Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The thunder of boots on the floor was nearly deafening, and when the last man slammed the door behind him, silence fell like a wool cloak. Mack turned to Miss Grant. Her jaw quivered, and her entire body seemed as tense as a new spring. He’d need to keep her busy.

  He held his hand to her. “How about you and me rewash the sheets and get ’em hung? When Mrs. Bingham gets back, she’ll likely be tired. Wouldn’t it be best to have her bed all made up and ready for her?”

  Her brown eyes widened. “W-wash the sheets?”

  “Well, yeah.” He scratched his cheek. “It needs to be done, doesn’t it? My ma used to say a busy day kept the worry away. And Jesus said in Matthew, ‘Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?’ Worrying won’t bring Mrs. Bingham back.”

  “Neither will washing the sheets.” She sounded argumentative, but she was already marching toward the stairs. “But you’re right. I need to have her bed ready. So let’s get to it.”

  Helena

  Mr. Nance scooped Helena from the wagon bed and carried her across a patch of bare ground the way a groom carried his bride over the threshold. He’d parked the wagon in a low spot shielded by a sloping rise in the land. A wall constructed from chunks of sod seemed built into the face of the hill with a planked door centering it.

  He paused at the door, hooked it with his toe, and pulled it wide. Inside, he dropped her onto a squeaky cot that smelled of mold. Dust rose from the blanket and she sneezed. Sunlight painted a wedge-shaped path across the hardpacked dirt floor, and dust motes glittered in the beam. Helena battled another mighty sneeze and squinted into the shadowed space. The odor of dampness and neglect surrounded her. Was this a cave? Or a burrow?

  He stood with his back to her at a square table, his arms moving. Moments later a flash of yellow indicated he’d struck a match, and then he lit a lantern. A soft glow filled the space, and she identified a rusty stove, its pipe extending through the dirt ceiling, and two chairs plus an upside-down barrel tucked in at the table. Cobweb-draped shelves wedged into the wall held a variety of items, all of which bore a coating of dust.

  He settled the lantern in the middle of the table and turned to face her. With the light behind him and the sunlight too low to reach his face, she couldn’t make out his features, but she remembered his snarling face from across the table at Athol’s restaurant. Fear made her mouth go dry. What did he intend to do now? Trussed up like a pig for slaughter, she’d be useless against him if he chose to violate her.

  She licked her dry lips and sought a means of distracting him. “What is this place?”

  He advanced toward her, stirring dust as he came. “The old dugout, first house built on my property. I use it come brandin’ time. Always stay out here ’til all the calves is marked with my Flyin’ N.” Sunlight traced a path up his legs and then down as he crossed through the patch of light. He reached the edge of the cot and stuck his hand in his pocket. He withdrew something and gave it a flick. A knife blade appeared.

  Helena instinctively pressed herself to the filthy, foul-smelling blanket on the cot. He grabbed her shoulder and rolled her to her side with her face to the dirt wall. She scrunched her eyes tight and waited for the knife to plunge into her back.

  But something slid against the skin on her wrist, and moments later, fierce tingling exploded her hands. She flopped onto her back and clutched her hands to her chest, moaning in both pain and relief.

  Knife in hand, he straightened and stood over her. “Before I cut your feet loose, you gotta promise not to go runnin’ off.”

  She doubted her feet would hold her up if they were as numb as her hands. “Where would I go?”

  A grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “Smart gal. Wouldn’t do you no good to run, ’cause there ain’t nobody but cows around for miles.” He set the knife at a threatening angle. “Do I got your word?”

  She nodded.

  He flopped her skirts out of the way and sliced the twine holding her feet together. The same tingles now subsiding in her hands attacked her feet with intensity. She gritted her teeth against the discomfort and attempted to sit up.

  With a jab of his palm, he flattened her on the cot again. “Stay put.”

  She chose to obey.

  He folded the blade into its handle and returned the knife to his pocket. He scuffed to the doorway, looked out both right and left, then settled the door in its frame. Even though the lantern still provided a yellow glow, the absence of sunshine sent a chill up Helena’s frame and she shivered.

