Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “My wife got the church ladies involved. When the wives’ve gone on to their homes, the ladies’ll come in an’ claim what they loaned.”

  Abigail had thanked him profusely, and he’d shrugged, red faced.

  “Ah, ain’t so much. It’s what neighbors do…be neighborly.”

  Now Athol grimaced as he spread the first of the bedrolls across the fresh-swept floor. “It don’t seem very neighborly to put ladies on the floor, but at least it won’t be for long. Another week or so, right, Abigail?”

  She wanted to immediately agree, but should she? What if Mr. Nance remained stubbornly quiet about where he’d taken Mrs. Bingham, and the sheriff couldn’t locate her? What if—how she hated to even consider such a thing—Mrs. Bingham was never found? Abigail could finish teaching the classes, but she didn’t know how Mrs. Bingham selected matches. Marietta probably didn’t either. Who would take responsibility for placing this man with that woman? She shuddered, considering the ramifications of unwise pairings.

  Athol stood with a pillow in his arms, waiting for her answer.

  She forced a smile. “I’m sure the accommodations will be fine, Athol, for however long they’re needed.”

  His gaze narrowed, but he returned to preparing the makeshift beds without a word.

  They finished just as diners began arriving for lunch. Because of their time spent in the rooms, Athol hadn’t been able to prepare something hot. So he served a choice of ham or cheese sandwiches, pickles, boiled eggs, and leftover spice cake or dried apple pie from the evening before. No one complained about the simple fare. The entire town was aware of Sheriff Thorn’s absence and chose not to add more tension to an already tense situation by requesting a more substantial lunch.

  By a quarter after twelve, it seemed half the residents of Spiveyville had gathered in Athol’s restaurant. The other half wandered up and down the boardwalk or huddled in little groups, talking quietly. Nervous anticipation filled the air like electricity before a lightning storm, and Abigail found herself repeatedly stepping outside to peer up the street, ever hopeful for Sheriff Thorn’s return with Mrs. Bingham. With each excursion, townsfolk greeted her, asked how she was “holdin’ up,” and offered words of encouragement. Her heart warmed and tears stung. She would miss these simple, good-hearted people when she returned to Newton.

  When Athol’s wall clock showed ten minutes past one, the front door burst open and someone bellowed, “Wagon’s comin’!”

  People swarmed the door. Abigail got caught somewhere in the middle of the crowd and flowed out the door with the rest of them. Outside, she fought her way to the edge of the street. Mack was already there, and she pressed close to him. He pointed to a cloud of dust, signaling a coming conveyance, and she clasped her hands beneath her chin.

  Oh, please, God, let it be the sheriff and Mrs. Bingham. Her knuckles digging into the underside of her chin, she gazed with hope beating a thrum in her heart until a team of horses crested the rise, and an unfamiliar wagon followed it with a strange man and a well-dressed woman on the seat. More than a dozen women filled the bed.

  Chatter broke out across the waiting crowd, and Abigail grabbed Mack’s sleeve. “It’s Marietta and the brides.”

  Mack nodded. “Go greet ’em. I’ll keep everybody else back.” He held out his arms. “All right, folks, stay where you are, please. Everybody, stay back so we don’t spook the horses.”

  With whispers and murmurs filling her ears, Abigail moved to the middle of the street. The driver brought the team to a stop several yards from her. At once, Marietta Constance Herne climbed down and darted to Abigail. She grabbed Abigail’s shoulders, leaned down, and seemed to search Abigail’s eyes. Then she sighed.

  “She hasn’t been found, has she?”

  “Not yet. I’m so sorry. Sheriff Thorn is still out looking.” She held her breath, waiting for Marietta to collapse in a heap or dissolve into wails.

  Marietta curled her hand through Abigail’s elbow and steered her toward the wagon. “Well, then, it’s up to us, Miss Grant.”

  Abigail’s breath eased out on a sigh of wonder. She trudged along with Mrs. Bingham’s sister, curiosity writhing through her. What had happened to bring out this staunch, unflustered side of the woman?

