Oatmeal held no appeal for her, but Mr. Patterson deserved an easy morning. And she wouldn’t oppose anything that would expedite the search. Her last conscious thought before falling asleep was a prayer asking for Mrs. Bingham’s safe return. Please, please, God…“What a good idea. I’ll put out bowls this morning instead of plates.”
“Before you do that, go down to the cellar. Find the sack o’ raisins an’ scoop three or four cups o’ walnuts from the barrel. Those’ll make good stir-ins for the oatmeal.”
Raisins and walnuts? Her mouth watered. She might have some oatmeal after all. She grabbed a lantern, lit its wick, and made her way down the dirt stairs. She easily located the walnuts, but the raisins were hidden behind sacks of flour. Using the apron skirt as a pouch, she carried her small burden up the stairs. She extinguished the lantern and dumped the bag of sticky raisins and unshelled walnuts on the worktable.
“Where is your nutcracker, Mr. Patterson? I will shell the walnuts for you.”
“Nah.” He handed her the wooden spoon. “Them shells are hard to crack. I’ll do it. You stir.”
She held the spoon like a sword, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. She remembered Mrs. Bingham’s chuckling taunt the night Mr. Patterson had joined the dining class. “Your stove will survive one night with a different cook at its helm.” He’d let her cook, but the entire evening he’d cast sorrowful glances toward the kitchen.
Abigail waved the spoon. “Are you sure you trust me?”
He scowled. “Just stir, wouldja?”
She stifled a giggle and stirred.
Mr. Patterson unlocked the door at six thirty and several men, including Sheriff Thorn, were already waiting to come in. A couple of them grumbled when Mr. Patterson announced the morning special, but none of them turned down a bowl of oatmeal topped with raisins and chunks of walnuts.
Abigail collected the dirty bowls as the men finished, and when she reached for the sheriff’s bowl, he held his coffee cup to her.
“Fill me up one more time, Miss Grant, before I have to head out in the cold.”
She scurried to the kitchen, retrieved the pot, and poured steaming dark liquid into his cup. The man’s eyes bore dark circles, and his shoulders slumped. She couldn’t resist touching his shoulder when she gave him his full cup. “Can’t you let the others search today, Sheriff, and take a day of rest? You’ve hardly been off your horse since last Monday.”
He took a slow draw on the cup, his eyes half-closed. Then he lowered it to the table, braced his palms around it, and gave her a determined look. “I’ll rest when we know for sure what happened to Miz Bingham. This badge on my chest ain’t for show. It means I’m accountable for the folks who live in an’ around Spiveyville. Just ’cause you an’ her ain’t real residents of the town don’t mean I’m any less responsible for makin’ sure you’re safe.”
He made a horrible face. “I sure bumbled it by not bein’ here when she got took. My office is right next door. If I’d been in there ’stead o’ off tryin’ to return money to that no-good scoundrel Nance, I might’ve been able to stop it.”
Abigail slid into the chair next to him and wove her fingers together. “It isn’t your fault. Mr. Patterson and I were in the kitchen. We didn’t see or hear a thing. Blaming ourselves won’t bring Mrs. Bingham back. What’s done is done, and we have to look forward now instead of trying to find fault.” She’d meant to reassure the sheriff, but the truth of her words bolstered her, too.
He sighed and placed his hand on her wrist. “Ah, I know, missy. It’s prob’ly the tired talkin’, but I can’t help but think mebbe a younger sheriff would’ve made a differ’nt choice an’ mebbe kep’ her from goin’ through such a scary ordeal.” His watery gaze collided with hers. “You’re bein’ brave, an’ I’m proud o’ you for it, but I know you’re scared.” His fingers curled tight. “I am, too.”
“We all are.” Abigail sniffed and blinked hard. “But Preacher Doan is praying, and Mack is praying, and I’m praying, and—well, the whole town is praying. I know Mrs. Bingham is praying, too. We have to trust that God is hearing our prayers and will answer in the best way for Mrs. Bingham and for all of us.”
