Buster’s big brown eyes stayed fixed on Helena as she struggled to her feet, but before she took a step away from him, his lids slid closed.
She eased around the boys and headed for the table, where the plates from their simple supper of fried eggs and stewed tomatoes still awaited cleanup. As she reached for the plates, an odd sound intruded. Her heart leaped into her throat. Someone was sliding the board from the brackets outside the door. She hadn’t heard a wagon, so it couldn’t be Mr. Nance. Dolan had told her earlier in the day that some rustlers had hidden in this dugout a year or so back. Was a rustler out there now?
Instinctively, she grabbed up the now-cool frying pan and stood guard in front of the boys’ sleeping forms, ready to swing hard at anyone who tried to accost them. The door creaked open, and Sheriff Thorn took a step into the dugout. Too stunned to react, she froze in place with the iron skillet gripped in her hands like a club.
His gaze scanned the space and landed on her. He drew back and held up one hand. “Here now, put that down before you hurt somebody.” A huge grin formed on his weary, whiskered face. “ ’Specially me.”
Her arm dropped, relief nearly toppling her. “Oh, Sheriff…” She inched away from the boys and placed the frying pan on the table. Her entire body trembled and tears threatened. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.” She sagged into a chair.
He clumped to her, glancing at the boys as he came. “You all right? Nance didn’t…”
“He didn’t molest me.”
He blew out a breath, and his shoulders slumped. His obvious relief touched her.
Helena released a light laugh, joy of rescue overtaking the worry from moments ago. “I’m so glad he told you where we were. He left food and water, but we’re going through it very quickly. The boys…” She turned her gaze to them. “They haven’t been well cared for since their mother—”
She jolted to her feet, gestured to him, and led him outside. For a moment, she forgot her purpose in bringing him to a private place to talk. After hours of being closed in with the slop bucket, the fresh air was heavenly. She inhaled, allowing the breeze to cleanse the foul stench from her nostrils.
Sheriff Thorn creaked the door closed, sealing away the boys and the light from the lantern. They stood beneath a star-studded sky while somewhere in the distance a cow released a low moo and an owl replied with a lingering whoo. The sheriff’s horse, tethered close by, nickered, and the sheriff crossed to the animal.
Helena trailed after him. “Sheriff, did Mr. Nance tell you what happened to his wife?”
“Nance ain’t told me about nothin’. That’s why it took me so long to find you. Hadda do it on own thinkin’ ”—he tapped his temple—“an’ Patch’s instincts.”
“I’m grateful for both.” She glanced at the dugout, envisioning the pair of sleeping boys, then sighed and faced the sheriff again. Blinking back tears, she repeated what the boys had told her about their mother’s fall. “They’re terrified Dolan will be prosecuted for her death because their father told them they’d go to jail unless they kept what happened a secret.”
Although the shadows were heavy, she saw the man grimace. “Probably ’cause he figgered, given his reputation, most folks would think he done her in an’ blamed it on the boy.” He frowned. “You don’t think them boys are tellin’ a story, tryin’ to cover up their pa’s doin’?”
She shook her head hard. “Absolutely not. They were too distraught, too broken. They told the truth.”
“Well, then, I’ll make sure to write a death report that don’t put the blame on anybody. No child should have to carry the weight of his ma’s death on his shoulders.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” She shivered. As much as she enjoyed the scent outside the dugout, she needed warmth. They should get to Spiveyville as quickly as possible. She turned toward the shelter. “I’ll rouse the boys and—”
He began unbuckling the horse’s saddle straps.
She stopped. “Why are you unsaddling your horse?”
“Gonna bed down out here with Patch. First thing in the mornin’, we’ll head for Spiveyville.”
She stared at him. “We aren’t going now?”