  “We’ll do our best by these brides and grooms. I’ve become acquainted with the women. You’ve become acquainted with the men. If we put our heads together, we’ll still probably do only half as well as my sister, but regardless, we will do our best not to disappoint her, yes?”

  Tears filled Abigail’s eyes. “Yes. With God’s help, we will do our best.”

  Marietta squeezed Abigail’s arm and released her. “All right, then. Where will the ladies stay? We’ve traveled day and night, and we would like a chance to rest a bit, even if we have to sleep on the hard floor.”

  Abigail started to answer, but a collective gasp behind her stole her focus. She whirled around and discovered that everyone else gathered on the street was now facing south. She shifted her gaze to the opposite end of the street and clapped her hands to her mouth, stifling a cry of elation.

  Marietta gave her a puzzled look, then turned. She gasped and threw her arms in the air. “Praise God!” Repeating the phrase again and again, she gathered her skirts in her hands and began a clumsy run down the center of the street.

  Bill

  Bill squinted up the street. The whole town was there, all gaping and pointing and smiling like it was Christmas and everybody’s birthdays all rolled up in one. How’d they known he was coming? And who was that yellow-haired woman in the fancy dress and flowery hat barreling toward them?

  “Marietta!” Miz Bingham squealed the name.

  Dolan slid down Patch’s rump, and Miz Bingham slid off after him. Buster held on to the saddle horn and stared with as much confusion as Bill felt. Who in blue blazes was Marietta? Miz Bingham went running to meet her, and the women embraced right there in the middle of the street, rocking each other and crying.

  Dolan stepped close to Bill and poked him on the arm. “Who’s that?”

  Bill shrugged. “Dunno, son.” He grabbed Buster under the arms and swung him to the ground. Bill handed off Patch’s reins to Dolan and took a step toward the women.

  At the same time, the pair broke apart and the one new to town shifted her gray eyes on him. A smile that rivaled an angel’s lit her face, and she came at him with her arms held wide. Before he hardly knew what was happening, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. The hug knocked off his hat, brought his arms up like a pair of springs, and earned a roar from the watching crowd.

  She stepped back, still smiling. “Sheriff Thorn, you’re my hero for bringing Helena safely back to me.” She held out one hand. “I’m Miss Marietta Constance Herne, Helena’s baby sister.”

  Bill grasped her hand and gulped, his lips still tingling. “Nice to meetcha.” He saw a little bit of Miz Bingham in the woman’s tall, slender frame, pale hair, and pale eyes, but she didn’t have as many years on her as Miz Bingham. And she’d said she was a miss.

  He held tight to her hand and leaned sideways a bit to catch Miz Bingham’s eye. “What I said back at the dugout about wantin’ you to find me a wife?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, ma’am, I sure didn’t expect you to act so fast.” He chuckled, slipping Miss Marietta’s hand to the bend of his elbow. “You’re one right fine matchmaker.”

  Forty-Three

  Mack

  Mack held his palms to the crackling flames of a bonfire and smiled at the happy noises filling the air. What else could the town do with their happiness except throw a party? Hugh Briggs’s livery overflowed with people. Folks danced in the loft—not the slow waltz they’d learned from Abigail, but lively jigs and hornpipes. Between songs they helped themselves to sandwiches and cakes and cookies carried in by Athol and every woman in tow
n, and they chatted around the three bonfires glowing in various places in the yard.

  Everywhere—from every corner—laughter rang. So much joy. The lost had been found. Mack fully understood the biblical father’s desire to host a party when his runaway son came home again. He was joyful, too. Seeing Sheriff Thorn return with Mrs. Bingham and the Nance boys was an answer to prayer, and he praised along with everyone else. But underneath the joy ran a ribbon of sorrow.

  Now the brides were here, and Mrs. Bingham had told the men she and Preacher Doan would arrange a joint wedding ceremony for the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. That’d give Abigail time to teach the fellows about courtship and conversation, and the fellows would have a chance to practice the new skills on their intendeds before everybody said “I do.” Then the whole town would come together again for another celebration on Thanksgiving Day, officially welcoming the women to the community. After that, Mrs. Bingham planned to return to Massachusetts. And she didn’t say so, but he figured Abigail would likely go with her.

