Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The truth of God’s grace swept through her with a warmth she couldn’t deny. Oh, how she wanted these boys—and their irascible father—to understand the depth and breadth and fullness of God’s love. “In Hebrews 8:12, God tells us, ‘I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more.’ The sins of anyone who believes that Jesus is God’s Son, sent to be the Savior, will be forgiven. Wiped away!” She leaned forward and scrubbed out the tic-tac-toe game with the heel of her hand. “Just like that. Forgiven…and forgotten.”

  Buster stared at the smooth spot in the dirt. “All the wrong things? Even the really big ones?”

  Helena followed her instincts and pulled the little boy into her lap. She hugged him hard, and to her joy, he snuggled against her. “Every single one, Buster. There’s nothing we can do that’s so bad God won’t forgive it, because God’s love is bigger than any sin.”

  The boy tilted his head and stared straight into Helena’s eyes. He licked his lips. “E-even killin’ one o’ God’s creation?”

  Dolan jumped up and clenched his fists. “Pa made us promise not to tell! You broke a promise, Buster! You’re gonna be in so much trouble not even God can save you.”

  Buster burrowed his face against Helena’s throat. She wrapped her arms tightly around the boy and stared at Dolan. “Wasn’t supposed to tell what?”

  Dolan growled and pressed his fists against his temples. “It don’t matter. She don’t matter. Pa can get another one. He said so. But we wasn’t s’posed to tell. Now Pa’s gonna…” The boy moaned as if gripped by unbearable pain.

  Helena shifted Buster from her lap and grabbed Dolan’s cold hands. “Did…did your father…” She couldn’t complete the sentence. She didn’t want to complete the thought.

  Dolan’s face contorted horribly. “I killed Ma.”

  Had she not been sitting on the floor, she would have collapsed. She tugged Dolan’s hands, and the boy dropped to his knees. He began to sob, and Buster joined in with the most heartbreaking wails.

  “I—I forgot to close the cellar door. I’m always s’posed to close it when I come up, but my hands was full, an’ I figgered I’d go back an’ close it, but I forgot, an’ Ma…Ma was holdin’ a basket o’ dirty clothes an’ she didn’t see the hole an’—” He fell forward, rear in the air, and buried his face in her lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Buster huddled against Helena’s side, still crying. She rubbed Dolan’s heaving back, stroked Buster’s hair, and inwardly prayed for guidance. She didn’t try to hush their expressions of grief. Deep hurts needed purging. Purging came from tears. And oh, such a deep hurt the boys held. Deeper, even, than she’d imagined. But God could heal, if only the children would accept His loving touch.

  It seemed hours passed until the boys ran out of tears. Dolan sat back on his haunches and swiped his nose with his sleeve. Buster snuffled and rubbed his face on Helena’s dress. She opened her arms, and the children scooted in. She closed her arms around them, the way a mother duck sheltered her ducklings beneath her wings. The boys smelled of sweat and dirt and tears, but she deposited a kiss first on Dolan’s head and then on Buster’s. With them snug in her embrace, she sent up one more prayer, gathered her courage, and spoke as gently and sweetly as if they were newborn babes.

  “Dolan, you did not kill your ma. The fall killed her.”

  He shuddered. “Pa said I did. He said I’d hafta go to jail if folks found out what I done.”

  “Your pa was probably shocked and hurting. When people are hurting, they say things they don’t mean. But no matter what he said, you won’t have to go to jail because you did not kill her. You’re only a boy, and boys sometimes forget things. They make mistakes.” She pressed her lips to his sweaty temple. “Did you leave the door open with the idea that someone might fall and get hurt?”

  “No.” The word choked out.

  “Then you can’t say you killed her. Killing is intentional—done on purpose. This was an accident, Dolan. Only an accident.”

  He slumped against her, his chin quivering. “But she’s gone.”

  “I know, and I’m so sorry.” She kissed him again, wishing it was enough to cure his hurt. “But if your ma read to you from the Bible, then she must have believed it, including what it says in John 3:16 about Jesus. People who believe in Jesus have eternal life with Him. She’s gone from earth, Dolan, but she’s alive in heaven, and if you believe in Jesus, too, you’ll see her again someday.”