He swung the saddle to the ground, then reached for the blanket. “Ma’am, Patch an’ me’ve been up since before midnight an’ we’re both plumb tuckered out. Patch’s gonna hafta carry the three o’ you, an’ I’m gonna hafta walk to town. Not sayin’ you’re an over-burdensome load, but this ol’ feller deserves a rest before he makes that trek. As for me, if I set off walkin’ without getting some sleep, I’ll likely fall an’ bonk my head on the ground. I got no desire to bonk my head on the ground.” He flopped the blanket across the patch of grassless dirt in front of the dugout and lay down, using the saddle as a pillow.
“But Abigail will be so worried. And we’re nearly out of food. And—”
He slid his hat over his face and crossed his arms. “G’night, now.” Almost at once, a snore rumbled from underneath the hat. Patch snorted, nodded his great head, and then folded his legs and lay down next to his master.
She stood shivering, staring at him in shock. Then giggles, no doubt brought on by relief after days of tension, built in her chest. She clamped her hand over her mouth to hold them back and darted inside. The smell from the slop bucket struck her hard and chased away every bit of amusement. She set her lips in a determined line and marched to the corner where the awful bucket took up residence. If they were going to stay in this dugout another night, the bucket was going outside.
Forty-One
Mack
Mack lit the final streetlamp. He stood for a moment under its glow, looking up the road in hopes the sheriff might ride in. But not a single clop of a horse’s hoof carried on the night air.
With a sigh, he trudged up the boardwalk to the gap between Athol’s and his businesses. The restaurant lamps had gone out five minutes ago, and the streetlamps didn’t reach the alleyway, but he found his way to his back stoop, then sank down, unwilling to close himself inside yet. His weary body groaned for sleep, but his mind refused to quiet.
When he’d committed to being Abigail’s friend, he hadn’t expected to fall in love with her. But here he was, chin deep in it. But what to do about it? She wasn’t one of Mrs. Bingham’s bevy of brides. She hailed from the city. She’d consented to calling him Mack, and she’d let him hold her—twice—when she’d been very upset. So upset she might have let Clive Ackley hold her if he’d offered. So it didn’t really count.
Did the times she let him put his hand on her shoulder, stroll her around the church, and help with the dishes mean anything? He put his head in his hands. Yes, it meant she saw him as a friend—the very thing he’d set out to achieve. So he should be happy. Grateful. Feeling successful. So why was he disappointed, dissatisfied, and admittedly disgruntled?
He aimed his gaze at the twinkling stars and sighed. “Because friendship might be enough for her, but it’s not enough for me. I want…more.”
As if spoken on the breeze, Mack heard his mother’s voice reciting Hebrews 13:5, one of her favorite scriptures. “Be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
He hung his head and closed his eyes. “Thank You for the reminder, God. You’re right. I need to be content. You’ve given me so much. I know You’re always there. You’ll always be my Enough. And if this love I feel for Abigail is only meant to be a friendship, then I will accept that, too. But, Lord?” He swallowed against the salty taste of tears. “Would You help me, please? Because I don’t think I can do it on my own.”
Bill
Something warm and moist snuffled his cheek. He shrugged, and the snuffle came again. And this time it snorted. Bill sat up, knocking off his hat. He glared at Patch. “You crazy ol’ horse. What’re you tryin’ to do?”
Patch blew air and bumped h
is nose against the top of Bill’s head.
“All right, all right, I’m up already.” He yawned, stretched, and then gave a second jolt. Two boys stood next to his saddle blanket, their dirty faces half-lit by the morning sun peeking over the horizon. Bill rubbed his nose and blinked at the pair. “Mornin’.”
“Mornin’.” The older one dropped his arm around the younger one’s shoulder. “Mrs. Bingham says if you want breakfast, you better come quick ’cause me an’ Buster are big eaters.”
Bill’s stomach growled. “Whatcha havin’?”
“Everything that’s left,” Buster said. The boys darted through the open door into the dugout.
Bill groaned and rolled to his feet. He stretched again, trying to work out the kinks in his shoulders and neck. When he got back to Spiveyville, he’d spend a whole day and night in his warm, soft cot. He hobbled after the boys.
