He grabbed the bucket and shoved it at the older boy. “Go fill the bucket.”
The boy jammed one more bite in his mouth, then grabbed the rope handle and trotted out the open door.
Mr. Nance took her by the arm, guided her to the stove, and released her with a rough shove. “You’d do well, woman, to remember your place.”
She rubbed her arm where his fingers dug in. She sent up a silent prayer for protection and chose her words carefully. “Will you and the boys expect breakfast in the morning?”
He stared at her for several seconds with his brows low and his lips curled into a snarl. Finally his stiff stance relaxed. “No. They can’t get all the way out here an’ then back to town in time for school.” He snorted. “I don’t put much stock in book learnin’, but my wife was set on them two finishin’ out all the grades. Made me promise I’d send ’em, so that’s what I do.”
Helena could scarcely believe what she’d heard. He was keeping a promise to a wife who’d abandoned him and the boys? Perhaps there was some small element of decency deep inside him.
Dolan shuffled in, the bucket gripped in both hands. One side of the bucket was dark and dripping, the other side dry, indicating he’d scooped water from somewhere. A stream, perhaps? Or a stock tank? He plunked the bucket on the ground next to Helena’s feet, then stood and heaved a sigh. “Here you go, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Dolan. I appreciate your help.” She reached to smooth his hair, but he ducked away with a look of fear and scuttled to the table. Her chest panged. Never should a child be fearful of a simple touch. The feeble bit of warmth she’d felt toward the father whisked away like a bit of dust in a stout breeze, and she inwardly cursed not only the man’s penchant for violence but also the mother’s cowardly decision to leave the helpless children alone with him.
She faced him and forgot about tempering her tone. “Do you intend to feed them in the morning? Growing boys need a good meal more than once a day.”
His hands balled into fists, and his face contorted with rage. He leaned close, his foul breath searing her cheeks. “Don’t be tellin’ me how to raise my boys.” He turned and waved his arm. “Dolan, Buster, git in the wagon.”
The boys jumped from their chairs and scrambled for the door, bumping into each other in their haste. Dolan grabbed Buster by the sleeve and pushed him ahead, and he glanced over his shoulder as they crossed the dirt threshold. Helena would remember forever the mix of resentment and pleading in the boy’s dirt-smeared face.
Mr. Nance stomped after them but paused in the doorway. “We’ll be back again tomorrow evenin’ for supper. Fix somethin’ besides sweet next time.” He reached for the door.
Helena hurried after him. Her dignity would take a beating, but she hadn’t relieved herself since morning, and her need was greater than her pride. “Mr. Nance, I…I require the use of an outhouse.” What a foolish request. If there wasn’t a well, would there be an outhouse?
He cupped his hand beside his mouth and hollered, “Buster, get that bucket out from under the wagon seat an’ bring it here.” Moments later the boy trotted to the doorway, bucket in hand. Nance pushed him toward Helena. “Give it to her.”
Buster handed it over, his gaze darting everywhere but on her face. She smiled anyway and thanked him. He scuttled out without a word.
“Tomorrow evenin’.” Nance barked the simple farewell and slammed the door into its casing. A thud-clunk sealed her inside.
Thirty-Two
Mack
Mack sat on a chair next to the restaurant’s front door and listened in on the final dining class. Despite the circumstances, he battled a grin. Miss Grant had a lot of gumption. More than she probably even realized.
If Mack hadn’t known about her distress over Mrs. Bingham still being missing despite two days of searching, he wouldn’t guess there was even the slightest thing troubling her. She addressed the group of students—Sam Bandy, Cliff Lambert, W. C. Miller, and Grover and Harriet Thompson—with the same confidence and poise as in previous classes. The students were a lot more subdued than previous ones, though. Even W. C. stayed quiet and followed her directions. Another time, Mack might have found W. C.’s quiet cooperation amusing. But not tonight. Everyone in town was on edge over what had happened to Mrs. Bingham.
