Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Bill grabbed hold of the handle and held tight. “I’m not done yet.”

  Nance’s eyes narrowed to slits, like a poisonous snake’s. He sat tense, as if ready to strike. “What?”

  “Seems there’s some misunderstandin’ about you bein’ in Spiveyville. Since you didn’t get the message last time, I’m repeatin’ it plain an’ simple for ya.” Bill angled his hat back and matched Nance’s squinty-eyed glare. “You’re to stay away from Athol’s place an’ every other business in town. You come in again an’ I see you, you’ll find yourself sittin’ in a jail cell.”

  Nance reared back and curled his lip. “You’d arrest a man just for comin’ in to do some business?”

  Bill wanted to smack the contemptuous smirk from his face, but he kept his tone even. “We don’t need your kind of business. We don’t want it. So you can take it elsewhere. Anywhere but Spiveyville.” Or anyplace else he hadn’t wore out his welcome.

  He looked at Bill’s hand still gripping the brake handle. “That all?”

  “Not quite.” Bill leaned closer and bounced his thumb over his shoulder. “Them two boys o’ yours…When’s the last time you fed ’em?”

  The contempt changed to fury so fast Bill came close to taking a backward step. “What’d they tell you?”

  “Not a thing. But I know hunger when I see it.” Bill huffed, disgusted. “Don’t look like they’ve washed in a month, an’ their clothes are torn an’ filthy. That’s no way to see to youngsters, Nance.”

  The man sat in silence for several seconds, repeatedly closing and opening his hand. Finally he snorted. “You remember how you told me to stay out o’ the businesses in Spiveyville?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Well, I’m tellin’ you to stay outta my business.” He pushed Bill’s hand aside, jammed the handle forward, and brought the reins down with a smack.

  Mack

  Miss Grant hadn’t looked up from the telegram even once in the fifteen minutes since Clive put it in her hand. She’d taken it to the table in the corner, sat with her back to the group, and now stayed there with the folded square of paper sandwiched between her palms.

  Grover Thompson nudged Clive. “She looks awful upset. What’d it say?” He flicked his gaze between Clive and Miss Grant.

  Clive frowned. “I can’t divulge the contents of a telegram, Grover. She’s gonna have to tell you.” He shook his head and backed toward the door. “I hope she tells you soon, ’cause she’s gonna need some help.” He turned and departed.

  The men stood in a circle, shuffling their feet and examining either the floor or the ceiling. Clearly, they didn’t know what to do. Neither did Mack. He’d been taught by his mother not to ask snoopy questions, and Miss Grant had told them in the etiquette class to respect other people’s privacy, but concern writhed through him. She was troubled, and he wanted—no, he needed—to know why.

  He crossed the floor, slow and quiet, and touched her shoulder. “Miss Grant?”

  She jumped and raised her startled gaze. Her forehead was puckered into lines of worry, and she held her lower lip between her teeth.

  He bounced a glance at the telegram. “Bad news?”

  “I…I’m not altogether sure.”

  “Why’s that?” He slid into a chair. At the stove, the men all leaned slightly in their direction, turning one ear toward them.

  Miss Grant cleared her throat. “Well, the telegram is very short. And a bit unsettling.”

  “Do you want to show it to me?” Mack held out his hand, palm up.

  She hesitated for a few seconds but then seemed to wilt. “Yes. Here.” She placed it in his hand.

  He unfolded it. Only three words were scrawled on the page. “ ‘On my way’?” He frowned. “She’s coming to Spiveyville?”

  Miss Grant shrugged. “I assume so. But is she coming alone? If she’s bringing the brides, where will they all stay? What will happen to Mrs. Bingham’s business while she’s here?” She held her hands outward in a helpless gesture. “I wanted her to know what had happened to Mrs. Bingham, but I didn’t expect her to pack a bag and come. I don’t know what Mrs. Bingham is going to say to me when she realizes her sister left Newton.”

