece to your mouth without shifting your fork to your right hand. This is achieved by lifting the fork, rotating your wrist, and placing the meat in your mouth.”

  While they followed her directions, she slowly moved around the room again. “Remember our ‘Never cut up the entire piece of meat at one time’? This is what I want you to practice. Cut a single bite, put it in your mouth, lower your fork to the table, chew with your mouth closed, swallow, and then cut another bite.”

  Clive Ackley spoke around a piece of ham. “This is takin’ forever. We’ll spend the whole night at the table if we hafta cut an’ eat one bite at a time.”

  Abigail clicked her tongue on her teeth. “Mr. Ackley, you are forgetting ‘Never talk with food in your mouth.’ ”

  He raised one eyebrow, but he chewed and swallowed with his mouth closed.

  “What about these vegetables, Miss Grant?” The barber, Louis Griffin, pointed to the roasted vegetables with his fork. “Do we spear ’em up one at a time, or can I scoop up more’n one?”

  “Never shovel your food,” Mr. Ackley said, again with a piece of ham in his mouth.

  Sam Bandy snorted. “I ain’t gonna poke ’em or shovel ’em. Turnips? Phooey. That’s food for pigs.”

  Mr. Griffin raised his hand. “I don’t remember. Is there a ‘Never ask what’s in the food’? ’Cause I’m wonderin’ what’re all these little sticks stuck to the sweet taters.”

  Abigail stifled a sigh and looked directly at Mr. Bandy. “Never extravagantly praise nor criticize any food upon your plate.”

  Mr. Griffin frowned. “But is askin’ criticizin’?”

  Mrs. Bingham hurried over to the barber and touched his shoulder. “It’s rosemary, Louis, a seasoning. It’s actually quite flavorful.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She sent Abigail a smile and nod.

  Abigail drew another fortifying breath. “Let’s move on to the bread, shall we?” More grumbles rose when she informed them to tear off a bite-sized piece, apply butter, and then eat the small portion. Even Mrs. Pendergraff, a kindly-looking older woman, asked why she couldn’t butter the whole slice at once. “
It saves so much time.”

  Abigail gave the woman a smile she hoped appeared sincere. “Dinner should be an enjoyable event, not a rushed affair.”

  Mrs. Pendergraff shrugged. “That sounds real nice, honey, but the truth is I’ve still got chores waitin’ after supper. The longer I sit at the table, the later I get to bed, an’ I still gotta rise with the rooster no matter what time I put my head to the pillow.”

  Abigail feigned a seeking glance across the tables. “Oh, it seems we’ve forgotten the salt and pepper shakers.” She didn’t even know if Mr. Patterson had duplicate sets of shakers to place on the tables, but it didn’t matter. She needed an escape. “Please excuse me.” She darted into the kitchen.

  Out of sight of the diners, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She still faced two more evenings of dining rules. The reactions to her list of “nevers” were no different tonight than they had been during the previous classes. None of the men wanted to take the time to cut individual pieces of meat. None of them wanted to tear their bread into bite-size chunks and butter the chunks individually. None of them wanted to engage their wives in talk about current events. They only wanted to eat.

  “Miss Grant?”

  She let out a squeak of surprise and popped her eyes open. She planted her palms against the wall and glared at Mr. Cleveland. “Never creep up on someone that way.”

  “Is that one of the ‘never’ rules?” A teasing grin lifted one corner of his mouth.

  The impish grin irked her because she found it appealing. “It shouldn’t need to be a stated rule. It should be common sense.” She bolted past him and began searching through Mr. Patterson’s cupboards.

  He followed her. “I wanted to tell you not to be discouraged. The rules are good. They’re things we should all know for when we sit down to eat in a fancy restaurant or at someone else’s house.”