A part of him wished he could be out on a scouting detail. The sheriff declared they’d search ’round the clock, day and night, until they found the kidnapper and brought Mrs. Bingham back to safety. He felt cowardly staying behind, but he couldn’t rebel against Sheriff Thorn’s authority. Plus there was some truth to the warning he’d given the handful of men left behind.
“We don’t know if the kidnapper was after Miz Bingham or just any woman an’ she happened to be available for snatchin’. Until we know for sure, every female in Spiveyville is in danger. We need some men stickin’ in town to protect ’em.”
So Mack, Athol, Clive, Grover, and Tobis stayed behind while nearly every other able-bodied man took an assigned amount of time on horseback, roaming the countryside, searching for Mrs. Bingham. The sheriff came close to canceling school, but Mrs. Doan convinced him the children were safer in the schoolhouse than they would be running around free. Mack was glad the woman spoke up. At least the children in town would have their normal routine.
“Mr. Miller?” Miss Grant’s tone turned sharp, and Mack automatically perked up even though she wasn’t talking to him. “If you must pick your teeth, wait until you are away from the table. And kindly do not use your finger. It’s considered gauche.”
W. C. frowned. “What’s that mean—‘goash’?”
She tipped slightly in his direction and raised one eyebrow. “Lacking in social graces.”
He nodded. “Ah. All right.” He wiped his finger on his pant leg and raised his hand. “May I be excused? I got a chunk o’ ham caught an’ it’s hurtin’ me.”
Uneasy laughter rolled. Miss Grant sighed, but a grin twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, you may.”
W. C. bolted for the corner of the room, digging in his pocket as he went.
Miss Grant cleared her throat, and the diners shifted their attention from W. C. and his pocketknife back to the teacher. She linked her hands and let them fall against the front of her dark-red dress, a relaxed, feminine pose. “Now that our meal is finished, let’s discuss the proper use of the napkin. Please remove it from your lap.” She mimed the action. “Let it drape from your hand, holding a clean spot between your fingers, and wipe your mouth—one smooth motion. No, no, Mr. Lambert, no mopping.”
A few guffaws rolled.
Cliff’s face blazed red and he followed her directions.
She smiled. “Much better. Now, are there any questions?”
W. C. clomped back to his table and slid into his seat. He poked his hand in the air.
“Yes, Mr. Miller?”
“You still plannin’ to start the dancin’ lessons tomorrow? ’Cause I’m kinda thinkin’ we shouldn’t be dancin’ an’ carryin’ on when Miz Bingham ain’t here to join in.”
Miss Grant hung her head for a moment. Mack braced his palms on the edge of the chair, ready to jump up and stand beside her if she needed some support. He’d spent pretty much all of the past two days staying near, and he admitted he liked being close to her. Looking out for her. Offering an encouraging word if she needed it. He liked that she seemed to appreciate it, too. So if she looked at him with any kind of pleading, he’d be at her side before W. C. could say dance.
She raised her head, and her gaze drifted across the room to him. He left the chair and headed in her direction, but before he reached her side, she started talking. “I’ve had the pleasure of Mrs. Bingham’s friendship for three years. She’s a strong, gracious, giving woman who certainly did not deserve to be overtaken in the alley and carted away to who knows where.”
Tears flooded her eyes, but she
blinked rapidly and they cleared. “She finds great joy in bringing men and women together as husband and wife, and I am sure that, wherever she is right now, her greatest concern is causing yet another delay in bringing the wives to Spiveyville to meet their prospective grooms. I think, if we could ask her, she would tell us to finish the classes. And even though it is…difficult…” She gulped.
Mack placed his hand on her shoulder. A touch meant to tell her, You’re not alone.
She flashed a watery half smile at him and faced the class. “We must persevere. If not for ourselves, then for Mrs. Bingham.”
Cliff shook his head. “I admire your starch, Miss Grant. Goodness knows you’ve got reason to hightail it back to Newton an’ forget all about us here after what’s happened, but how’re we gonna finish the classes with so many of our fellas out huntin’ for Miz Bingham? We gotta leave some men at the ranches, an’ we gotta leave a few here in town for you ladies’ protection. Will there be enough folks to even have a dance?”