  He pointed to a crate on the floor next to the stove. “Got a full box o’ straw logs ready to burn if you get too cold. Use ’em careful, though. You’ll need ’em for cookin’, too.” He moved around the small space, touching each item. “Matches in the tin, oil in the jug for the lantern. There’s canned goods an’ such in that crate under the table. Nothin’ fancy, but you won’t starve.”

  Obviously he’d planned well for her abduction. She remained flat, fearful of stirring his uncontrolled wrath if she tried to sit, but she couldn’t stay silent. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

  Mr. Nance braced his hands on the back of one of the chairs and angled an apathetic look at her. “Well, now, that ain’t up to me. I need a wife, but I don’t aim to marry up with you. You’re a little long in the tooth for my taste. No offense intended.”

  Relief flooded her, chasing away any offense. If he considered her too old to be his wife, then he would be less likely to take husbandly liberties with her.

  “I meant to take that little sassy-mouthed one from the restaurant since she’s young enough an’ comely enough to be my wife. But I been watchin’ an’ she never come out alone. So I grabbed you instead. Now I’m gonna keep you until I can work a trade.”

  Helena propped herself up on her elbows. “A trade…You mean for…”

  A sly grin creased his face. “For the other’n.”

  Of all the bold, misguided, inappropriate ways to gain a bride. “Mr. Nance, this scheme of yours is doomed to fail. It amounts to blackmail!”

  “Call it what you will. I’m needin’ a wife.”

  “You want a sassy-mouthed wife?”

  “There’s ways to take the sass out o’ someone.”

  Chills broke out over Helena’s frame. Athol had been right about this man. She longed again for her reticule and its contents.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper and a pencil. He slapped them onto the table and yanked out a chair. “Come here.”

  Her feet were still tingling, but they hadn’t lost their ability to hold her up. She stumbled to the table.

  “Sit down.”

  Although her soul rebelled, her body obeyed his command.

  “Now start writin’. To…” He frowned. “What’s her name?”

  “Abigail. Miss Abigail Grant.”

  “All right, then. To Abigail.” He jabbed his finger on the paper. “Write!”

  Helena put the rounded point on the page and wrote, “Dear Miss Grant.”

  He scowled at her, and for a moment she feared he might strike her. But then he laughed. “Yeah, that’s good. Sounds real fine.” He slowly dictated his message, and she recorded every word, gritting her teeth and wishing she was big enough, strong enough, brave enough to tackle him, climb onto the wagon seat, and drive away.

  “Now sign it with your name so she knows it ain’t a trick.”

  Helena added her signature.

  He dug in another pocket and slapped a rumpled envelope on the table. “Put her name and Spiveyville on there.”

  Helena did so, then watched him stuff the letter into the envelope. “This isn’t going to work. They’ll find you out and you’ll be in terrible trouble. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone who took me or where you kept me. You’ll have your freedom.”

 
“I don’t need freedom. I need a wife.” He returned the pencil and envelope to his pocket. Then he strode to the door and looked back at her, as cold and unnerving as a snake. “As soon as your little sassy-mouthed assistant agrees to be my wife, I’ll let you go. So”—he shrugged—“how long you’re here depends on how fast she’s willin’ to do what needs doin’. I’ll be back this evenin’ with my boys. We’ll need supper, so make yourself useful.”

  Thirty

  Abigail

  With Mr. Cleveland’s help, the washing was completed much more quickly than she could have managed on her own. Even so, two hours had lapsed from the time the men set out, and they clipped the last sheet to the line. Not one gunshot had rung out on the breeze.

  Sagging in disappointment, Abigail gathered up the extra clothespins while Mr. Cleveland emptied the tub. The sudsy water flowed over and around the dried stems of grass beside the back stoop, leaving a smudge behind that reminded her of melting snow. The air held a sharp enough bite to invite snow, and she aimed a questioning look at her helper.

  “Does it snow in Kansas in October?”

