Bill
Bill reined in at the livery stable and swung down from the saddle. He groaned, his stiff muscles resisting straightening.
Hugh trotted from the barn and took hold of Patch’s reins. “Hard day, Sheriff?”
Bill massaged his lower back with both hands. “Hard ride. Make sure ol’ Patch gets double oats. He earned his keep today.” The paint had carried him almost seven miles along the fence line, bucking a cold wind the whole distance. If Patch was half as weary as Bill, the animal deserved a treat.
“Will do.”
Bill gave the horse’s white rump a pat and aimed himself for Athol’s. If Patch was getting a treat, Bill should have one, too. Coffee. Lots of it. And maybe something sweet. Even though it was almost nine and the sun had gone to bed over an hour ago, Athol’s place was still lit like a Christmas tree. The man must use a gallon of coal oil a day to keep all his lamps burning. Somebody—probably Mack, if Bill didn’t miss his guess—had lit the streetlamps, too, so Bill had no trouble finding his way to the restaurant.
He creaked the big door open and stepped in out of the cold, giving a shudder of relief when the warmth hit him. Athol and Mrs. Bingham sat at a table near the potbelly stove. Bill ambled over and plopped down with them. His backside hit the chair, and Athol bounced up like the two of them rode a seesaw. Athol headed for the kitchen.
Bill called after him. “Where are you goin’?”
“Gettin’ the coffeepot, a cup, an’ the last piece o’ sweet-tater pie. Looks like you can use it.”
That Athol was a good man. Bill sighed, popped off his hat, and dropped it on the table. He rested his elbows on the table and locked gazes with Mrs. Bingham. “Everything go all right at the church this evenin’? Sorry I couldn’t be there.” Truth was, he could’ve been. Jerome’s fence hadn’t been cut at all. The fool man just hadn’t dug down deep enough when he set the fence posts, and the cows knocked a few of them over. The fella had no business ranching if he couldn’t take care of a place any better than that.
“Everything went well. There were twenty-four in attendance. Twenty-five if you count Mr. Cleveland, but we probably shouldn’t since he was there in an official capacity.”
Did he detect a hint of sarcasm in her tone? “You can’t hardly call him official, because he don’t wear a badge. He’s just dependable an’ willin’ to help out now an’ again.”
Athol ambled over and put a wedge of golden pie in front of Bill. He splashed coffee into a cup and handed that over, too. He held the pot to Mrs. Bingham, but she put her hand over her cup and shook her head. Athol set the pot next to Bill’s elbow. “Gonna go chop up that day-old bread for tomorrow’s bread puddin’. Sit an’ visit as long as you like.” He sauntered back to the kitchen.
Bill picked up his fork, eager to dig into the pie. “Did we break some rule by havin’ Mack in the class twice? After all, Preacher Doan sat through two sessions, too.”
Mrs. Bingham tilted her head and pinned a suspicious look on Bill. “Yes, now that you mention it, the reverend attended one session with his wife at his side and a second on his own. Was that at your bidding, too?”
Bill jammed a huge bite in his mouth. Sweet filling, flaky crust. As good as the pie his mama used to bake. He chased the bite with a swig of coffee, strong and hot, just the way he liked it. Athol sure knew how to cook. He swiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “Yep.” He forked up another bite.
“Why?”
Bill paused with the chunk of pie halfway to his mouth. “ ’Cause it seems smart.” He pushed the pie in his mouth and chomped down.
“Why?”
With a sigh, Bill dropped his fork. “I’m not generally in the practice of explainin’ myself to folks, but since you’re a lady an’ what my mama would call one o’ my elders, I’ll tell you. It’s my beholden duty to keep folks safe in my town. Mack come complainin’ that Tobis Adelman went into his store an’ got Miss Grant all upset. I caught her an’ Otto Hildreth in some kind o’ disagreement in the church.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “You did? When?”
He waved his hand. “Don’t get all het up. She said she was fine, an’ I been keepin’ an eye on her. Otto ain’t bothered her again.”
“But why would he—”
He’d never get to finish his pie if she didn’t stop asking questions. “He didn’t say, the stubborn cuss, but I speculate he was fussin’ at her about these wives you’re bringin’ in. Him an’ Sam Bandy an’ Louis Griffin are all worryin’ about the women doin’ the sewin’ an’ bakin’ an’ hair trimmin’ once they get here. Lots o’ mumbles goin’ on from them three.”