  The boy sat up abruptly, the first hint of hope she’d witnessed glimmering in his tear-filled eyes. “I will?”

  “You will.”

  Tears spilled down his face, but his lips formed a quavering smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Thank You, God.

  Thirty-Seven

  Mack

  Mack gripped the reins as tightly as he wanted to hold Abigail. He’d never been so scared. He’d never prayed so much, so hard, so persistently. The prayer lifted again.

  Dear God, keep her safe.

  Could his prayers get through to heaven? Cloud cover hid the egg-shaped moon. Every now and then, the clouds shifted enough to let a few stars peek out, but their light didn’t reach the landscape. He kept his gaze on Patch’s white rump, just a lump of whitish gray against a black backdrop. He couldn’t see Abigail at all, but he imagined her slender form on the back of Sheriff Thorn’s horse. He’d lifted her up before they set off from Spiveyville just after midnight, and he’d never forget the look of longing she turned on him before slipping her arms around the sheriff’s waist and resting her cheek on his shoulder blade.

  Doc Kettering trailed behind Mack. His horse occasionally snorted, interrupting the nearly silent night. None of the men talked. They’d talked it all out over supper, and in another half mile or so, they’d all divide and go to their separate locations. Mack would hunker down in the thick grass east of the well house, and Doc Kettering would do the same in the west. Sheriff Thorn would give Abigail a lantern and let her walk the final quarter mile while he rode a wide circle to the rear and worked his way in on foot as close to the well house as possible. He’d said, “If anybody’s gonna be in the range of pistol shot, it’s gonna be me.” Nobody said anything, probably so they wouldn’t scare Abigail, but she’d be in the range of pistol shot, too.

  Dear God, keep her safe. Ma always said the fervent prayers of a faithful man were answered, so he’d keep praying.

  Patch stopped and Mack pulled back on the reins. Doc’s horse bumped his nose on the back of Mack’s leg. The sheriff’s gravelly voice drifted on the chilly breeze. “Gonna light that lantern now an’ send her on ahead. Just in case somebody’s lookin’, you two branch off so the light don’t touch ya. No sense in givin’ this feller the idea Miss Grant’s got company.”

  Mack urged his mare up close and touched Abigail’s elbow. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes.” Her pale face and wide eyes reflected fear, but her voice came out strong.

  “Go on now, Mack,” the sheriff said.

  Mack gave a gentle squeeze he hoped communicated everything his heart held and then tapped the horse’s sides. Doc Kettering pulled his reins and aimed his horse in the opposite direction. Mack risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the flash of light from a match. The illumination touched Abigail’s face and then faded, leaving her in shadow again. He prayed it wouldn’t be the last glimpse he received of her precious freckled face.

  Abigail

  Abigail gripped her shawl at her throat and held the lantern in front of her. Her shawl’s tails flapped in the breeze, and the lantern light flickered, casting otherworldly shadows across the grass. The heavy clouds had finally started to clear, changing to filmy ribbons that seemed to float like the tails of a dozen kites. Moonlight glowed behind the gossamer layers, and her heart caught, a childhood memory rising without warni
ng.

  When she was six, maybe seven, she’d awakened in the middle of the night with the need for the outhouse, so she tiptoed up the hallway to her parents’ room and tapped on the door. Father answered it.

  She danced in place. “I need to go.”

  Without a word, he scooped her up and carried her outside. In the dark yard, she clung to his neck and whimpered, and he asked her what was wrong.

  “It’s dark. I’m scared of the dark.”

  Father chuckled. “You don’t need to be scared. I’m here.”

  She drew back slightly and tried to memorize his smiling face. “Because you’re awake. But mostly you sleep at night.”

  He stopped and pointed to the moon overhead. “Look, Abigail, do you see the moon?”

  She examined the round yellow ball way up high. “Yes.”