Miz Bingham had laid out plates and forks at the table. She smiled and then hustled to the stove. “Good morning, Sheriff. Please sit down. We’ve got eggs, canned beans, and peaches for breakfast.” Her voice wobbled like she was trying not to laugh. The boys were grinning and hunching their shoulders. What was so funny?
He rubbed his nose again and sat. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She carried a pot of beans and a skillet of hard-fried eggs to the table. Her lips twitched and she sent warning looks at the boys, who were giggling worse than a couple of little girls.
Bill couldn’t take it anymore. “What is it?”
The boys guffawed, nearly falling out of their seats. Miz Bingham touched their shoulders, shaking her head, but she let loose a little chortle, too. She pulled in a breath and finally looked full at Bill.
“May I use a bit of water and smooth down your hair? It’s”—she cleared her throat and touched her fingers to her lips—“standing up like the feathers in a Comanche chief’s headdress.”
He explored and sure enough, his fingers found several tufts sticking up. Grunting, he finger-combed his hair, but it shot back up like spring grass. So he marched outside, snatched up his hat, and jammed it on his head. He came back in and the boys laughed again. Bill tried to glower at them, but his mouth just wouldn’t stay turned down. His cheeks twitched, his chest went light, and the next thing he knew, he was laughing with them. And it was the best way he’d started a day in more years than he could count.
He grinned while Miz Bingham served up the breakfast. He grinned while the boys folded their hands and recited a thank-you for the food. He kept grinning even though there wasn’t coffee and the plates didn’t look quite clean and his stomach really wanted bacon or sausage.
When they’d finished eating, Bill leaned back in his chair and sent a hopeful look at Miz Bingham. “Ma’am, when you asked if I was innersted in takin’ a wife, did you mean it?”
Her jaw dropped open for a second. Then she clamped it shut and nodded.
“Is there any woman in your bevy o’ brides that has enough years on her to match up good with me?”
She scrunched her eyebrows and seemed to inspect him. “How many years would that be, Sheriff?”
He tapped the overgrown whiskers on his chin, hoping he wouldn’t scare her off. “Turned forty-four last August.”
Her head tipped, spilling a straggly strand of white hair over her shoulder. Her lips turned up real slow into a smile that reminded him of a fox laying its eyes on a fat rabbit. “It’s possible.”
“Well, good. ’Cause when we get back to Spiveyville, I’d like to talk to you about gettin’ a bride for myself.”
Abigail
Every time the restaurant door opened Sunday morning, Abigail’s heart gave a hopeful leap and then plummeted when the arrival was someone other than Sheriff Thorn. Mack came in around seven thirty, and even though he wasn’t the sheriff, her chest went light and fluttery. At once she turned her back, stacked dirty plates and cups, and shot for the kitchen.
She dropped her load on the washstand. “Mack is here, Athol.” She couldn’t explain why he’d suddenly become Athol instead of Mr. Patterson, but she decided not to explore the reason. It put a smile on the man’s round face, and it gave her a feeling of kinship to address him in a friendly rather than formal manner.
Athol cracked an egg over the sizzling skillet and winked at her. “Well, go find out what he wants to eat.”
Her face went hot. “But I…I…”
“Oh, go on. Ain’t no harm in it.”
She raised her chin and gave a nod. He was right. She marched out of the kitchen, past the spattering of diners, to Mack, who remained just inside the front door as if uncertain what he should do next. “Good morning, Mack.”
“Morning, Abigail.” His lips curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sheriff Thorn not back yet?”
“We haven’t seen him.” She chewed her lip, the same worry that had tormented her during the night returning. “I don’t know what I’m going to say to Marietta when she arrives this afternoon. She tends to be…morose…under the best of circumstances. I fear she will be devastated to discover we haven’t located her sister.”
As she’d come to expect, Mack placed his hand on her shoulder and offered a little squeeze of reassurance. “We’ll all be here with you. You won’t have to face her alone.”
She shook her head. “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about her.” She angled a hopeful look at him. “Will you and Preacher Doan pray for her?”