  Clive Ackley and a tall, thin woman with schoolmarm glasses perched on the tip of her button nose strolled past the fire in the dignified way Abigail had taught the men. Mack couldn’t help returning the smile Clive beamed at him. Earlier he’d encountered Norm Elliott and a petite, kind-faced young lady sitting side by side on a short bench inside the livery, petting the barn kitten she’d lifted onto her lap. The rapt expression on Norm’s face had matched the one Clive now wore.

  Across the yard, Athol and his future bride roved up and down the food tables, the robust woman giggling and sampling from every tray. Athol looked on and grinned as proudly as a new father. Another couple approached the tables—Sam Bandy and his intended, who clung to Sam’s elbow like a baby possum held to its mother. The four began an animated conversation. Mack didn’t catch their words, but from their smiles, he knew they were having a good time. Jealousy nibbled at him, and he angled his gaze away and came face to face with Otto Hildreth and a shy-looking young lady.

  “Mack, guess what?” Otto bounced a grin at the woman, then turned it on Mack. “Jessie here is a seamstress. She’s always wanted to own a dressmakin’ shop. Spiveyville’s never had a dressmakin’ shop, but it’s gonna have one now, ’cause her an’ me are gonna make my tailor shop a tailor-and-dress shop. We’ll call it”—he slid his palm in the air as if envisioning a sign—“Hildreth an’ Hildreth Custom Wearables.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Jessie come up with that. Clever, huh?”

  Before he could answer, the two headed for the food tables and joined Clive, Sam, and their intendeds. Mack watched them for a few minutes, shaking his head. Mrs. Bingham sure knew her business. Seemed as though she’d found the perfect helpmeet for every one of Spiveyville’s bachelors. He must have some ability in matchmaking, too, because he’d found his own perfect match. Where was she?

  He turned his head, and his gaze landed on Abigail standing in the wide doorway of Hugh’s barn, talking with Sheriff Thorn, Miss Marietta, and the Nance boys. His chest went warm. Funny, considering how many people swarmed the livery’s grounds, he’d found her on his first sweep, as if his heart automatically knew where to direct his eyes. He swallowed a knot of agony. He didn’t want her to go back to Newton.

  The sheriff and Miss Marietta entered the barn, and the two freshly spit-shined boys trotted after them like a pair of faithful puppy dogs. Abigail turned slightly and her gaze collided with his. For a moment she seemed to freeze, her bearing stiff, but then a soft smile curved her lips and she glided toward him, stepping around others and offering a sweet “Excuse me” as she came. She stopped on the opposite side of the bonfire and fixed her smile on him.

  The dancing flames ignited the golden flecks in her brown eyes and brought out the pale freckles that seemed permanently in place on her cheeks and nose. Everything within him longed to reach out, grab her close, and plant a kiss on every one of those freckles until he found her lips, but he wasn’t as bold as Miss Marietta Herne. He’d never do such a thing in the middle of a town party.

  “Mack?”

  He swallowed. “Yes?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask me to dance.”

  He shot a puzzled glance toward the upper-level windows, where shadowy figures moved to the fiddle’s lively tune. “But it’s not a waltz.”

  “There’s a time for waltzes and a time for jigs. Considering the wonderful happenings this afternoon, don’t you think this is a time for jigs?”

  Maybe for everyone else. They were all getting something—the brides their grooms, the grooms their brides, the townsfolk their sheriff, and Abigail her friend. “I”—he sighed—“don’t much feel like dancing a jig, Abigail.”

  She slowly rounded the fire, holding her russet skirt well away from the writhing flames. No sense in adding more scorches to the dress she wore more often than any other. She stopped beside him, tilted her head, and gazed steadily into his eyes. “Why not?”

  She must have eaten some of Athol’s pickles, because he smelled vinegar on her breath. Such an unlikely scent to cling to such an attractive woman. But from now on, every time he ate a pickle, he’d think of her. He groaned and let his head fall back. The nearly full moon, with its shadowy craters, seemed to stare down at him.

