Abigail
Mrs. Bingham had asked to be excused from restaurant duty to wash sheets, and Mr. Patterson agreed even though he voiced his surprise that they needed washing again after only a week’s worth of sleeping. Abigail cleared and cleaned tables and washed dishes on her own. Between chores, she watched for Mr. Cleveland. He ate nearly every meal in the restaurant, and she felt certain he would come in for pancakes and sausage. The spicy and sweet aromas mixed together was the most wondrous perfume, and it had surely drifted to the hardware store with as many times as the front door opened and closed.
At a little past seven thirty, he entered the dining room, sweeping off his hat as he cleared the threshold. Her heart gave a leap, and then shyness attacked. She’d given Mr. Patterson her thank-you. She owed one to Mr. Cleveland, as well, and she would give it. But it would take more courage than it had taken to address Mr. Patterson. Because even though she liked Mr. Patterson, he had no effect on her pulse.
To her chagrin, Mr. Cleveland didn’t sit at the lone empty table by himself but joined Louis Griffin and Clive Ackley. Abigail couldn’t deliver a personal message in front of the other two men. Deflated, she entered the kitchen.
“Mr. Patterson, Mr. Cleveland has arrived.”
Mr. Patterson flipped pancakes, sweat pouring down his face. “I’ll get to him when I can, but I’m behind on servin’.” He flashed her a hopeful look. “Sure would help if you’d carry out some o’ these plates.”
Abigail bit her lower lip. Serving in one’s home was acceptable. On the cook’s day off, she and Mother had taken turns serving dinner. But in a public restaurant? Never had she even seen a female server in the restaurants she’d visited with her parents. A man named Harvey utilized only female servers in his chain of restaurants, which had been met with varying reactions of shock to horror from Mother and her friends, but this wasn’t a Harvey-owned establishment.
Mr. Patterson sighed. “Never mind.” He handed her the spatula. “Watch them cakes an’ don’t let ’em burn. I’ll be right back after I’ve served these an’ took Mack’s order.”
Chastened by his tone, she kept careful watch over the pancakes and removed them before even a hint of scorching appeared on their edges.
Mr. Patterson puffed back in, wiping his hands on his apron. “As I figured, Mack wants a stack o’ cakes an’ sausage, like pret’ much everybody else.” He grabbed the spatula and moved between her and the stove. “I hope them jugs o’ syrup is holdin’ out. Couldja check ’em an’ replace ’em if they’re runnin’ low?”
Eager to return to his good graces, she hurried out to obey. All five jugs were considerably lighter than they’d been at the beginning of the morning. She took the one from the empty table and carefully added its contents to another jug, but the other three jugs were in the middle of diners. She didn’t want to take those.
She returned to the kitchen and crossed to the stove. “Mr. Patterson, do you have more syrup jugs in the cellar? If so, I’ll trade them for the half-empty ones.”
“Not in the cellar. It’s too cool down there.” He plopped pancakes into a stack on a plate and added several sausage links. “I keep the syrup in the smokehouse’s little add-on, where it’ll stay warm enough to pour. Go ahead and bring in a couple more jugs.” He hurried in the direction of the dining room.
Abigail opened the door leading to the backyard and stepped outside. After being near the heat of the stove, the cold made her wish she’d grabbed her shawl. She hugged herself and half walked, half jogged across the yard. The clothesline stretched from the restaurant to the smokehouse. One sheet flapped on the line, and the basket with the other wet sheets lay on its side on the grass. Clean sheets spilled across the ground, picking up dirt. She released a little grunt. Oh, the wind! Did it have to topple the basket?
She righted the basket and scooped up the damp sheets, searching the area for Mrs. Bingham. The woman wasn’t in the yard. Maybe she’d gone to her room, or maybe she was in the outhouse. Either way, the sheets were speckled with bits of dry grass and dirt. They couldn’t go on the line. Abigail dropped the wadded lump of fabric in the basket and picked it up. She would take the sheets inside to the washtub.
Balancing the heavy basket against her stomach, she turned for the stairs and spotted the container that held the clothespins. It lay upside down near the back alley. Wooden clothespins were scattered all across the grass, creating a trail from where she stood to the alley. Chills attacked her that had nothing to do with the cool morning. She turned a slow circle, her pulse pounding like a woodpecker’s beat on the tree.
“Mrs. Bingham?”
No answer came. Fear soured the pancake in her stomach. She dropped the basket, clattered up the stairs, and burst into the hallway. “Mrs. Bingham? Mrs. Bingham, where are you?” The matchmaker’s room was empty, the bed stripped. Abigail checked her own room, but she found only a bare mattress, evidence that the woman had been in.
She raced back down the stairs, her feet pounding, and pushed on the outhouse door. It opened without resistance. Mrs. Bingham wasn’t there. She explored every corner of the yard, calling and calling, but her boss didn’t answer. Once again she looked at the clothespins, at the way they formed a trail, much like the bread crumbs in the story of Hansel and Gretel. On quivering legs, she followed them to the alley, where flattened grass and Mrs. Bingham’s treasured jeweled watch glinting in the sun told a story Abigail didn’t want to read.
Grabbing up her skirts, she raced for the restaurant, screeching Mr. Patterson’s name at the top of her lungs.
Helena
Hog-tied and gagged in the back of the rattling wagon, Helena rued having left her reticule in her room. If she’d had her derringer handy, Mr. Nance wouldn’t be able to sit on the wagon seat. He wouldn’t be able to sit anywhere for a good long while. How could she have let him overpower her? She rolled and kicked, struggling against the ropes that bound her ankles and wrists. When she managed to get loose, lady or not, she would claw his eyes out.