“Of course we will.”
She’d known he would agree, and warmth flooded her. He was such a considerate man, such a giving man, the kind of man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Why couldn’t he have written one of the letters to Mrs. Bingham so there would be a chance of her being matched with him? Tears pricked and she turned her face away so he wouldn’t see.
“Athol has eggs with bacon or ham and grits or biscuits. What would you like?”
He leaned down slightly and met her gaze. “Are you taking my order?”
She shrugged and giggled although her face heated. “Yes. I suppose I am.”
His grin reached his eyes this time. “Two eggs over easy with ham and biscuits, please.”
She started to scurry off, but he reached out and caught her arm. She looked at him expectantly.
“Have Athol fix a second plate, too. I’ll carry it over to Nance when I’m done eating.”
Yes, such a considerate man…She gulped back tears, nodded, and hurried to the kitchen before she broke the rule of protocol concerning public displays of affection.
Bill
Bill squinted against the bold morning sun at the trio of riders on Patch’s back. “All right, now, ever’body set?”
Miz Bingham gave Bill a sorrowful look. “Are you sure you can walk the full distance to Spiveyville, Sheriff? I don’t mind walking part of the way.”
If Joseph could walk all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem, Bill figured he could walk from Nance’s property to Spiveyville. “I’ll be fine, ma’am. You let me know if you need to get down an’ move around some, though. It’s a tight fit up there.”
He’d told Miz Bingham to take the saddle and she’d done so—astride—without a word of complaint. The little Nance boy sat in front of her, and the bigger one held on from behind. If all three of them didn’t look a sight, filthy from head to toe. Probably no worse than him, though, after his night on the ground. At least he could keep his unruly hair hidden under his hat.
Buster wriggled, a grin stretching across his face. “This is fun. Never rode horseback before. Can you make Patch gallop?”
“No.” Bill and Miz Bingham answered at the same time.
Miz Bingham put her arm around the boy’s middle. “It’s a long way to the ground, Buster, and galloping might bounce us off.”
Dolan leaned around and bopped his brother on the arm. “Fallin’ ai
n’t safe.”
Bill hadn’t said a word to the boys about their ma, waiting for an opportunity that felt natural. The time arrived. So he stepped close to Dolan and put his hand on the boy’s leg. “You’re sure right about fallin’, Dolan, an’ you’re a smart boy to warn your brother. Seems to me the accident at your house learned you somethin’. When we let accidents teach us things that help us make better decisions down the road, then somethin’ good comes out o’ the mistake.”
Dolan stared hard at Bill, his dark eyes serious and turning moist. The boy gave a slow nod. One tear rolled down his cheek and he looked the other way, but not before Bill saw gratitude in his face.
’Nough said.
Bill gripped Patch’s reins in his fist and turned his face to the sun. Straight east to the old Addison place, then north to Spiveyville. He figured if they covered two miles every hour, they’d reach the town an hour or so past lunchtime. He hoped Athol would have something left in the pots on his cookstove. Walking built up a terrible hunger.
Forty-Two
Abigail
Abigail and Athol hurried through the kitchen cleanup and then, instead of attending church service, they set to work cleaning the upstairs rooms. Marietta could stay in Mrs. Bingham’s room, but if the brides came, too, they’d need places to sleep. Some of the men thought they’d be able to take their brides to their ranches the moment they arrived in Spiveyville, but Abigail ended their speculation with a firm reminder that they hadn’t yet completed their classes and Mrs. Bingham was the matchmaker. They would have to wait. To her surprise, not even W. C. or Vern protested. At least, not where she could hear.
Yesterday afternoon, after contemplating the best way to accommodate the arrivals in the four available rooms, Athol had asked Grover Thompson for eight bedrolls. Mr. Thompson delivered the bedrolls as well as feather pillows, sheets, and quilts. He’d grinned as he flopped the last armload on one of the beds.
Beneath a Prairie Moon Page 34