“Well…” She looked up at Mack.
He shrugged. “Sheriff Thorn’s worked out a schedule for coming and going so the searchers have a chance to rest. I reckon we can hold the classes for those who’re in town and able to come. Over five days, hopefully there’ll be at least one that works for all the grooms.”
Athol came out of the kitchen and moved to the other side of Miss Grant. “Circumstances bein’ what they are, I doubt Miss Grant’s gonna keep anybody from marryin’ up just ’cause they couldn’t get to a dance. But havin’ the dances—havin’ something to keep our spirits up—seems like a good idea to me.”
Miss Grant nodded, a genuine smile gracing her freckled face. “Yes. Something to keep our spirits up. That’s what we need. It’s exactly what Mrs. Bingham would want for us. So starting tomorrow evening, unless Mr. Briggs has any objections, there will be a social-dancing class at the livery starting at seven for whoever is available and desires to attend.”
Abigail
She could scarcely believe she was making such important decisions on her own, yet it felt right to continue the classes. The townsfolk needed the distraction. She needed the distraction. Mrs. Bingham would wholeheartedly agree. And if the prayers everyone was offering were answered, Mrs. Bingham would be back to participate in the dancing. The woman dearly loved to dance.
Oh, please, Lord, let her be here to dance.
This internal prayer didn’t take her by surprise. She’d sent up twenty or more since finding the circle of flattened grass in the alley, and with each communication with God, it seemed more natural to speak to Him. Deep inside, a part of her still wondered if He was listening, if He cared. Just in case, she repeated the internal prayer as the students left and she began to gather the dirty dishes. Both Mr. Patterson and Mr. Cleveland helped, and then Mr. Cleveland asked her if he could stay and help wash dishes.
Abigail looked to Mr. Patterson for approval. It was his kitchen, after all. She held her breath while waiting for his reply, uncertain whether she wanted to hear an agreement or a refusal.
Mr. Patterson shrugged. “I reckon it’s up to you, Miss Grant. If you ain’t tired o’ him hangin’ around yet, then tell him yes. If you’d rather he went on home, then tell him no.” He ambled to the stove and started banging pots around.
Abigail looked at Mr. Cleveland, who looked at her. She read hope in his eyes. The corners of her lips tugged upward. “Yes, please. And thank you.”
His beaming smile nearly melted her heart.
She washed the dishes, and he dried them and made a neat stack on a nearby table. They didn’t talk while they worked, but she was keenly aware of his presence. The mundane things—the steamy water, the sharp scent of the lye soap, the squeak of her fingers on a wet plate, even the sounds of Mr. Patterson’s grumbling about how hard it was to scrub baked-on grease from the stove top held a significance. Would she think of Mr. Cleveland each time she smelled lye soap carried on steam or her finger played a discordant note on a wet plate or she overheard a growly male voice grumbling under his breath?
Suddenly her eyes welled, and tears rolled. She pulled her hands from the water and searched desperately for something on which to dry them. Mr. Cleveland held the only towel in close proximity. She reached for it, and he captured her hands inside the cloth, his larger hands cradling hers.
“Miss Grant, what’s the matter?”
She’d cried the morning of Mrs. Bingham’s disappearance—desperate, fearful tears. She’d cried when the townsmen defended her against Mr. Adelman’s accusation—relieved, grateful tears. But these tears she couldn’t identify. She shook her head. “I…I don’t know.”
Mr. Patterson sent a wide-eyed look in their direction and darted into the dining room. She couldn’t blame him. She’d overwhelmed him yesterday morning with her near hysteria. She expected Mr. Cleveland to leave, too. Father had always been uncomfortable with tears, whether hers or Mother’s, and the one time she had cried in front of Linus, he rolled his eyes and shoved a handkerchief at her, advising her to “dry up” because she was embarrassing herself. She’d already wetted Mr. Cleveland’s shirtfront once. He wouldn’t have the tolerance for yet another crying jag.