  Abigail touched his jacket sleeve. “Mack, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to see our prayers answered.”

  He took her hand and guided her away from the fires, away from the townsfolk, away from the barn to the deeply shadowed patch behind Hugh’s toolshed. He leaned against the sturdy wall and captured both her hands in his. “I am happy for Mrs. Bingham. I’m happy for Athol and Clive and all the others.”

  Her fingers tightened. “The sheriff was just telling me that Buster and Dolan are going to stay with him while their father is in jail.”

  “How can he keep track of the boys with all his other duties?”

  “Marietta is going to help.”

  “She is?”

  “Yes.” He couldn’t see her face, but he heard the burble of joy in her voice. “She loves children, and she’s quite taken with the sheriff, and he with her. So she’s going to stay here in Spiveyville. With all of them.”

  So even the sheriff was taking a bride. Mack’s stomach ached. He lowered his head, and to his surprise, his forehead nearly touched hers. When had she moved so close?

  “Mack, do you really want to be the only bachelor in Spiveyville?”

  The spicy scent of pickles tickled his nose. The thought of being alone tormented his soul. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “So what do you intend to do about it?”

  He needed to see her before he answered a question like that. Walking backward, he tugged her out to the middle of the empty street. Under the nearly full moon, he let his gaze search her uplifted face. The same longing filling his chest was reflected in her eyes. His pulse picked up speed. “I intend to take a bride.”

  Instantly her eyes sparked with impishness. She jerked her hands free and folded her arms over the chest of her short red cape. “Well, I can tell you right now, if you choose anyone besides me, I can’t be your friend anymore.”

  He battled a grin. “Are you blackmailin’ me, Miss Grant?”

  “Will it work?”

  “I think it might.”

  She reached out and caught hold of his hands. “Then will you ask me?”

  He glanced around. “Here?” On a dark street, with a cool wind tousling her hair and the smell of pickles surrounding them?

  “Yes, out here, where God is watching and smiling.”

  Still holding her hands, he bent down on one knee. “Miss Abigail Grant, will you do me the honor of staying here in Spiveyville and becoming my wife and helpmeet for the rest of my life?”

  She launched herself into his arms. “Yes!”

  He rose, lifting her at the same time, and the fiddle music stopped. The whole to
wn fell still. Even the breeze seemed to cease. And then the music started again with a gentle, flowing tune. Mack lowered Abigail’s feet to the ground. Her small hand found his shoulder, and he placed his palm on her waist. Teary eyed but smiling, she danced with him beneath the prairie moon.

  Acknowledgments

  First, as always, Mom and Daddy—thank you for being patient and understanding about my forays into imaginative worlds rather than telling me to get my head out of the clouds. Thanks for believing in me, especially when I didn’t believe in myself.

  Don—thanks for seeing to your own needs and letting me escape into story-world. I’d never finish a book without your willingness to handle the mundane.

  Kristian, Kaitlyn, and Kamryn—I am so grateful God gifted me with each of you. You are my best blessings and my joy. (Thanks for giving me much story fodder. Heh, heh, heh.) I love you muchly.

  Alana, Connor, Ethan, Logan, Rylin, Jacob, Cole, Adrianna, Kaisyn, and Kendall—I pray someday you will open the pages of one of Gramma’s books, read the story, and come away with the realization that your gramma loved Jesus with all her heart. And I pray each of you will grow deeply in love with Him, too.

  The Posse—my friends, my prayer partners, my sisters in the Lord. Thank you for taking this journey with me and encouraging me every step of the way. Special thanks to Eileen Key for gifting me with Manners and Morals of Victorian America by Wayne Erbsen, which provided the rules Abigail so stringently followed.

  Shannon and the incredible team at WaterBrook—thanks for partnering with me and making the stories shine.

  The readers who read A Hopeful Heart and asked me to write another “mail-order brides” story—thank you for your enthusiasm and prompting. Abigail, Helena, Mack, and Bill also thank you for the chance to come to life.