Mr. Patterson puffed back in, wiping his hands on his apron. “As I figured, Mack wants a stack o’ cakes an’ sausage, like pret’ much everybody else.” He grabbed the spatula and moved between her and the stove. “I hope them jugs o’ syrup is holdin’ out. Couldja check ’em an’ replace ’em if they’re runnin’ low?”
Eager to return to his good graces, she hurried out to obey. All five jugs were considerably lighter than they’d been at the beginning of the morning. She took the one from the empty table and carefully added its contents to another jug, but the other three jugs were in the middle of diners. She didn’t want to take those.
She returned to the kitchen and crossed to the stove. “Mr. Patterson, do you have more syrup jugs in the cellar? If so, I’ll trade them for the half-empty ones.”
“Not in the cellar. It’s too cool down there.” He plopped pancakes into a stack on a plate and added several sausage links. “I keep the syrup in the smokehouse’s little add-on, where it’ll stay warm enough to pour. Go ahead and bring in a couple more jugs.” He hurried in the direction of the dining room.
Abigail opened the door leading to the backyard and stepped outside. After being near the heat of the stove, the cold made her wish she’d grabbed her shawl. She hugged herself and half walked, half jogged across the yard. The clothesline stretched from the restaurant to the smokehouse. One sheet flapped on the line, and the basket with the other wet sheets lay on its side on the grass. Clean sheets spilled across the ground, picking up dirt. She released a little grunt. Oh, the wind! Did it have to topple the basket?
She righted the basket and scooped up the damp sheets, searching the area for Mrs. Bingham. The woman wasn’t in the yard. Maybe she’d gone to her room, or maybe she was in the outhouse. Either way, the sheets were speckled with bits of dry grass and dirt. They couldn’t go on the line. Abigail dropped the wadded lump of fabric in the basket and picked it up. She would take the sheets inside to the washtub.
Balancing the heavy basket against her stomach, she turned for the stairs and spotted the container that held the clothespins. It lay upside down near the back alley. Wooden clothespins were scattered all across the grass, creating a trail from where she stood to the alley. Chills attacked her that had nothing to do with the cool morning. She turned a slow circle, her pulse pounding like a woodpecker’s beat on the tree.
“Mrs. Bingham?”
No answer came. Fear soured the pancake in her stomach. She dropped the basket, clattered up the stairs, and burst into the hallway. “Mrs. Bingham? Mrs. Bingham, where are you?” The matchmaker’s room was empty, the bed stripped. Abigail checked her own room, but she found only a bare mattress, evidence that the woman had been in.
She raced back down the stairs, her feet pounding, and pushed on the outhouse door. It opened without resistance. Mrs. Bingham wasn’t there. She explored every corner of the yard, calling and calling, but her boss didn’t answer. Once again she looked at the clothespins, at the way they formed a trail, much like the bread crumbs in the story of Hansel and Gretel. On quivering legs, she followed them to the alley, where flattened grass and Mrs. Bingham’s treasured jeweled watch glinting in the sun told a story Abigail didn’t want to read.
Grabbing up her skirts, she raced for the restaurant, screeching Mr. Patterson’s name at the top of her lungs.
Helena
Hog-tied and gagged in the back of the rattling wagon, Helena rued having left her reticule in her room. If she’d had her derringer handy, Mr. Nance wouldn’t be able to sit on the wagon seat. He wouldn’t be able to sit anywhere for a good long while. How could she have let him overpower her? She rolled and kicked, struggling against the ropes that bound her ankles and wrists. When she managed to get loose, lady or not, she would claw his eyes out.
“Stop floppin’ around back there. Won’t do you no good.” The man spoke amiably, much more so than at their previous encounters. “I tie knots that no critter can break, an’ cows’re a lot stronger’n any ol’ lady. When we get to where we’re goin’, I’ll cut you loose. Until then, just be still an’ get comfortable.”
Comfortable? Lying on warped, splintery lengths of wood, being bounced like a sack of grain, with her hands tied behind her back? How could anyone get comfortable given those circumstances? She wanted to ask him where he was taking her, what he wanted with her, if he really thought he would get by with stealing her away, but the handkerchief he’d tied over her mouth cut off any sound. She tried to keep her tongue from touching it. The taste of dirt and sweat made her want to retch, and if she retched, she would choke.
