Abigail
She had given Mr. Cleveland verbal appreciation for the gift of the aloe plant, but propriety demanded a written note as well. So Abigail retrieved her writing pad, pen, and inkpot from her satchel and sat on the edge of the bed. A desk would certainly make the task easier, but perhaps the previous occupants had no need for one. Her face flamed at her errant thoughts, and she shoved aside all reflections about the room’s past use.
With the inkpot on the little bedside stand and her tablet balanced on her knee, she dipped the pen and wrote as neatly as possible given the circumstances.
October 16, 1888
Dear Mr. Cleveland,
Thank you for your kindness in providing me with an aloe plant to treat my sunburn. It was quite thoughtful of you. I appreciate your generosity.
The note seemed very short. She chewed the end of the pen, considering means of lengthening it. She could add something about his advice to cover her face, which, in retrospect, held merit. But doing so would acknowledge she regretted not heeding his words. Would he, at some point in time, hold the admission against her, the way her former fiancé had turned her heartfelt profession of devotion into a club with which to batter her emotionally?
A tremor rattled her frame. Why had Linus Hartford crept through her thoughts today? She hadn’t allowed him a moment’s worth of reflection for more than five years. In all likelihood, the leering grins of some of the men at the breakfast tables were too similar to her last memory of her former beau, who, despite his fine upbringing, had proved not to be a gentleman at all.
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her chapped lips, willing the memories to retreat to the far recesses of her mind. When she’d sufficiently corralled all remembrances of Linus, she dipped the pen and added the closing and signature.
Sincerely,
Miss Abigail Marguerite Grant
The letters bore a slight waver, partly because of the pad’s precarious location and partly because her traitorous hands continued to tremble, but she hoped Mr. Cleveland wouldn’t notice. She blew on the ink until its sheen dulled, then folded the paper into precise thirds and slipped it into an envelope. As she capped the inkpot, someone tapped on the door.
Her heart fired into her throat. Hands grasping the tattered quilt, she called, “Who is it?”
“Mrs. Bingham. May I come in?”
She slumped with relief, then muttered, “Silly goose.” She was giving herself over to foolish fears due to the preacher’s comments about desperate men. Mrs. Bingham had her pistol. She wouldn’t let anyone enter Abigail’s room without giving them a reason to rue the attempt. And very soon she would leave this little town behind. But, of course, she needed to share her decision with Mrs. Bingham first.
She hurried across the floor, turned the key, and opened the door.
Mrs. Bingham swept into the room, carrying a bucket of sudsy water with a cloth draped over its rim in one hand and a broom in the other. “I thought perhaps you’d want to give your room another scrubbing. Preacher Doan and Mr. Cleveland were quite kind in their attempts yesterday evening—”
Abigail swallowed a groan. If she’d added a thank-you for dusting and sweeping to his note, the length would be more appropriate. Her appreciation would surely go far in convincing him to take her to the train depot in Pratt Center for a return trip to Massachusetts.
“—but I know it’s not as clean as you kept your chamber at my home.”
Strange how quickly she and Mother had learned the menial tasks of cleaning when they’d been forced to release their household staff. She took no great pleasure in cleaning, but she couldn’t bear to live in squalor. “Cleanliness,” Mother had often lectured the maids, “is next to godliness.” Abigail no longer believed God was near, no matter how clean she kept her lodgings, but cleanliness was the only piece that remained of the life she’d left behind. Well, cleanliness and manners. She would never release either, even if she had to don a maid’s uniform herself and spend her days cleaning homes for those who’d previously viewed her as an equal.
Abigail took the items and placed them in the corner. “Thank you, ma’am. I will make use of these. If you’d like, I will come across the hall and clean your room when I’m finished in here.” It was the least she could do since she intended to transfer the duty of trying to teach decorum to the rowdy men of Spiveyville to the older woman.
Mrs. Bingham waved her hand. “No need, my dear. I’ll see to it myself. But thank you. I intend to write Marietta a brief missive and carry it to the post office before noon.” She glanced at the envelope lying on Abigail’s bed. “Would you like to accompany me? You can deliver your note to Mr. Cleveland at the same time.”
Considering the preacher had advised them not to venture out alone, of course she would make the errand with her boss. “Yes, ma’am. Please let me know when you’re ready.”
“I will. Now, let me put a bit more aloe on your face before I write my letter.”
Abigail’s skin was tight and itchy from the previous application, but she sat and allowed Mrs. Bingham to dot her sunburned patches with the broken end of a fresh leaf. The older woman tossed the leaf into the trash bin and then paused in the doorway. “Before we go to the post office, let’s visit the general merchandise store and purchase a poke bonnet, as the doctor advised. You truly do not want even one more sunbeam to reach your face.” She grimaced and left the room.
Abigail touched her sticky cheek. The doctor had also recommended keeping a cool, wet cloth on her face, but she’d dismissed the idea. How could she function with a cloth draped over her face? She hated to waste money on something she would never wear in the city, but it would be easier to wear a poke bonnet on the drive to Pratt Center than hold a handkerchief the entire distance. Especially the way the wind blew here in Kansas.
As if hearing her internal thoughts, a gust rattled the windows. Dust found its way through tiny openings between the frame and the window casing. Abigail huffed. She might not be staying in this room for more than another night, but she would rest easier if she could lay her head on a dust-free pillowcase. She grabbed up the cleaning supplies Mrs. Bingham had brought and set to work.
An hour later, someone again knocked on the door. Mrs. Bingham must be ready to deliver her letter to the post office. Abigail snatched up her note for Mr. Cleveland and her small purse with its paltry number of coins and opened the door. “I’m ready to—”
Instead of Mrs. Bingham, a lanky man in a threadbare suit stood in the hallway. He held the saddest-looking bouquet she’d ever seen. His grin spread from ear to ear on his fresh-shaved face, and—of all things—the aroma of fresh bread seemed to cling to him.