Mr. Cleveland released her hands, and she expected him to flee the kitchen. But he snatched a clean wiping towel from the basket and, while she tangled the damp towel around her fingers, he gently dabbed the tears from her face. And that only made them rain all the faster. He stood close, not saying a word, but his nonjudgmental expression and tender swipe of the rough cloth against her skin soothed her.
Finally the weeping subsided and he tossed the tear-stained towel in the wash basket. He aimed a half smile, half sympathetic grimace at her. “Better now?”
She turned her gaze aside. Linus was right. She had embarrassed herself. “Yes. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Sowing tears.”
She met his solemn gaze. “What?”
“Sowing tears. That’s what my ma called them when she got hit with a wave of crying she couldn’t explain.”
“Sewing…as in…” She pretended to stitch a seam.
He grinned. “No, sowing…as in…” He flipped imaginary seeds across the floor.
“Oh.” She sniffed and pushed her hands into the now-tepid water. “Why did she call them sowing tears?”
He propped his hand on the washstand. “Psalm 126:5 says, ‘They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.’’ Ma said when she got overwhelmed and needed to have a cry, she could be sure joy would follow the tears. That the tears watered seeds of joy. I’ve had some of those tears myself.”
She paused in scrubbing a plate and gawked at him. “You…cry?”
He chuckled. “Well, sure.”
“But you’re a man!” She’d never seen Father cry. Not even when they led him from the courtroom in chains. If ever there was a time to cry, that was it. She and Mother had cried themselves to exhaustion.
His expression turned serious. “Miss Grant, I don’t know where you got the idea that men don’t have deep feelings, but that’s wrong. Oh, we might be better at hiding them. But we get sad and scared and doubtful, the same as anybody else. I can tell you I cried lots of sowing tears when my uncle died after I came to Spiveyville. Here I was, far away from anybody I knew, and I was all alone.”
Abigail understood that feeling far too well.
“But like Ma said, the tears sowed seeds of joy. I found a new home and people I call my friends.” He took the plate and ran the cloth over it. “If you trust God and are patient, you’ll find out. Those tears you just shed, there’ll be healing behind them. Wait and see.”
She washed the last dish slowly, contemplating all he’d said. Men had deep feelings, which they hid. That day in the courtroom, when Father had stood stoic and seemingly uncaring, had he only been hiding his remorse?
Something deep in her
heart seemed to splinter. Not a break, not even a crack. But some of her resentment toward her father shifted to…sympathy. How far he’d fallen from the respected businessman and revered husband and father. She would need to spend more time considering whether she’d misjudged his hardness as a protective cover to hide his real feelings.
She handed Mr. Cleveland the dish, and he meticulously wiped away every bit of moisture. He placed it on the stack, draped the towel on a hook to dry, and caught her watching him. A light stain of pink lit his tanned cheeks.
He rubbed his finger under his nose, smoothing his mustache into place. An unnecessary gesture. It always lay quite politely across his upper lip. A nervous grin lifted his lips. “What is it?”
Perhaps it was the quiet of the kitchen, maybe the leftover effects of her tears, maybe her loneliness for Mrs. Bingham, but she opened her mouth and heard herself say the most unexpected thing. “Do you suppose all would be well if I called you Mack and you called me Abigail?” Heat flooded her face. Oh, she’d never been so bold. Was Mother rolling over in her grave? Yet she needed the informality. She needed a friend.
“Are you worried that somewhere out there a mountain will crumble into a hundred pieces and fall into the sea if you don’t follow the dictates of polite society?”
If he had asked such a question a week ago—maybe even a day ago—she would have given him a look of superiority and advised him to keep a civil tongue in his head. But looking into his eyes, which glittered with mischievousness, she could only giggle. “Maybe.”
“It won’t happen, and I’d be very honored to call you Abigail.” He grinned. “In fact, I might even call you Abbie.”
She wrinkled her nose. No one had ever shortened her name. “Well, then, I shall call you…” She tipped her head. “There’s no way to shorten Mack, but it must be the shortened version of something. What is your given name, Mack?”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 27