She really had little choice but to follow his instruction, so she tried to do what he said—be still. And she prayed.
Mack
Such a ruckus in the kitchen. Louis and Clive craned their necks around and stared at the doorway. Everyone else stared, too, even though Miss Grant had told them all during the commonsense etiquette class how impolite it was to stare.
“Whatcha think’s goin’ on in there?” Clive’s mouth hung open. Syrup dotted his whiskers.
“Dunno,” Louis said, “but sounds like somebody’s tryin’ to put a cat in a sack.”
Several men laughed, but they were nervous laughs.
At the next table, Doc Kettering stood. “Do you think we should go in? If that’s Miss Grant making all the noise, she might’ve hurt herself.”
Fear exploded in Mack’s gut. Of course Miss Grant was the one crying, but he hadn’t considered she might be physically hurt. He thought she was mad enough or upset enough to drop her usual poise and let fly. But the doc’s question brought him to his feet.
Louis grabbed his arm. “Best stay here, Mack. Athol’s let them women come an’ go, but he gets all wrought up when most folks step foot in his kitchen.”
Yes, the kitchen was Athol’s domain and he didn’t appreciate people invading it. But the sobs and cries were too full of anguish to ignore. He had to know what had happened to Miss Grant. He strode for the door. Doc Kettering followed him.
“Miss Grant, you gotta calm down. You ain’t makin’ any sense.” Athol held her by the upper arms. She squirmed and babbled brokenly between sobs. When Mack and Doc stepped near, relief flooded his face. “Oh, glad to see you fellers. Doc, she’s been carryin’ on like a mouse with its tail caught in a trap since she come in from the yard. Somethin’ about clothespins.”
Doc touched the back of his hand to Miss Grant’s forehead. “Are you feeling poorly, Miss Grant?”
She slapped his hand away and choked out, “She’s gone! There are clothespins all over the yard, all the way to the alley, and there’s—there’s—” She sobbed too hard to continue.
Mack touched her shoulder. “Who’s gone, Miss Grant?”
“M-Mrs. Bingham.” She drew several shuddering breaths and grabbed his hand. “Come!”
Too stunned to do otherwise, Mack let her pull him to the back door. Doc and Athol came, too, and the three of them followed Miss Grant along a winding trail of clothespins to the alley.
Her hands flew around in wild gestures. “I came out and the sheets were on the ground and I couldn’t find Mrs. Bingham anywhere. Then I followed the clothespins, and this is what I found.” She crouched and picked up a piece of jewelry. Cradling it between her palms, she bit her bottom lip and rocked slightly.
Athol moved to the edge of the flattened patch of dried grass. His face went white. “Somebody’s been scufflin’.”
Mack stepped beyond the flattened area and looked up and down the alley. Fresh wagon tracks carved two lines in the nearly knee-high dried grass. He swallowed a knot of dread. What had happened out here?
Doc Kettering turned and headed for the restaurant. “I’m goin’ after Sheriff Thorn.”
“He ain’t in town.” Athol stared at the grass as if he expected Mrs. Bingham to suddenly appear. “Knocked on my door real early for some biscuits an’ set o
ff for Coats.”
Miss Grant bolted up and skittered to Mack’s side. “We’ve got to do something. She could be anywhere. With anyone. Who would have taken her?”
Doc trudged around the flattened patch, his face set in a scowl. “Vern O’Dell and W. C. Miller weren’t happy about having to wait so long for their brides. Maybe one of them took her, thinking they could convince her to bring the brides sooner.”
“Then there’s Otto, who’s been worryin’ worse’n anybody about how he’s gonna lose his business, thanks to those wives comin’.” Athol held his hands wide. “You think he might’ve took her, thinkin’ it’d scare the rest of ’em from showin’ up?”
Mack gritted his teeth. It would take hours to check with Otto and every rancher around Spiveyville. Mrs. Bingham was likely scared half to death. The quicker they found her, the better. What would Sheriff Thorn do if he were here? He wouldn’t stand around and do nothing, that much was sure.
