Helena
Despite the musty smell of the pillowcase, despite the lumpy mattress, despite the strange surroundings, Helena had fallen asleep the moment she reclined. But a sound—the scuff as quiet as a whisper in church—brought her fully awake. She instinctively slid her hand under the pillow and found her derringer. She tossed aside the cover and swung her feet to the floor. Her robe lay across the foot of the bed, and she slipped it on while tiptoeing across the creaky floorboards to the door. Holding her breath, she cracked it open, gun held at the ready.
A shadowy figure bent over in front of Abigail’s door. Was he peeking through the young woman’s keyhole? Helena pulled back on the hammer, and at its light click, the man straightened, his back to her.
“I only have one shot, but I promise I will make it count.” Helena kept her voice low, unwilling to wake Abigail and frighten her, but she injected a firmness in her tone to let the man know she meant business.
He put both hands in the air and turned slowly until he faced her. Pale light from the lantern mounted shoulder high on the wall near the staircase at the end of the hall touched his face.
She gave a start. “Mr. Cleveland?” The preacher had said they could trust this man. Her confidence in the preacher plummeted. She kept the gun aimed at his broad chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing bad. Honest.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Miss Grant wouldn’t go see Doc Kettering, so I brought…” He bounced his elbow in an awkward gesture.
Helena glanced down. A clay pot holding an odd, spiky plant sat on the floor beside his feet. Understanding eased through her and she removed her finger from the trigger. “Aloe?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shifted in place, his hands in the air. “By morning her stubbornness will likely be worn out and she’s gonna want something for her sunburn. So there it is.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Cleveland.” Especially considering how prickly Abigail had behaved toward the man. Somehow she needed to find a way to dismantle the wall of snootiness the young woman used to defend herself against hurt. “But couldn’t you have waited until morning? You’re very fortunate I chose to ask questions before I made use of my weapon after the preacher warned us to stay alert.”
He grimaced. “I reckon I didn’t expect to get caught out here.” Hands still high, his gaze never lifting from the derringer, he took a slow step forward with his heels dragging on the floor. “You…have that loaded and ready?”
“Indeed I do.”
“You’re an unusual woman, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Indeed I am.”
“The only other woman I ever met who carried a pistol was Wilhelmina Wilkes. She robbed a whole church full of people and came within inches of stealing my uncle’s life savings after she answered his advertisement for a bride.”
Although his voice—a mere rasping whisper—held little emotion, she glimpsed pain in his eyes. Sympathy sent her apprehension away. No longer threatened, she uncocked the hammer, dropped the pistol in her pocket, and folded her arms across her chest. “I assure you, I am not Wilhelmina Wilkes, and I have no intention of swindling your friends. Given your experience, you have no reason to trust my words as true, but if you come to tomorrow evening’s meeting, perhaps your worries will be eased.”
“I’d be welcome even though I didn’t ask to be matched with a bride?” He sounded dubious, but he let his arms drift to his sides and settled his weight on one hip in a relaxed pose.
“Everyone is welcome.” An idea struck as if from heaven above, and she smiled. “As a matter of fact, if you’d be kind enough to spread the word tomorrow about the meeting, perhaps other townspeople—even those who are already married—would enjoy taking part in what Abigail and I have planned for the bachelors of Spiveyville.”
His gaze narrowed. “Exactly what is it you’ve got planned, Mrs. Bingham?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head, chuckling. “You must wait like everyone else until tomorrow evening. But for now…” She covered a yawn. “Thank you for bringing the aloe plant, Mr. Cleveland. I’m sure Abigail will be most appreciative when she discovers it.”
He glanced at the closed door, frowning. “I hope so. Don’t much like to think of anybody hurting.”
Clearly, Mr. Mack Cleveland was a considerate man, the kind of man she wanted for her brides. Did his resistance to marriage stem from his uncle’s unfortunate experience, or did something else hinder him from seeking her services? Her curiosity would have to be sated another time because sleep now beckoned.