  At least she was thinking positively that Mrs. Bingham would be here to give her opinion. He tapped the telegram on the table. “Do you want me to walk to the post office so you can send another telegram?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  It warmed him that she asked. It meant that maybe, just maybe, she’d started to trust him. He put his hand over hers. “You know Mrs. Bingham better than any of us. Would Mrs. Bingham want her to come?”

  She crunched her lips to the side. “The business means a lot to her. She always prays that the women and men she brings together will be as happy as she and her husband were.” Tears winked in her eyes. “She…she cares more about other people than she does about herself. I think Mrs. Bingham would want Miss Herne to stay put and see to the business.”

  “Well, then, let’s go send a message.”

  They both stood. As one, the men around the stove leaned in the opposite direction. She turned to face them, and her chin rose a notch. “Gentlemen, I know you were listening, and I’m going to make a firm request. Keep quiet about the contents of this telegram and my intended response. The last thing we need with Mrs. Bingham in some unknown location is the prospective grooms getting it in their heads that the brides are coming early.”

  With every sentence, her voice gained strength. “Even if the brides do show up here, there will be no matches made without Mrs. Bingham’s personal approval. And please remember we still have classes to complete.”

  Thirty-One

  Helena

  Helena paced the small space again. Four wide strides deep, five across. Roughly twelve by fifteen feet. She’d measured her prison two dozen times since Mr. Nance closed the door and left her, and each time it seemed as though the walls pressed a little tighter. No windows. No air moving. She might as well be in a tomb.

  What time was it? She absently touched her shoulder where a small jagged tear marked the place where she’d pinned her jeweled watch that morning. Apparently it had fallen off during her scuffle with Mr. Nance. She prayed she would find it when she left this dismal dwelling. Howard had given it to her.

  Her head low, she crossed the floor again. Over the course of her lonely hours, she’d observed a sliver of sunlight, which sneaked through a crack in the door, grow shorter and shorter. It had finally disappeared. Its absence pierced her.

  She darted to the door and put her eye to the crack. Shadows shrouded the ground directly in front of the wall, but the landscape beyond was still light. So it must be afternoon, and the dugout must face east. In which direction was Spiveyville? If she somehow managed to escape, she didn’t want to waste time running in the wrong direction.

  She gripped a crossbar on the door and pulled. The door groaned, but it held tight. She planted both palms on the door and pushed with all her strength. The door didn’t budge. Grunting with exertion, she banged her shoulder against it until pain drove her to stop. She sank into a chair. Such a useless waste of energy. Mr. Nance had clunked something into place on the outside when he left. Probably a length of wood over the iron hooks she’d seen mounted on the thick doorposts. She’d never break it down.

  She paced from the door to the stove and back, restless as a caged animal. If only there was a window, some means of allowing in air and light. Her need led her to stick her face against the crack again. Cold air wheezed in, and she drew one breath after another. In through her nostrils, out through her mouth, praying it would rid her senses of the dead, musty aroma permeating the dwelling.

  Her stomach pinched. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and then only a single pancake rolled around a sausage link. She’d already taken inventory of the supplies. A can of lard. Canned
beans, tomatoes, peaches, and beef. A good-sized sack of cornmeal and a smaller one of flour. Two dented pots, one crockery bowl, a stack of tin plates, a rusty can opener, and a handful of mismatched silverware made up her kitchen utensils. Rudimentary at best. And yet he’d told her to have supper waiting.

  She brought down the bowl, the flour, and a can of peaches from the shelf. It would likely be the sorriest cobbler ever made, but she would give it her best effort. Partly because she needed something to do, partly because she was hungry and cobbler was the only appealing recipe she could glean from her limited resources, and partly because he’d said his boys would be in tow. If it were only the man, she’d let him starve. But children needed sustenance, so she would provide it.

  As she pushed the rusty blade of the opener into the can’s tin seal, Mr. Nance’s chilling comment—“There’s ways to take the sass out o’ someone”—rolled through the back of her mind. What an evil, unfeeling, selfish man. He didn’t deserve a wife or children. Helena couldn’t blame his wife for leaving him, but why had she left the boys behind? Apparently the mother had lost her maternal instincts along with any sass she might have once possessed.