  “Sometimes. There’ve been years when we’ve had blizzards in October, other years when it stayed mild almost up to Thanksgiving Day.”

  She rubbed her cold, chapped hands together. “What about today? Do you think it might snow today?”

  He propped the washtub against the siding and seemed to search the sky. “No. The clouds’re all wrong. These are white and puffy, like big balls of cotton. Snow generally falls from thick gray clouds.”

  Abigail sighed. Her breath hung in a brief puff of fog that quickly whisked away on the breeze. “That’s too bad.”

  “Why do you want snow?”

  “Because it would be easy to follow a trail in the snow.” When she was a little girl and it snowed, Father went outside and carved a path in the yard by stomping the snow flat. She’d always loved following his footsteps. She wouldn’t want to follow his footsteps anymore, though. A lump filled her throat. She hung her head and battled tears.

  “C’mon, let’s get you inside.” He guided her into the restaurant and closed the door behind them.

  Warmth enveloped her, a welcome embrace, but she bit her lower lip. “Shouldn’t we leave the door open? We won’t hear gunfire from inside with the door closed.”

  “Depending on how far away the men’ve gone, we won’t hear it with the door open, either. And Athol isn’t gonna want that cold air coming inside.”

  “No, he sure ain’t.” Mr. Patterson’s voice carried from around the corner. “If you got them sheets done, why don’tcha come here an’ help me.”

  With reluctance, Abigail moved into the kitchen, and Mr. Cleveland followed. Potatoes, carrots, and onions formed hills on Mr. Patterson’s worktable. He stood at one side of it with a paring knife in hand.

  “Figured I’d make up a big pot of soup. Preacher Doan said the men would want a snack, but it’s cold outside. Better to give ’em something warm an’ fillin’, don’tcha think?”

  Mr. Cleveland rolled up his sleeves. “Good idea. What do you want me to do?”

  “Peel an’ slice them carrots. I’ll peel an’ cut up the taters. Miss Grant, you can chop those onions.”

  She would have chosen a different task if given the option, but she had no fight left in her. She pushed her sleeves to her elbows, donned an apron, and set to work. The fumes from the onions made her eyes and nose run, but strangely she welcomed the sting. It took her mind off Mrs. Bingham and what might be happening to her.

  Mr. Patterson added the chopped vegetables and two large jars of canned tomatoes to a kettle already holding a beef bone and water. He stoked the oven, stepped back, and brushed his palms together. “There. That oughta satisfy the fellas when they come in.”

  The first group, made up of Mr. Pendergraff, Mr. Bandy, and Mr. Thompson, arrived before the soup was ready to eat. They gathered around the potbelly stove in the dining room and warmed their hands.

  “The wind’s pickin’ up again,” Mr. Thompson said. “Near blew us out of our saddles.”

  Abigail joined their circle. “Where did you look?”

  “We went north at least a good mile an’ a half. Checked every gully, well, shed, an’ ranch along the way.”

  The fact that they had checked gullies and wells made Abigail’s stomach churn. She didn’t want to contemplate what they expected to find.

  Mr. Pendergraff unbuttoned his jacket. “We stopped at the Double C and asked Firmin if he knew anything about Mrs. Bingham bein’ took. He got plenty worked up about it.”

  Mr. Patterson made a face. “I bet he did. He wouldn’t take kindly to bein’ accused o’ cartin’ off Miz Bingham. Especially if he didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

  “Nope, that’s not what got him all upset.” Mr. Pendergraff shook his head, wonder blooming on his lined face. “He was downright scared for her. Saddled up an’ wanted to join the search.”

  Firmin Chapman was what Mother would have called a ruffian, but in that moment Abigail warmed toward the man.

  “We told him to stay put,” Mr. Thompson said. “No sense in havin’ the ranchers all leave their stock unattended. There’s plenty o’ townsmen out searchin’.” He turned to Mr. Cleveland. “Heard anything from Sheriff Thorn?”