She pinched her lips shut and stayed silent, so he grabbed a quick bite of pie and spoke around it. “An’ take Tobis Adelman. He can be a real thorn in my side. He’s too spoiled for his own good an’ that’s a fact. He likes to talk, an’ even though I’ve warned him to keep quiet about Miss Grant’s pa, I’m waitin’ for him to let the news fly an’ get everybody all stirred up. If a riot breaks out, I want somebody around to keep you an’ that little gal from gettin’ hurt.”
He sneaked another bite and chased it with a swallow of coffee. “Then there’s the unmarried ranchers. Now, they ain’t really dangerous. Not criminal-like dangerous. But they can get high spirited from time to time, an’ havin’ a pair o’ pretty women in their midst when they’re grumbly about their brides not bein’ here is askin’ for them to not use good sense.” He shrugged. “I figgered it’s smart to have somebody in every class to help keep ’em in line.”
Mrs. Bingham was frowning, but she’d lost some of the spark in her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that you stationed men at the church not to watch Miss Grant but to watch out for her?”
“Ain’t that what I already said?” He chopped the last chunk of pie in half and jabbed one piece with his fork. It went down good, so he followed it with the other. Then he sat back and let out a little burp behind his hand. Guess he’d eaten too fast. “I can’t spend ever’ night keepin’ watch, so I asked Preacher an’ Mack to help me out. That’s all.”
The woman lowered her head. The lamp swinging from a chain overhead painted a ring of light on her hair. Like a halo. He swallowed a chortle. This one could be both angel and devil all rolled into one the way she went from sweet to tart to sweet again. If he was bride shopping, he’d want a sweet and sassy woman. To keep things livened up.
When she looked up, all the devil was gone and only angel remained. “Please forgive me, Sheriff. I feared—and Miss Grant did, too—that you placed Mr. Cleveland at the church tonight to make sure she didn’t engage in anything illegal.” She made a face. “Unfortunately, the treatment she’s received in the past has raised her defenses and made her prone to thinking the worst. I fell into the trap with her, but I should have known better. I do believe you are an honorable man.”
Bill’s chest went tight. Folks in these parts appreciated him. He knew that because they kept electing him every year, but they weren’t much for saying it out loud. Miz Bingham was a city gal. Educated, and with more years on her than he had. Oh, she wasn’t old enough to be his ma, but old enough to hold his respect. Her words felt good. Real good.
He sniffed, then grabbed up his cup and took a swallow so she wouldn’t think he’d gone soft. “I’ve pret’ much give up on worryin’ about the two o’ you bein’ swindlers. Did some checkin’, an’ seems your business is a fair an’ honest one.”
Her cheeks went pink and she smiled all wobbly. Gave him some pleasure to know he’d pleased her. He took another quick slurp and shrugged. “ ’Sides, it ain’t fair to blame Miss Grant or think ill o’ her for what her pa done. Mack said so, too, an’ he was real forceful about it. Prob’ly ’cause o’ what happened with his own pa before he come to Spiveyville. That’s why I knew he’d be willin’ to take my place.”
Mrs. Bingham jolted like somebody’d poked her in the back with a stick. “What happened with his pa?”
Bill had said too much. He drained his coffee cup and reached for the pot to fill it again.
She grabbed the pot first. Bill stuck out his cup, but she held the pot hostage. “He told me about his uncle, who was nearly taken in by a dishonest woman. But he hasn’t mentioned anything about his father.”
Bill bounced his cup. “An’ I ain’t gonna mention nothing more about it neither. That’s Mack’s story to tell if he wants to.”
She stared at him, a hint of the devil returning, but finally she sighed and poured coffee into his cup. “You’re a mule-headed man, Bill Thorn.”
“An’ you’re a mule-headed woman, Helena Bingham. An’ I reckon it’s served both of us pretty good over the years.”
She smiled. A soft smile, the kind Ma used to wear at the end of hymn singing at Sunday morning service. “Yes, I suppose so. I would like to ask you a favor, though.”
He took a sip of the coffee, squinting at her over the rim of his cup. “What’s that?”
“If Mr. Cleveland is going to continue to attend more than one class a week, please have him explain his purpose in being there to Miss Grant.”
“Why can’t you tell her?”
“I think it will mean more coming from Mr. Cleveland.”
“Why?”
Her smile turned sly. “I have my reasons, but I believe I will keep them to myself.” She stood and draped her hands over her chair’s back. “We’ll use the dining room for lessons on the subject of proper table manners.”
He remembered his burp. He took another gulp of his coffee.