She stepped backward over the threshold and closed the door. The darkness of the room enveloped her, and she groped for the key. With a twist of her fingers, she secured the lock. Then she pressed her ear to the door. As she expected, retreating footsteps spoke of Mr. Cleveland’s departure.
She made her way to the bed, returned the pistol to its place beneath her pillow, and lay down. She didn’t rouse again until slivers of sunlight sneaked between the cracks in the shades and invited her eyelids to open. Groaning, she pushed to her feet and stretched. The need for the outhouse made itself known, and she quickly donned her robe. The little necessary sat near the bottom of the outdoor staircase, shielded by overgrown bushes, so she could make the trek in her robe and slippers.
The morning air held a chill, but pleasant aromas—coffee and fresh-baked biscuits, no doubt coming from Mr. Patterson’s kitchen—reached her nostrils. She inhaled the inviting scent while descending the warped stairs, careful not to drag her hem over the deposits of dried bird droppings and tobacco stains, then held her breath during her quick venture into the outhouse. Its inside smelled nothing like coffee and fresh-baked biscuits.
She hastened back up the stairs and entered the hallway as Abigail’s door opened. The young woman was completely dressed in a hopelessly wrinkled green-and-tan plaid frock. She’d twisted her braided hair into a fat bun. Obviously she’d been awake for an hour or more already.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bingham. Since our proprietor didn’t see fit to fill the washbowls, I’m going downstairs to request fresh water.” Abigail turned toward the stairway, and the toe of her button-up shoe hit the clay pot. She came to a stop and frowned at the object. “What’s this?”
“It’s an aloe plant.” Helena picked it up and placed it on the washstand inside Abigail’s door. “Mr. Cleveland delivered it last night.”
“Mr. Cleveland…was here…outside my door…while I slept?” She touched her ruffled bodice with trembling fingers.
If Abigail had witnessed the man’s concern, she wouldn’t behave so timorously. “Yes, and you should be grateful.”
Abigail gaped at the plant as if she expected it to do something immoral.
Helena resisted rolling her eyes. “Request the water for our washbowls, Abigail. I’ll help you apply aloe to your face after I’m dressed.” She closed herself in her room and chose her finest, most businesslike suit. The two-piece gown in deepest navy was far too elaborate for the little Kansas town, but she felt confident in the outfit. She would need confidence this evening when she addressed the group of eager bachelors. As she finished buttoning the bodice, someone tapped on her door. She hurried across the floor and twisted the brass knob.
Abigail stepped into the room, bringing with her the heady scent of coffee and carrying a tin pitcher. Moist rivulets slid down the pitcher’s side and left a series of drips on the floor as she crossed to the washstand. She poured half the pitcher’s contents into the cracked bowl on the stand and pursed her lips. “I informed Mr. Patterson we would require fresh water twice a day for the duration of our stay. He informed me where I could find the water barrel.” She huffed. “This is hardly a high-class establishment.”
Helena swallowed a laugh and picked up her hairbrush. “Was he in the middle of preparing breakfast for diners?”
Abigail nodded. “There are close to a dozen men downstairs. Two of them”—she shuddered—“winked at me, and they all stared as if they’d never seen a female before.”
They were likely staring at the girl’s sunburned face. The streaks, red and angry looking, were even brighter this morning than they’d been last night and resembled Indian war paint. Certainly the sunburn pained her. Would aloe decrease the boldness of the blotches?
Helena quickly brushed her hair, once blond but now snow white, into a thick tail. Lingering tiredness made her arms ache. She sighed and turned to Abigail. “Please help me fashion my hair, dear, and then I will apply the aloe to your sunburn.”
Abigail proved amazingly adept at twisting Helena’s hair into a french roll. When she’d secured the fat puff with several pins, she sat on the edge of the bed, face upturned, and trustingly allowed Helena to dot liquid from the broken aloe leaves onto her face. The treatment did nothing to mask the high color. On the contrary, the residue brightened the red, making it even more obvious, but when Helena had finished coating every bit of sun-reddened flesh with the clear, gooey liquid, Abigail released a sigh.
“Oh, my. It does help take the sting away.”