  “Not yet. But even if he left before seven for Coats, he’s probably only just now getting to the town. It’s a good five-mile ride.” Mr. Cleveland chewed his mustache and glanced at the clock hanging on the dining room wall. “I sure wish—”

  The restaurant door flew open, and everyone shifted their attention to Clive Ackley, who clomped in with an air of importance. His gaze landed on Abigail, and he strode in her direction, holding a folded piece of paper out like a shield. “Got a telegram, Miss Grant, from Miz Bingham’s sister. Figgered you’d wanna see it right away.”

  Bill

  Bill reined in Patch next to the Coats schoolhouse. He wasn’t one for intimidating little children, but neither did he want to spend an entire week trying to track down Elmer Nance. His boys had to know where their pa was.

  Kids were huddled in little groups across the play yard, finishing up their lunches. The Nance boys sat off to themselves under a scraggly-looking maple empty of its leaves. He crossed to them. They were sure a sorry-looking pair. Uncombed hair, dirty faces, clothes so wrinkled and stained it looked as though they’d worn them day and night for the better part of a week. Had Nance up and abandoned them? Bill hated to admit it, but it wouldn’t surprise him.

  He stopped in front of the dark-haired, freckle-faced boys, hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets, and fixed a smile on his face. “Howdy. Remember me?”

  They nodded in unison. The older one spoke up. “You’re Sheriff Thorn.”

  “Yep. You’re Dolan, an’ your brother’s Buster, right?”

  They nodded again. Bill went down on his haunches so he’d be on their level. “Wanted to talk to you fellers, if you don’t mind. I’m still needin’ to find your pa. I’d be much obliged if you could tell me where to look.” Suddenly he realized the boys weren’t holding lunch tins like every other child in the yard. He frowned. “Didn’t you two bring a lunch today?”

  The little one hung his head. Dolan slung his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “We don’t need a lunch. Had a big breakfast.”

  Bill didn’t believe him. They had a hungry look about them. But he wouldn’t shame them by pressing the subject. If they had nothing else, he could at least let them keep their pride. “All right, then. Since you’re not eatin’, you oughta be able to talk. So…where’s your pa?”

  The boys glanced at each other. They set their lips in firm lines and kept their heads low like they didn’t even know Bill hunkered two feet away from them.

  “Boys?”

  They winced, but they didn’t look up.

  “
You ain’t in any kind o’ trouble.”

  Dolan didn’t raise his head, but his gaze found Bill. “We ain’t?”

  Bill shook his head. Shook it hard. Convincingly. “No, sir. Just needin’ to see your pa. I have somethin’ to give to him.”

  “What is it?”

  Now, that wasn’t the boy’s business. “Somethin’ that’s rightfully his.” He placed his hand on the patched knee of the boy’s britches. “Wouldja tell me where to find ’im? It’ll ease my mind considerable when I can talk to him.”

  Dolan opened his mouth. Then his gaze moved beyond Bill to something behind him. He lurched to his feet. “C’mon, Buster, time to go in.” He yanked his little brother up, and the two shot off like a bull was chasing them.

  Bill stood, his knees popping. “What’s wrong with you two? Come on back here.”

  They darted into the schoolhouse and closed the door.

  Bill started after them, but something compelled him to look over his shoulder. Afterward he was glad he did, because Elmer Nance himself was coming up the street in his wagon. Bill ambled out and intercepted him.

  Nance set the brake and glowered down at Bill. “Sheriff.”

  “Nance.” Bill braced one hand on the wagon seat and rested the other on the butt of his pistol. “Been lookin’ for you.”

  “What for?” That man could snarl words better than anybody Bill had ever met.

  “You left somethin’ behind in Spiveyville. I’m wantin’ to return it to you.” He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief he’d tied around Nance’s coins. He plopped the pouch onto the seat. “There’s two dollars and sixty-two cents wrapped in there. Does that match what you put on the table in Athol’s restaurant?”

  Nance untied the knots and counted out the coins, his lips moving silently. “Reckon so.” He dropped them into his shirt pocket and then flipped the handkerchief to Bill. “Thanks.” He gripped the brake handle.