“How-do, missy. My name’s Sam Bandy, an’ I own the bakery over across the way.”
The unusual cologne suddenly made sense.
He thrust the dried whatever-they-were forward. “Brung you some flowers.”
Abigail gripped her hands beneath her chin and leaned sideways, peering past his shoulder to Mrs. Bingham’s door. “Mrs. Binghaaaaaam?” Her voice rose an octave higher than usual, fear nearly strangling her. “Would you come here, pleeeeease?” She didn’t bellow, because a lady never bellowed, but she did increase the volume of her voice more than she’d ever done before.
At once Mrs. Bingham’s door burst open and the woman swept between Abigail and the unwelcome suitor with a flurry of skirts, as prickly as a guard dog. She carried her reticule like a shield. “Sir, your presence here is most unseemly. Please leave.”
The man shifted from foot to foot, his gaze seeking Abigail. “Only wanted to get a good look-see at the little gal who come in last night since I didn’t hardly get a peek with all the other fellas crowded around. Wanted her to see me, too, so she’d reckanize me at the meetin’ tonight, just in case she decides to choose a beau after all.”
Feet pounded on the stairs, and Mr. Patterson puffed up the hallway, arms pumping. He grabbed the baker by the collar of his suit coat and yanked him away from the doorway. “Bandy, whaddaya think you’re doin’?”
Mr. Bandy held the pitiful bouquet high. Several dried leaves drifted to the floor, but his foolish grin remained intact. “Courtin’.”
Mr. Patterson aimed an apologetic grimace in the women’s direction. “Sorry, ladies. I didn’t see him sneakin’ in or I sure would’ve stopped him before he got up here. Glad I heard your caterwaulin’ or I still wouldn’t know.”
Heat filled Abigail’s face, making her sunburn sting. She’d never been accused of caterwauling. Only one day in this Kansas town and her fine manners were slipping. She needed to leave as quickly as possible.
The restaurant owner tugged Mr. Bandy toward the stairs. “C’mon, you. You ain’t supposed to be anywhere near these ladies.”
The baker broke loose, glowering. “What’s wrong with me introducin’ myself? Just ’cause they’re stayin’ in your rooms don’t mean you own ’em.”
“Never said I owned ’em. But Preacher Doan an’ Sheriff Thorn told me to look out for ’em, an’ that’s what I’m doin’.” Mr. Patterson pointed to the stairs. “Now you scuttle your skinny rump on out o’ here an’ stay out.”
Mr. Bandy shattered the bouquet against the wall and brought up his fists. “You gonna back that up with action, Patterson?”
Mr. Patterson whipped off his apron and imitated the baker’s fighting stance. “If I gotta.” The pair began to circle, each hunkered low, their hands balled into fists and their faces set in horrible scowls.
Abigail’s pulse thundered so wildly she feared she would faint. Such ruffians! Resorting to fisticuffs in front of ladies? Why, Mother would be appalled. Her breath released in little gasps of fear and revulsion, and she pawed at Mrs. Bingham’s arm. “Ma’am, do something.”
Mrs. Bingham gave Abigail a little push toward the back door. “Go down the outside stairs and retrieve Mr. Cleveland at once.”
Abigail stared at her. “By myself?”
Mr. Bandy reared back and threw the first punch. Mr. Patterson ducked and brought up his fist. It caught the baker under the chin.
Abigail shrieked and covered her eyes with both hands.
Mrs. Bingham grabbed her by the wrists and threw her toward the door. “For heaven’s sake, Abigail, go!”
Her heart pounding and legs wobbling, Abigail stumbled to the door with the horrible sounds of grunts and oaths and fists connecting with flesh chasing her.
Mack
Mack hung the last of the dozen new claw hammers on the pegboard and stepped back, hands on hips, to admire his arrangement. Every ball pointing east, red-painted handles perfectly aligned north to south. A colorful display. Neat. Eye catching. Not that the men who came in gave much thought to the appearance of his stock on the shelves. “If you’re going to do a job, Son, do it right.” Ma’s advice rolled through the back of his mind. The men might not realize organization made a difference, but Mack did. And that’s what mattered.
He scooped up the crate, now holding only the straw used to cradle the merchandise and keep the painted handles from bouncing against each other, and headed for the storeroom at the back. The front door burst open and a shrill female voice called his name.
He dropped the crate. Straw exploded over his fresh-swept floor. He took one step and slid, caught his balance, and wheeled around the corner in time to catch Miss Grant, who fell panting into his arms. She hardly weighed as much as the box had with the hammers in it. Protectiveness welled through him even though he didn’t know what had her all distraught.
Her slender hands clutched at his shirtfront and her hot breath wheezed against his neck. “They—they’re fighting! Please, come quickly!”
“Who’s fighting?”
“M-Mr. Patterson. And Mr….Mr….Oh!” She pounded one fist on his chest, then gave a mighty tug on his shirt. “The baker! Come! Hurry!”
Mack half guided, half carried her out of the store, around the corner, and into the restaurant. Dead silence met his ears. He slid to a halt at the base of the stairs. “I thought you said somebody was fighting.”
She clapped both hands to her red cheeks. “Oh, dear…You don’t suppose they—they’ve killed each other?”
Mack doubted it. Sam and Athol were good friends. And they were too mild mannered to pound each other to death. “Come on.” He caught her by the elbow and propelled her up the stairs, ignoring her little huffs and squeaks. They rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, and once again he stopped so fast his soles skidded.
Miss Grant gasped and covered her eyes.
He gaped, unable to believe what he saw. “What in the name of all that’s sensible is goin’ on here?”