He slapped his leg. “Doc, go get Preacher Doan.”
The doc took off at a run.
“Athol, let everyone in the restaurant know Mrs. Bingham is missing and have them round up all the men in town. Tell ’em to meet in your dining room.”
Athol started across the yard.
Mack remembered something. “Athol!”
The cook paused.
“Have ’em come armed and either on horseback or in a wagon.”
Athol nodded and broke into a clumsy trot.
Mack turned to Miss Grant. “Ma’am, as for you, you’re gonna—”
She aimed her tear-stained face at him. “If you are planning to say I’m going to stay here and wait, you might as well save your breath. If you’re going after Mrs. Bingham, I’m going, too.”
Twenty-Nine
Abigail
Mr. Cleveland put his hands on his hips, and Abigail imitated his stance. He might be a foot taller and at least seventy pounds heavier, but she wouldn’t let him cow her. Not when her only friend had been kidnapped. She swallowed a knot of anguish. What would she do if Mrs. Bingham never came back?
“Listen, Miss Grant, I know you’re worried, but—”
“Of course I’m worried!” Now that she’d exhausted her tears of fright, anger filled her and left her quivering with indignation. “Who knows who has her, what he plans to do with her. One of these so-called good-hearted men of Spiveyville certainly proved his duplicity.” Had she really intended to issue thank-yous to the men in this town? She shook her head and groaned, betrayal increasing her ire to a level that stole her ability to think rationally.
Clive Ackley huffed toward them. “Athol told us Miz Bingham’s been took. Miss Grant, you reckon we oughta send a telegram to her sister?”
A new wave of grief swept over Abigail. Marietta had no family other than Mrs. Bingham. She would be devastated by this news, yet she had to be told. She grabbed Clive’s elbow. “Yes, let’s do that now.” She pointed at Mr. Cleveland and gave him her fiercest glower. “Do not start a search party until I have returned!”
The man’s eyes turned stony, but he didn’t argue.
Abigail pulled on Mr. Ackley’s arm. “Come on. Let’s hurry.”
At the post office door, Mr. Ackley fumbled with a ring of keys. Abigail gritted her teeth and resisted scolding, but when he finally located the correct key and couldn’t seem to fit it into the lock, her patience ran out. She snatched the ring from his hand, jammed the key into the slot, and twisted it. The latch clicked. She opened the door and gave him a not-so-gentle nudge over the threshold. “Get me some paper.”
He waddled behind the counter and brought out a square piece of paper and a stubby pencil. Abigail grabbed the pencil and bent over the page, her mind racing. A telegram had to be short, but how she hated divulging such distressing news without offering sentences of assurance. She scratched out a message.
Marietta, Helena has been kidnapped. Search parties forming. Will advise as able. Abigail
She cringed. So blunt. Dear God, prepare Marietta’s heart for this message and give her comfort. She jolted. The prayer had come effortlessly, as if it had been lying in wait for the opportunity to emerge from her heart.
“Got it ready?” Mr. Ackley wrung his hands and shifted from foot to foot.
“Yes.” Abigail pushed the note into his hands. “Please send it right away. I’m going back to the restaurant.” Mr. Cleveland better still be there.
She ran the short distance, not caring that her raised skirt exposed her feet and ankles. Several horses were tied to the railing, and a wagon was rattling to a stop as she reached the restaurant porch. The driver of the wagon called, “Hold up there, Miss Grant, an’ lemme get the door for ya.”
She slid to a stop, torn between tears and laughter at the man’s solicitous intention. He clomped across the boardwalk and opened the door. Abigail burst into the room and joined a small throng of milling men, all jabbering, all with pistols on their hips or rifles cradled in their arms, all with shoulders squared and faces set with determination. Preacher Doan and Mr. Cleveland stood in the center of the group.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Men shifted aside, tipping their hats as she pushed her way through to the middle. She tugged at Mr. Cleveland’s sleeve. “Where will we look first?”
He gave her a look that communicated both admiration and aggravation. “As long as you understand ‘we’ means the men only, I’ll tell you.”