Helena dropped the broken leaves into a can she suspected previously served as a spittoon and dipped her sticky fingers in her washbowl. “Then you owe Mr. Cleveland a thank-you.”
“Yes, I surely do.” The girl brushed her palms over her skirt’s wrinkles, her expression pensive. “I shall pen an appropriate note after we’ve finished our breakfast.”
Helena needed to jot a quick note to Marietta, as well, so her sister would know they’d arrived safely. “Let’s spend the morning seeing to personal tasks and recovering from our travel.” Goodness, traveling had never taxed her as severely as this excursion. But she hadn’t ventured beyond the boundaries of Newton since Howard’s death ten years ago. Apparently nearing her sixtieth birthday was taking its toll. “Then this afternoon we can plan the lessons schedule for the bachelors. I want to have everything organized and ready to present to the gentlemen at this evening’s meeting.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Helena placed her derringer in her reticule and looped the strap over her wrist. Linking arms with Abigail, she guided her to the stairs. They reached the bottom of the enclosed staircase and entered the dining room. As Abigail had indicated, several men were seated at tables, enjoying what appeared to be biscuits swimming in sausage gravy. Helena recognized the telegrapher, Mr. Cleveland, and a few other faces from those who had surrounded the wagon last night. She cast a demure smile across the lot and led Abigail to a table in the corner, aware of the men’s rapt attention.
As she and Abigail seated themselves, a wiry man with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache to match rose and moved with a bowlegged stride in their direction. The tin star pinned to his leather vest caught the light as he came. He stopped next to their table and slid his thumbs into his trouser pockets, sending an unsmiling look over both of them. “Good mornin’, ladies. I’m Bill Thorn, sheriff of Spiveyville. I understand you two arrived yesterday evenin’.”
Helena rose and extended her hand. “News travels quickly in Spiveyville, just as you must have to be back in town so soon. We were told you weren’t expected until later today at the earliest.”
His eyes, as pale blue as cornflowers, narrowed into slits. “I s’pose you was countin’ on me stayin’ away.”
“To the contrary. I was merely repeating the information we were given.” He still hadn’t taken her hand, so she linked her fingers and rested her hands on her waist. “It’s very kind of you to introduce yourself, Sheriff Thorn. I am Mrs. Helena Bingham, owner of Bingham’s Bevy of Brides, and this is my assistant, Miss Abigail Grant.” Abigail gave a slight nod, her brown eyes wary. “I am pleased you returned in time to attend the town meeting at the church this evening. I confess, it’s a bit disconcerting to be without a gentleman escort in an unfamiliar town. Perhaps you would be willing to accompany Miss Grant and me to the meeting? We’d feel much safer.”
He snorted. “Safer for you or for the fellas?” He glanced at the reticule with its gun-shaped lump lying on the edge of the table. “You keep that thing loaded, do you?”
She slid her fingers over the derringer’s outline, keeping her smile intact. “Yes, sir, I do. But I only fire it if an ornery skunk refuses to listen to reason.”
His mustache twitched and something akin to amusement sparked in his eyes. “Shootin’ at a skunk’s sure to raise a stink.”
“Sometimes a skunk raises its own stink.”
He chortled—one snort of humor that he stifled with a fist against his lips. He cleared his throat and rocked on the worn heels of his boots. “I’ll walk you an’ the young lady to that meetin’, ma’am, an’ I’ll stay to hear everything you have to say. An’ I’ll be watchin’ the two o’ you. I ain’t one to stand by an’ allow any kind o’ shenanigans in my town. A purty dress an’ fancy airs don’t mean nothin’ to me. You break the law, you’ll wind up sittin’ in a cell same as any ratty ol’ bum. Just wanted you to know.”
Helena met the man’s gaze. “The only thing Miss Grant and I intend to break, Sheriff, is the wall between the unmarried men of Spiveyville and the brides waiting to exchange vows with them.” She pinched her chin and deliberately pasted on a speculative grin. “By the way, are you married, Sheriff Thorn?”
He gave a little jolt, his jaw shifting back and forth. “Uh…no, I ain’t.”
“Then might you be interested in securing a wife?”