Sheriff Thorn lifted the cup and drained it in one long, noisy series of slurps. He slapped it onto the table and rose. “All right. I’m settin’ out again. Gonna take a couple o’ men an’ head toward Sawyer. There’s some ridges an’ hills east o’ Sawyer where rustlers’ve hid out in the past. I’m wantin’ to take a look-see over there.”
Abigail stood, too, and reached for the sheriff’s hand. She cradled his dry, calloused hand between her hands. “Good luck, Sheriff Thorn. I’ll pray for your safety.”
He nodded, sniffed, and plopped his hat over his gray-streaked black hair. “You do that.” He strode out, looking a little taller than he had coming in.
She picked up his empty coffee cup and bowl and carried them to the kitchen. Mr. Patterson had heated a pot of water for washing dishes, so she readied the washbowl and rolled up her sleeves. While she washed, Mr. Patterson dried, and she smiled, remembering Mack’s comforting presence and their easy conversation about sowing tears.
She never would have imagined feeling so comfortable with a man. She’d been engaged to marry Linus Hartford, and more often than not, she’d found herself on edge, worried about displeasing him somehow. Not once had Mack given her a reason to guard her words or worry about her behavior. She appreciated being able to relax in his presence.
She recalled something, and she jerked her hands from the water. “Mr. Patterson, did Mack—I mean, Mr. Cleveland—come in for breakfast this morning?”
He scratched his cheek, his lips puckering. “Hmm…nope. Don’t think I saw him.”
“That’s rather out of the ordinary for him, isn’t it?”
“Well, he is partial to my cookin’, but he keeps some canned goods an’ dried fruit an’ so forth in his apartment, an’ he sees to his own needs now an’ again.” A sly grin climbed Mr. Patterson’s cheeks. “But if you’re worried about him not havin’ a good breakfast in his belly, you can go tap on his door an’ see if he’s ate somethin’.”
Abigail raised one eyebrow. “Mr. Patterson, you’re being impertinent.”
His grin widened. “Why, thank you.”
She frowned. “For what?”
“For callin’ me important.” His chest puffed.
“I said impertinent. It’s not the same thing.”
“Well, thank you anyway. Go on over an’ check on Mack if you wanna. Them dishes’ll keep.”
She plunged her hands into the water and finished every bowl, studiously refusing to acknowledge the cook’s ridiculous chortles. She dried the last bowl and carried the stack to the shelf. As she placed them in their proper spot, the dining room door opened and someone hollered her name.
She nearly tipped the stack of bowls. Mr. Patterson reached to stabilize them, and she ducked beneath his arm and entered the dining room.
Mr. Ackley trotted toward her, waving an envelope. “Mail stage just come by. Found a letter in the bag for you. I figgered you’d want it right away.”
Nervousness smote her, and her hands trembled as she reached for the crumpled envelope. She peered at its front and gasped.
The postman grabbed her upper arms. “Your face just went white as a ghost.” Still holding her, he tilted sideways and bellowed, “Athol! Bring some coffee, quick!” He guided her to a chair, then stood close, his hands on his knees, and his face level with hers. “What is it, Miss Grant?”
Her hands shook so badly the letters seemed to jump around on the tan-colored paper. But she recognized the writing. She’d seen the neat round script on dozens of notes and in the pages of ledgers. She knew from whom the letter came, but fear kept her from opening it and discovering what the woman had written.
Mr. Patterson scurried out, cradling a cup of co
ffee. “What’s wrong?”
Mr. Ackley grabbed the cup and held it under Abigail’s nose. “Dunno. She looked at the envelope an’ went all white in the face. Thought she was gonna faint.”
The pungent aroma of the brew filled Abigail’s nostrils. She angled her head aside. “Please, it’s nauseating me.”
Mr. Ackley frowned at the cook.
Mr. Patterson nodded wisely. “It’s makin’ her sick. Miss Grant don’t drink coffee.”
She groaned. “Doesn’t drink coffee.”
“I know.” Mr. Patterson leaned down, patting her on the back. “What’s got you all white faced, Miss Grant?”