  He’d slid his warm finger lightly along the curve of her jaw. “Well, the moon guards the night, and beyond the moon, God’s looking, too. He never sleeps, and He sees as well in the dark as a cat. So He’s always watching, and you needn’t ever be afraid when nighttime comes.”

  Abigail loosened the ties of her bonnet and let it slide from her head against her spine. She lifted her gaze. With nothing around her but swaying grass and the gray cover of night, she searched the sky. The men were out of sight. Mother was gone, Father locked away. How she needed to know God was there, was watching, would always be watching.

  A breeze rich with the scent of earth lifted a strand of her hair and brushed it across her cheek, the touch like a Father’s gentle finger.

  She smiled and whispered, “Thank You.”

  Turning her gaze forward, she continued her trek beneath the prairie moon.

  Bill

  Bill angled a glance at the night sky. Couldn’t those clouds clear all the way off and let the moon shine down? If he could make out shadows, figure out for sure whether that was a wagon parked alongside the old well house and not his imagination playing tricks, it would sure help. The last thing he wanted was to find himself walking straight into the muzzle of Nance’s gun.

  He let himself think the name Nance even though he hadn’t said it out loud to anybody. Mostly because he wasn’t completely sure yet himself. But of all the folks in and around Spiveyville, Nance was the only one Bill could call lowdown enough and bold enough and contrary enough to come up with such a scheme and carry it through. And Nance had lied to Miz Bingham, saying his wife served him with divorce papers. A man who lied, ignored orders from the law, and mistreated his family wouldn’t think twice about nabbing a woman and using her as bait to trap another one. If the kidnapper wasn’t Nance, Bill would be mighty surprised.

  Hunkering low, knees bent, he scuttled a few feet closer to the well house and paused, his pulse thundering worse than the way the ground shook during a buffalo stampede. The bob of a lantern crested the rise on the other side, and he sucked in a breath and held it. Miss Grant, finding her way just like he’d told her to. His chest went tight. Such a brave little gal, determined to rescue Miz Bingham. If she did everything like he’d told her, didn’t let on she’d brought anybody with her, she should be all right.

  He swallowed against his dry throat, braced himself, and made another zigzagging scuttle across the grass. He was close enough to make out a wagon and a pair of horses drowsing in their traces. Sure enough, the kidnapper had posted himself for Abigail’s arrival. Their coming at night instead of during the day would catch him by surprise. Surprise was good, as long as it was Bill giving the surprise and not getting it.

  The wagon was parked in front of the north-facing well house door, so Bill sent up a quick prayer and made one last bent-low advance. Safe on the south side, he plastered himself to the wall. Then he slipped his pistol from his holster, laid it flat against his chest, and waited.

  Only minutes later one of the horses blew air, and the wagon creaked. A scrambling noise reached Bill’s ears, and a man’s sleep-thick voice called, “Who’s there?”

  Bill’s heart pounded like a bass drum. Yep, that was Nance. Maybe he should’ve prepared Miss Grant for the possibility. If the shock of recognition made her forget what she was supposed to do, he’d—

  “It’s me. Abigail Grant.”

  The wagon squeaked again, an eager sound, and boots hit the ground with a dull thud. “How’d you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  Clump, clump, clump…Boots carrying Nance across the ground. Bill imagined the man scanning the area, and he stayed as still as a statue. “All the way from town? It’s more’n three miles.”

  “I know. That’s why I set out when I did. I didn’t expect to get here until sunrise.”

  “How’d you know the way?”

  Bill gritted his teeth. They hadn’t practiced for that question. He held his breath, fearing the whole plan was about to collapse.

  “I asked Mr. Patterson. I knew he’d tell me without asking why I wanted to know. He’s not terribly bright.”

  Bill stifled a chortle. Smart girl. Nance resented Athol. He’d accept her answer out of pure spite.

  “Come on in closer.”

  “I’ll come closer when I know Mrs. Bingham is all right.”

  Relief temporarily slumped him forward. She had to know it was Nance, but she was following his instructions like a stage actress with a script.

  Nance grunted. “You ain’t the one callin’ the shots, little gal. You come on in here right now.”