  Helena peeled back the circle of tin and dumped the peaches into the bowl. The sweet scent seemed improper, considering the foul setting and her unpleasant thoughts. But a conviction filled her. When she escaped this dirt prison and her vile warden, she would do her utmost to rescue Mr. Nance’s children from their father. It was the right thing to do.

  Abigail

  Was she doing the right thing? Abigail tucked the clean, fresh-smelling sheets around Mrs. Bingham’s mattress. The scent of ham and roasted vegetables crept between floorboards and taunted her with the reminder of her reason for being in this town. She’d told the men to come tonight for the class on dining because she didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Bingham by not fulfilling her obligation, but now she wasn’t sure she should try to teach. Who cared about the proper way to cut a piece of meat or whether or not one buttered tiny bites of bread one at a time when she had no idea what had happened to her only friend?

  “Miss Grant?” Mr. Patterson called from below.

  Abigail trotted to the head of the stairs and peered down. “Yes?”

  “Sheriff Thorn’s ridin’ in.”

  Her heart leaped into her throat. “Is Mrs. Bingham with him?”

  “He’s alone.”

  Disappointment stabbed with such intensity her knees weakened. She grabbed the wall to steady herself and blinked back tears.

  “You wanna talk to him?”

  Of course she wanted to. She clattered down the risers at an unladylike speed and darted past Mr. Patterson to the front door. She stepped out on the porch. At the same time, Mr. Cleveland left his hardware store, Mr. Ackley left the post office, Mr. Thompson left the mercantile, and Mr. Adelman left the bank. Apparently everyone had been watching for the sheriff. Waving her hand in the air and calling his name, she took off at a run and met him in the middle of the road.

  His horse shied sideways and he pulled back on the reins. “Whoa there, Patch.” The animal snorted, but it came to a stop. Sheriff Thorn glowered at Abigail. “Are you tryin’ to make him buck me out o’ the saddle?”

  She gripped her hands beneath her chin. “I’m sorry, but I am so worried. What will you do next to find her?”

  The men, including Mr. Patterson, joined Abigail. The sheriff’s scowl deepened. He scanned the group. “Find who? What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “ ’Scuse me, Miss Grant.” Mr. Ackley pushed in front of her. “Didn’tcha get my telegram? I sent it to Coats this mornin’.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t go into the telegraph office. No need to.”

  Abigail groaned. “Then you didn’t even look for her.”

  The sheriff shifted his hat to the back of his head. “What in thunderation is goin’ on?”

  “Mrs. Bingham is missing.” Abigail’s voice broke on the last word.

  Mr. Cleveland put his hand on her shoulder. During the day, he’d been her greatest source of comfort, and she appreciated his presence now. “It looks like someone pulled into the alley behind the restaurant, wrestled her to the ground, and carted her off in a wagon.”

  Sheriff Thorn swung down from the saddle and gaped at Mr. Cleveland. “When?”

  “Early this morning. Before eight for sure.”

  Mr. Patterson nodded. “Mack an’ Preacher Doan sent fellas out to search, an’ Clive sent you a telegram. I been keepin’ ever’body fed between searches. Tobis here’s even put up a reward of a hundred an’ fifty dollars to whoever finds her.”

  The sheriff jerked his wide-eyed gaze to the banker. “A…a hunnerd an’ fifty dollars?”

  Mr. Adelman jabbed his thumb in Abigail’s direction and nodded. “Wanted to find out if it was a scheme this thief’s daughter concocted to get everybody out searchin’ while she went from store to store and emptied cash registers. Figured if there was a reward, an’ it was bigger’n what she’d find in any of our tills, she’d take us right quick to Miz Bingham so she could claim it.”

  Humiliation flooded Abigail’s frame. He’d shared her darkest secret. What would the others think of her now?

  Mr. Patterson whacked Mr. Adelman on the shoulder. “Here I was singin’ your praise when you’re nothin’ more’n a lowdown dirty snake.”

  Abigail jolted.