She sucked in a steadying breath and showed him the envelope. “It’s from Mrs. Bingham. She wrote to me. What…what if this letter is telling me she went away on her own and left me here by myself? She’s always been kind, but I know I’ve been a burden to her. She could never find a match for me because…because…”
“How come?” Mr. Ackley’s round, curious face remained only inches from hers.
She swallowed a knot of shame. “Because the men always sent me back. They didn’t want to k-k-keep me.”
The two men exchanged open-mouthed gapes, then zipped their attention to her again. Mr. Ackley patted her hand. “Well, now, I don’t know how any feller could be so coldhearted as to send you away. You’re right purty, Miss Grant, an’ so smart. Them men just didn’t show good sense, that’s all.”
Mr. Patterson squeezed her shoulder. “An’ lemme tell you, I seen how Miz Bingham looked after you while she was here. She’s right fond o’ you, Miss Grant, so I don’t think you need to worry that she left you behind. It’s gotta be somethin’ else.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Ackley stood up straight and put his hands on his hips. “You open it an’ see. All them worries you’re holdin’, they’ll be set to rest.”
Abigail’s fingers convulsed on the envelope. She sent a hopeful look across both men. “Do you think so?”
“Sure do.” They spoke at the same time, their tones matching in volume and certainty.
She offered them a grateful smile and held up the envelope. “Do either of you have a pocketknife?”
They both produced one, but Mr. Ackley was quicker opening his. He used the blade and slit the top flap.
“Thank you.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome.” He flicked his hand at Mr. Patterson. “Come on, Athol, let’s leave her alone. Remember? Folks isn’t supposed to butt into other folks’ privacy.”
When they’d disappeared into the kitchen, Abigail pulled a wrinkled sheet folded into a square from the envelope and slowly unfolded it. The letter began “Dear Miss Grant” in Mrs. Bingham’s familiar handwriting, but it was written in pencil. Abigail frowned. Mrs. Bingham never wrote in pencil.
She continued reading, and the more she read, the more her pulse pounded until she could scarcely draw a breath. She crushed the letter to her chest and bounded to her feet. She needed Sheriff Thorn. But he’d left—for Sawyer, wherever that was. She whirled toward the door to the kitchen, but then without conscious thought, she spun the opposite way and charged out the front door.
Thirty-Five
Mack
Mack’s stomach growled. The crackers and hard cheese he’d eaten for breakfast an hour ago hadn’t satisfied him nearly as much as one of Athol’s hearty meals. But he’d chickened out from going to Athol’s for breakfast. Because he knew he’d see Abigail. And he feared she’d read something in his face he wasn’t ready to let anyone know.
He’d always said if he was meant to love someone and get married, God would bring the woman to him. Well, God had. Last night, moving around the dance floor with Abigail Grant in his arms, his heart made its choice.
He wanted Abigail.
But what a foolish choice. She was a city girl. She had a job with Mrs. Bingham, and she took the responsibilities of the job seriously. So seriously she continued even without Mrs. Bingham’s supervision. She’d made it clear from the beginning she wasn’t one of Mrs. Bingham’s bevy of brides, so it was foolhardy to think she’d changed her mind. Especially now, with Mrs. Bingham missing.
Someone pounded on his front door. An insistent pound that brought him out of his apartment at a run. A glance through the glass sent his heart into his throat. Was God trying to torture him? He twisted the key and opened the door. “Good morning, Abigail.”
She fell through the opening and jammed a wrinkled sheet of paper at him. “Read it.”
If his senses had fled, they’d taken her manners with them. “What is it?”
She flapped it against his chest, her expression fierce. “Read it!”
He took the paper and crossed to the counter, where an overhead lamp lit the space well. She stood beside him, chewing her thumbnail, while he flattened the page on the wooden top. He glanced at the greeting, flicked a startled glance at her—she wanted him to read her personal mail?—and then read the letter, one word at a time.
Dear Miss Grant,
I have been took by someone who wants to marry up with you. He will let me go as soon as you say you will marry him. If you say no, write it on a paper and leave it at the old Addison well house. If you say yes, take yourself to the well house and wait. He will meet you there. Don’t tell anybody about this because if anybody else goes to the well house you will never see me again. This ain’t a joke.
