Abigail
Abigail and Athol hurried through the kitchen cleanup and then, instead of attending church service, they set to work cleaning the upstairs rooms. Marietta could stay in Mrs. Bingham’s room, but if the brides came, too, they’d need places to sleep. Some of the men thought they’d be able to take their brides to their ranches the moment they arrived in Spiveyville, but Abigail ended their speculation with a firm reminder that they hadn’t yet completed their classes and Mrs. Bingham was the matchmaker. They would have to wait. To her surprise, not even W. C. or Vern protested. At least, not where she could hear.
Yesterday afternoon, after contemplating the best way to accommodate the arrivals in the four available rooms, Athol had asked Grover Thompson for eight bedrolls. Mr. Thompson delivered the bedrolls as well as feather pillows, sheets, and quilts. He’d grinned as he flopped the last armload on one of the beds.
“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.”