  Impatience deepened Nance’s tone. While he was talking, Bill took advantage and cocked his revolver. He eased to the corner and peeked out. Miss Grant stood at least thirty feet away, holding the lantern like a beacon. Mack and Doc would be able to see her without any trouble. If they had to start shooting, they’d know to avoid the circle of yellow light.

  “Your letter said you’d trade Mrs. Bingham for me. I’m here, but unless you set Mrs. Bingham free, I’m not moving. If you want me to keep my part of the deal and marry you, you have to keep your part and let her go.”

  “An’ what if I don’t?”

  Bill’s flesh tingled at the man’s sneering voice. He waited for Miss Grant to launch her threat in return.

  “Then I shall throw the lantern on the grass and run.”

  They’d planned the threat ’specially for Miss Grant. Every man in the county knew the danger of an uncontrolled prairie fire. The kidnapper would reason a city gal’d be foolish enough to do it, and he’d keep his distance to protect the precious grass needed to feed the county’s cattle. Now that Bill knew for sure it was Nance, he hoped the threat would still work. The man wasn’t known for looking out for anyone but himself.

  Nance burst out laughing. “I was right about you. You’re a sassy one. I like a woman with a little bit of sass. That’s how my Susie was. Just sassy enough to add some sparks. But she also knew when it was time to put aside the sassin’ an’ do as she was told.” A menacing edge entered his tone. “Like now.”

  The moon had slunk below the clouds as night inched toward morning. Miss Grant raised the lantern, melding the moonlight with the lantern light. “Where is Mrs. Bingham?”

  The man growled low in his throat. Both horses snorted and shifted in the traces, making the metal rings clink. “Gal, you are tryin’ my patience.”

  “That isn’t my intention. I’m merely asking you to honor your word and do what you said you would do. You said you would trade Mrs. Bingham for me. I’m here. Where is she?”

  Thirty-Eight

  Abigail

  Her arm was so tired. She wanted to put down the lantern, but Sheriff Thorn had warned her about the danger of touching the hot globe to the grass. The past week’s fierce winds had dried everything, and the slightest spark could start a fire. So she should blow out the lantern and then run through the dark if the kidnapper made any advance toward her. Mack, Doc Kettering, and the sheriff promised that the
moment the light went out, they would gallop in and keep the kidnapper—Mr. Nance—from harming her. But she didn’t want to run. She wanted Mr. Nance to send Mrs. Bingham to her.

  “Is she in the well house?” She took a step closer and angled the lantern to the side so she could see the small wooden structure lurking in the middle of the seemingly endless prairie. No larger than an outhouse, it presented a dismal dwelling for someone. “Mrs. Bingham! Mrs. Bingham, are you there?”

  “Shut up, you.” Mr. Nance stomped forward five long strides. He stood like a matador preparing to defend himself against a bull. “You got one more chance to do what you’re told before I make you real sorry you didn’t listen.”

  Abigail shifted the lantern to her other hand. Her shawl slipped off her left shoulder, pulling at her arm. “I’m already sorry. I should have known I couldn’t trust you.” Sheriff Thorn might be angry about her veering from the specific phrases he’d given her, but she was too angry to care. Clearly, Mr. Nance had never intended to release Mrs. Bingham. “Anyone who would steal a woman and concoct such a ridiculous ransom does not possess a sound mind.”

  A hint of palest pink disrupted the dark-gray sky at the eastern horizon, bringing the promise of dawn. Of a new day. Of a new beginning. Such an incongruous image juxtaposed to Mr. Nance viciously slinging off his jacket.

  “By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna rue the day you was born.” He tossed the jacket on the ground.

  “No, Mr. Nance, you are going to rue the day I was born, because I am going to be your downfall.” She raised the lantern with the intention of extinguishing the flame, but a gust of wind struck her. Her weak fingers lost their hold and the lantern fell to the ground. The globe shattered on impact. Oil splattered and flames immediately spread across the liquid, catching the grass as it went. The tail of Abigail’s shawl dipped into the licking tongues, and fire climbed the wool.