Helena Bingham
Mack broke out in chills. The final sentence, “This ain’t a joke,” had to be a lie. Why would Mrs. Bingham send such a message to Abigail? “Are you sure this is from Mrs. Bingham? It doesn’t sound like her at all.”
“It’s not her voice, that’s true, but it is her handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.” Abigail’s brown eyes were wide and moist with unshed tears. She steepled her hands beneath her chin. “It seems as though she transcribed exactly what someone told her to say. But it’s good news, isn’t it? She was alive and able to write this letter, and whoever this person is, he wants to use her as a trade, so won’t he continue to keep her alive?”
Mack fingered the paper, worry rolling through his gut. Any man who was dishonest enough to kidnap a woman and hold her for ransom was unlikely to keep his word about letting her go. But he didn’t want to scare Abigail. Not when she was gazing at him with hopefulness shining in her doe-brown eyes. “Have you shown this to Sheriff Thorn?”
She shook her head. “He left at least a half hour ago for Sawyer.”
Mack groaned. Sawyer was the opposite direction from the old Addison place. And he probably wouldn’t be back until late. “So we’re on our own.”
“We don’t need Sheriff Thorn. We know what to do.” She drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin, like a bantam rooster preparing to take control of the henhouse. “Where is the old Addison well house?”
He jolted. “Why?”
“So I can go there, of course.”
Protectiveness struck with enough force to buckle his knees. He braced his palms on the counter and glared at her. “You aren’t going anywhere near that well house.”
“Mack!” She stomped her foot and moved into her stubborn pose—head cocked, shoulders square, fists on hips. “I have to go. It’s the only way we can get Mrs. Bingham back. The letter says so.”
“I don’t much care what the letter says. You aren’t going.” Determination to keep her safe gave his legs their ability to hold him upright. He stood tall and glowered at her, but underneath he battled the urge to take her in his arms and never let go. If he reached for her now, though, she might smack him and run.
He forced himself to be calm. Bullying her wouldn’t work, but pleading might. “This is a dangerous man, Abigail. You can’t reason with dangerous men. If you go there and ask for Mrs. Bingham, he’s likely to grab you, too.”
“I didn’t intend to go reason with him.” She
flung her arms outward. “I’ll go and give him what he wants.”
Mack’s jaw dropped. “W-what he wants? Did you read the letter? Did you see what he’s asking?”
“Yes.”
“Then are you telling me you want to marry this man, whoever he is?”
She crinkled her nose. “He won’t marry me.” Suddenly her brave front wilted. “Believe me, once he gets to know me, he won’t want me anymore. He’ll send me back.” She jerked her chin up in an arrogant angle. “But if letting him think I’ll marry him will ensure Mrs. Bingham’s freedom, then we’ll have to let him think he’s won. It’s the only way.”
Mack groaned. “Abigail…”
She released a little cry and grabbed his shirtfront. “Please, Mack, she’s taken care of me since my mother died. Even when I was nothing but trouble to her, she didn’t send me away. I owe her. She—she’s more than my friend. She’s my only family.”
Mack caught her wrists and gently set her aside. He turned his back on her and ran his hand through his hair. Why couldn’t the mail have arrived before Sheriff Thorn took off? He might have to tie Abigail to a chair until the sheriff returned.
He whirled around and caught her by the shoulders. “All right. I’ll help you, but on one condition.”
Her fine brows descended and her gaze narrowed. “What condition?”
“You need to wait for Sheriff Thorn. He’ll want to follow—”
“The letter says—”
He tightened his grip. “Will you listen to me?”
She set her lips in a firm line. Her eyes sparked with fury, but she stayed silent.
“The sheriff’ll want to follow you from a ways back, keep an eye on you, keep watch for Mrs. Bingham. He’ll want you both to be safe. He’s the law, Abigail, and whoever sent this letter has broken the law by stealing Mrs. Bingham and using blackmail to gain a bride. We can’t do this without Sheriff Thorn knowing what’s happening.”
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 29