“Stop floppin’ around back there. Won’t do you no good.” The man spoke amiably, much more so than at their previous encounters. “I tie knots that no critter can break, an’ cows’re a lot stronger’n any ol’ lady. When we get to where we’re goin’, I’ll cut you loose. Until then, just be still an’ get comfortable.”
Comfortable? Lying on warped, splintery lengths of wood, being bounced like a sack of grain, with her hands tied behind her back? How could anyone get comfortable given those circumstances? She wanted to ask him where he was taking her, what he wanted with her, if he really thought he would get by with stealing her away, but the handkerchief he’d tied over her mouth cut off any sound. She tried to keep her tongue from touching it. The taste of dirt and sweat made her want to retch, and if she retched, she would choke.
She really had little choice but to follow his instruction, so she tried to do what he said—be still. And she prayed.
Mack
Such a ruckus in the kitchen. Louis and Clive craned their necks around and stared at the doorway. Everyone else stared, too, even though Miss Grant had told them all during the commonsense etiquette class how impolite it was to stare.
“Whatcha think’s goin’ on in there?” Clive’s mouth hung open. Syrup dotted his whiskers.
“Dunno,” Louis said, “but sounds like somebody’s tryin’ to put a cat in a sack.”
Several men laughed, but they were nervous laughs.
At the next table, Doc Kettering stood. “Do you think we should go in? If that’s Miss Grant making all the noise, she might’ve hurt herself.”
Fear exploded in Mack’s gut. Of course Miss Grant was the one crying, but he hadn’t considered she might be physically hurt. He thought she was mad enough or upset enough to drop her usual poise and let fly. But the doc’s question brought him to his feet.
Louis grabbed his arm. “Best stay here, Mack. Athol’s let them women come an’ go, but he gets all wrought up when most folks step foot in his kitchen.”
Yes, the kitchen was Athol’s domain and he didn’t appreciate people invading it. But the sobs and cries were too full of anguish to ignore. He had to know what had happened to Miss Grant. He strode for the door. Doc Kettering followed him.
“Miss Grant, you gotta calm down. You ain’t makin’ any sense.” Athol held her by the upper arms. She squirmed and babbled brokenly between sobs. When Mack and Doc stepped near, relief flooded his face. “Oh, glad to see you fellers. Doc, she’s been carryin’ on like a mouse with its tail caught in a trap since she come in from the yard. Somethin’ about clothespins.”
Doc touched the back of his hand to Miss Grant’s forehead. “Are you feeling poorly, Miss Grant?”
She slapped his hand away and choked out, “She’s gone! There are clothespins all over the yard, all the way to the alley, and there’s—there’s—” She sobbed too hard to continue.
Mack touched her shoulder. “Who’s gone, Miss Grant?”
“M-Mrs. Bingham.” She drew several shuddering breaths and grabbed his hand. “Come!”
Too stunned to do otherwise, Mack let her pull him to the back door. Doc and Athol came, too, and the three of them followed Miss Grant along a winding trail of clothespins to the alley.
Her hands flew around in wild gestures. “I came out and the sheets were on the ground and I couldn’t find Mrs. Bingham anywhere. Then I followed the clothespins, and this is what I found.” She crouched and picked up a piece of jewelry. Cradling it between her palms, she bit her bottom lip and rocked slightly.
Athol moved to the edge of the flattened patch of dried grass. His face went white. “Somebody’s been scufflin’.”
Mack stepped beyond the flattened area and looked up and down the alley. Fresh wagon tracks carved two lines in the nearly knee-high dried grass. He swallowed a knot of dread. What had happened out here?
Doc Kettering turned and headed for the restaurant. “I’m goin’ after Sheriff Thorn.”
“He ain’t in town.” Athol stared at the grass as if he expected Mrs. Bingham to suddenly appear. “Knocked on my door real early for some biscuits an’ set off for Coats.”
Miss Grant bolted up and skittered to Mack’s side. “We’ve got to do something. She could be anywhere. With anyone. Who would have taken her?”
Doc trudged around the flattened patch, his face set in a scowl. “Vern O’Dell and W. C. Miller weren’t happy about having to wait so long for their brides. Maybe one of them took her, thinking they could convince her to bring the brides sooner.”
“Then there’s Otto, who’s been worryin’ worse’n anybody about how he’s gonna lose his business, thanks to those wives comin’.” Athol held his hands wide. “You think he might’ve took her, thinkin’ it’d scare the rest of ’em from showin’ up?”
Mack gritted his teeth. It would take hours to check with Otto and every rancher around Spiveyville. Mrs. Bingham was likely scared half to death. The quicker they found her, the better. What would Sheriff Thorn do if he were here? He wouldn’t stand around and do nothing, that much was sure.
He slapped his leg. “Doc, go get Preacher Doan.”
The doc took off at a run.
“Athol, let everyone in the restaurant know Mrs. Bingham is missing and have them round up all the men in town. Tell ’em to meet in your dining room.”
Athol started across the yard.
Mack remembered something. “Athol!”
The cook paused.
“Have ’em come armed and either on horseback or in a wagon.”
Athol nodded and broke into a clumsy trot.
Mack turned to Miss Grant. “Ma’am, as for you, you’re gonna—”
She aimed her tear-stained face at him. “If you are planning to say I’m going to stay here and wait, you might as well save your breath. If you’re going after Mrs. Bingham, I’m going, too.”