She stomped her foot. “As I already told you, I will not be left behind. Mrs. Bingham is in peril. I cannot be left here to pace and worry. I want to help.”
Preacher Doan shook his head. “We don’t know who took Mrs. Bingham, but we can surmise he’s dangerous. We won’t put you in harm’s way.”
Abigail bit back a groan. “Your concern is touching, but as you recall, the sheriff was concerned about leaving me without supervision because something might happen to me.” She flung her arm to indicate the band of men. “If you take every man in town out for the search, who will remain here to keep me safe? Would it not make more sense to take me with you and, therefore, keep watch over me?” She glared at Mr. Cleveland, silently daring him to argue with her.
He grimaced, turning his sheepish gaze on the preacher. “Much as I hate to admit it, she could be right. If we left her here all alone and then came back to find her gone, too, I—” He gulped. “I promised the sheriff I’d keep her safe. So I’ll stay here in town while the rest of you search.”
Abigail clenched her fists and huffed. “That’s not what I want! I want to help look for her!”
Mr. Cleveland bent his knees slightly and grabbed her shoulders, looking her right in the eyes. “A lady has no business on a search party. You’re staying put, and that’s that.” He abruptly straightened. “Preacher, it looks to me like everyone’s here. Let’s get this search organized.”
Mack
Mack felt Miss Grant’s glower as the preacher divided the men into groups of three and assigned them a direction to search. She could frown and pout and cry and scream all she wanted to. He wouldn’t give in. It was his beholden duty, assigned by Sheriff Thorn, to keep her safe, and he’d do it. Including keeping her safe from herself and her fool notions.
They’d quickly ruled out Otto Hildreth as Mrs. Bingham’s kidnapper. He didn’t own a wagon, and even if he’d borrowed one to haul her away, his clean, unrumpled appearance lent strong evidence that he hadn’t been rolling in the alley. Preacher Doan intended to check at the Miller and O’Dell ranches himself, figuring—rightly, to Mack’s way of thinking—that the men would hand Mrs. Bingham over without a fuss if the preacher made the request. Mack half hoped either W. C. or Vern had snatched her. At least he trusted they wouldn’t outright harm her. Beyond scaring her, anyway.
Preacher Doan gripped Clive’s round shoulder. “Send a telegram to the Coats telegrapher for Sheriff Thorn. He needs to know what�
��s going on here. Then you stay in your office and watch for an answer.”
Clive scuttled out.
The preacher turned to Athol. “Let’s have you stay here in town, too. The search groups will return here to report any findings, and they’ll need hot coffee and snacks.”
Athol bobbed his head. “They’ll get what they need, Preacher. You can count on it.” He bustled to his kitchen.
“As for the rest of you…” Preacher Doan gestured, drawing the men near. “We’re going after a man who’s brazen enough to grab a woman during daylight hours, which means he’s capable of anything. Stay with your partners. I don’t want anyone facing him alone.”
Mack ground his teeth. Mrs. Bingham was facing the kidnapper alone. He reached for Preacher Doan’s arm. “Before the men set out, I think we ought to pray. For everybody’s safety.” He glanced over his shoulder at Miss Grant. She stood ramrod straight, chin high, but she was hugging herself. “And for Miss Grant, too.”
Preacher Doan bowed his head, and every man in the room whipped off his hat and pressed it to his chest. Mack bowed, too.
“Our dear heavenly Father, we praise Thee for Thy boundless love and care for Thy children.” A peaceful hush seemed to descend on the room. “We entrust Mrs. Bingham into Thy keeping and ask that Thou guard her from harm. Be with each of these men as they seek our lost friend. Protect them. Guide them. Surround those seeking and those awaiting word with a peace only Thou can give. We love Thee, our Lord, and we ask that Thou bring us all safely together again. Amen.”
A rumble of “amens” sounded, including a higher-pitched, raspy one from Miss Grant.
Preacher Doan patted the weapon on his belt. “Remember to fire three shots in the air if you find Mrs. Bingham, two shots if you find yourself in trouble. If you hear the signal, ride in the direction of the sound.” He caught Sam Bandy by the elbow. “Let’s go.”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 24