  Mr. Ackley stomped his foot and punched the air. “You oughta be ashamed o’ yourself.”

  Mr. Thompson poked his finger at the banker. “We better not find out you hid Miz Bingham away to give Miss Grant some sort o’ fool test.”

  Mr. Adelman put his hands in the air. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that woman disappearing.”

  “Hmph.” Mr. Ackley folded his arms over his chest. “You better not’ve.”

  Abigail swallowed a lump of mingled joy and anguish.

  Mr. Cleveland’s hand on her shoulder pressed firm, warm, certain. “Sheriff, don’t waste time questioning Miss Grant. She was as shocked by all this as we were. She’s spent the whole day worrying. Besides, I saw the scufflin’ spot and wagon tracks.”

  “Yeah!” Mr. Patterson glared at the banker. “An’ we all heard Miss Grant screamin’ like a—” His face blotched red. “Well, screamin’ in fear.”

  “Tobis,” Mr. Cleveland said, “you’re always bragging about the plays you’ve seen on stages in the cities. You ought to know what’s real and what’s not.” His tone hardened. “You’ve been watching Miss Grant. Have you seen even one thing to make you think she’s less than honest?”

  The banker ducked his head. “Her pa’s a thief.” He sounded like a recalcitrant child.

  “Her pa’s got nothin’ to do with this.” Mr. Ackley gave him a little shove. “Get back to your bank an’ quit stirrin’ trouble against Miss Grant. A gentleman never fab—fab—” He squinted at Abigail. “What’s that word again?”

  “Fabricates,” Abigail, Mr. Cleveland, Mr. Thompson, and the sheriff chorused.

  Mr. Ackley nodded hard. “Fabbercates tales. Now you best git before I lose my patience.”

  As the banker scuttled up the street, Abigail slid a wobbly smile across the remaining men. “Thank you.” Would she have expected to find trustworthy men in this tiny, unpolished town? No, but they were here, and how she appreciated them.

  She turned a firm look on Sheriff Thorn. “What are you going to do to bring her back? She’s probably frightened out of her wits.” Tears stung. “She’s the kindest person I know. We have to get her back before whoever took her does her harm.” The tears she’d held back during the long day of watching and worrying found their way to the surface. And it seemed perfectly natural to turn her face into the front of Mr. Cleveland’s plaid shirt and let them flow.

  Helena

  When she was alone again, Helena would let the tears pre
ssing behind her lids flow, but for now she needed to be brave. But, oh, she found it hard. Dolan and Buster Nance dug into the sorry excuse for cobbler as if they hadn’t seen food for days. She longed to wash the dirt from their thin faces, dress them in fresh-smelling clothes, hold them to her heart and assure them they were safe. But she couldn’t do any of that with their father looking on. So she pasted on a smile she hoped would give the boys reassurance and dipped the spoon into the half-empty pot of cobbler.

  “Would you like some more, boys?”

  The younger of the pair of scruffy waifs thrust his plate forward. “Yes’m.”

  Mr. Nance whacked the boy on the back of the head with his open palm. “Stop bein’ greedy. You ain’t the only one wantin’ more.”

  The boy hunkered low.

  Helena gasped. “Shame on you, Mr. Nance. You’re the greedy one, taking food from the mouths of children.” She tipped the pot and scraped a good-sized portion of cobbler onto Buster’s plate. Then she added more to Dolan’s. A small amount remained, and she thumped the pot onto the table in front of the man. He could serve himself.

  She flounced to the stove, which still emitted warmth thanks to the twisted straw logs and dried cow chips. A bucket rested on the floor near the stove, and she picked it up. “I’ll need water to wash the dishes. Is there a well nearby?” She started for the door.

  Mr. Nance leaped into her path, tipping his chair in the process. “There ain’t no well out here.”

  “Then what am I to do? I can’t be without water.” Too late she realized the sassiness in her tone. The boys sent wary glances at her, and the man’s eyes narrowed. Although it galled her, she bowed her head in a show of submission. “Would you please show me where to fetch water?”