“I excused Abigail from kitchen cleanup and sent her to her room after class to ready her notes for tomorrow’s lesson, but I’m sure there are still some dishes to be washed, so I’d better go help Mr. Patterson. May I presume you won’t attend the class tomorrow since Mr. Cleveland has signed up for Thursdays?”
“I might be in here havin’ my dinner. I eat most o’ my meals with Athol an’ put it on the town’s tab. But I won’t listen in.” Maybe he should, though. If all the other fellas in town started putting on airs and minding their manners while he didn’t, he’d stick out like a possum in a canary cage.
“Very well, Sheriff. I’ll leave the pot with you in case you want another cup of coffee.” She rounded the corner, the hem of her skirt skimming the floor and making it look like she glided.
Bill held his cup between his palms and stared after her. She was a handsome woman. Smart. Sassy. Even funny. Granted, she wasn’t what his pa would call a spring chicken anymore, but she still had plenty of life left. She was busy matching up other women with fellas. Why didn’t she try to latch on to one her age for herself?
Abigail
Abigail lay on her back on the lumpy mattress and stared unseeing at the gray ceiling. She was so tired—emotionally spent, Mother would have said—but sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind refused to stop dredging up memories of the evening following Father’s arrest. She and Mother had sat alone in their parlor, too anguished to speak, and then the door chime rang. With hope rising in her chest, she dashed to the vestibule and peeked out. Her heart had rolled over in relief when she spotted Linus Hartford on the small square porch.
He’d dressed impeccably, as he always did, in a three-piece suit of charcoal gray with a crisp white shirt and a deep goldenrod cravat nearly the same color as his hair lying just so at his throat. She opened the door and spoke on a sigh. “Oh, Linus, I’m so happy to see you.” How she’d needed him, and here he was. Tears of joy and relief sprang into her eyes. She tipped her cheek for his customary hello kiss, but he stepped past her, stopped in the center of the foyer’s marble-tile floor, and turned to face her.
Believing his formality was to appease Mother, who could hear and see everything from her spot on the settee, Abigail held out her hands. “May I take your hat?”
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shook his head. “I won’t be staying.”
She slowly lowered her hands and linked them behind her back. “Not even for a cup of tea? Or an apple tart? The cook baked apple tarts this afternoon. Your favorite treat, yes?” Surely the promise of an apple tart, and her consideration in saving one for him, would bring a change to his stiff demeanor.
His cold expression remained unchanged. “I don’t care for tea or an apple tart. I’ve come to end our betrothal.”
The words struck like blows, stealing her ability to breathe. She stumbled sideways and connected with the wall. She pressed her frame to the gold-brocade wall covering, her entire body breaking out in a cold sweat. “W-what? But why?”
He rolled his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Abigail, what else would you expect after today’s fiasco at the bank?”
She couldn’t answer. The pain of Father’s admitted illegal activities was still too raw.
“Would I choose to wed the offspring of a murderer? Or a drunkard? Of course not, because I couldn’t give my fine name to someone of such low bloodline. The same applies to the child of a professed thief. I’d forever watch you, wondering when the temptation to steal would rise in you. I’d forever worry about my name being sullied. No.” He shook his head, the action adamant. “I cannot honor our agreement. It is customary for gifts to be returned, but I shan’t request the brooch. It’s too late to return it to the jeweler, and I would never be able to gift another with it, so you might as well keep it.”
She touched the lovely brooch pinned to her left shoulder, imagining its stone of smoky quartz, as large as an apricot pit, and its circle of delicate gold rope. Smoky quartz…the color of her eyes. The color of Father’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to keep it.
“No. No, you take it.” Her hands shook too badly. She couldn’t unfasten the clasp.
He gripped the doorknob and gave it a wrench. “I shall have a retraction of our agreement printed in the newspaper by the end of the week. Goodbye, Miss Grant.”
He’d slammed the door on his departure, and Abigail gave a jolt on her lonely bed in the dark room even though the slam was only in her memory. Tears came. Tears of mortification and heartbreak from that night, and tears of humiliation and anger for having been forced to live it again.
“I’d forever watch you,” Linus had said.
“He wanted somebody watching Miss Grant, so I said I’d do it,” Mr. Cleveland had said.
Neither of them trusted her. Linus Hartford was long gone from her life. Mr. Cleveland was much too close.
She rolled to her side and closed her eyes tight, willing sleep to come, but her thoughts refused to quiet. If only Mother were alive to sit on the edge of the bed and sing. If only God hadn’t abandoned her family. Then she could talk to Him about her aching heart. If only…