Beneath a Prairie Moon Read online

Mrs. Bingham rose and rounded the desk, determination etched into her features. “I intend to give you one more opportunity. It—”

  Abigail caught the woman’s hands and held tight. “Oh, thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Bingham withdrew her hands. “Will you kindly remain silent long enough for me to finish speaking?”

  Abigail whisked her hands behind her back and closed her lips. But her chest rose and fell in rapid heaves of breath she couldn’t seem to control. Oh, why had Father chosen such an unsavory path? Maybe it would have been better if she had died of a broken heart as Mother had. At least she’d be spared the abject indignity of begging.

  Mrs. Bingham sorted through a file on her desk and removed a fat envelope. She held it in front of her like a shield. “This envelope, sent by men from a small town in Kansas, contains sixteen written requests for brides.”

  Hope fluttered to life in Abigail’s breast. Surely out of sixteen men, there would be one acceptable candidate for her hand.

  “If the placement fees hadn’t been included, I would have discarded the entire lot. The letters…” The woman’s face pursed. “Suffice it to say, many of the writers of these missives are sorely lacking in the social niceties.”

  Abigail bit the inside of her lip. The hope began to fizzle.

  “But sixteen requests…As a good businesswoman, I cannot reject the potential income. Thus, I have been striving to secure matches for each of these men.”

  Abigail drew in a steadying breath. She’d promised to make her next assignment work. She was twenty-five already—by next April, she’d be too old to be included as a potential match. Regardless of how unattractive the man or how dismal his dwelling, she would have to accept him as her husband.

  “But I will not send any of my girls to men who indicate a distinct bent toward loutishness. This group of prospective grooms must undergo a transformation.” The matchmaker dropped the envelope on the desk and folded her arms across her chest. “That is where you come in.”

  Abigail tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re well mannered, well spoken, and you possess an air of authority.”

  If the woman meant to compliment her, the tone she used fell short.

  “If anyone has the ability to mold these men into suitable husbands for my girls, it’s you.” The woman moved behind the desk and rustled through a drawer. “I’ve already checked train schedules. There is a departure tomorrow afternoon for Pratt Center, Kansas. In the morning I’ll send a wire to the telegrapher in Spiveyville and inform him to expect your arrival on the fifteenth of the month.”

  Wariness climbed Abigail’s spine as nimbly as the spiders had climbed their webs in the little sod house in Nebraska. If Mrs. Bingham was planning what Abigail suspected, she wanted no part of it. “Ma’am? I—”

  Mrs. Bingham straightened and fixed Abigail with a firm glare. “You owe me a tidy sum for refunded fees and train fares. Are you able to repay me in dollars and cents?”

  Abigail gritted her teeth. If she had funds available, she wouldn’t have set herself up as a mail-order bride in the first place. The argument she’d been forming died on her tongue.

  “Then you can repay me by serving as a tutor. I’m sending you to Spiveyville to ready the grooms for their brides.”

  Two

  Spiveyville

  Mack

  “Mack! Mack!”

  The frantic call from the street pulled Mack from sorting his latest shipment of hinges. He darted across the floor, his boot soles pounding as hard as his pulse. He was almost to the screen door when Clive Ackley burst in. The door’s wood frame slapped against a large nail keg with a resounding crack!

  The half-inch slash of Clive’s cheeks not covered by his beard glowed bright red, and perspiration dotted his forehead. He waved a slip of paper like a flag. “Got…got a tel…telegram. They’re comin’!”

  Mack grabbed the postman by his heaving shoulders. “Who’s comin’? Is there another uprising?” To his knowledge, the Cheyennes hadn’t rebelled against white settlers since ’78 in neighboring Comanche County, but folks couldn’t help worrying it could happen again. He gave Clive a firm shake. “Get yourself under control, man, and tell me who’s comin’.”

  “Our brides!”

  Mack let go of Clive so abruptly both men staggered. Or maybe it was relief making his knees go trembly. He planted his fists on his hips and gawked at the postman. “You came hollering up the street, near busted my door, to tell me that?”

  Clive danced in place, his eyes shining brighter than a pair of new pennies. “Why, sure. I hadda tell you, ’cause you’re gonna go get ’em from the train station.”

  Mack laughed. He took two backward steps toward the crate of hinges. “No, I’m not.”

  Clive scurried up behind him and grabbed his arm. “But you gotta.”

  Mack wrenched free and stomped to the crate. He bent down on one knee and rummaged in the box.

  Clive curled his hands over the edge of the crate and leaned in, poking his nose in Mack’s way. “You gotta go get ’em.”

  Mack sat back on his heels and blew out a breath. “Clive, I’ve got work to do. Would you go on now and—”

  “Listen to me!” Clive dropped to his knees on the other side of the crate. “You gotta fetch our wives. All the ranchers, they can’t take a full day away from their cows to make the trip. I’m a gov’ment-employed worker, so I gotta stay at the post office an’ see to the telegraph. Louis Griffin’ll be cuttin’ hair an’ trimmin’ beards on every fella who sent a letter ’cause we’re all wantin’ to look our best.”

  Mack squinted at Clive. “You’re gonna let Louis trim your beard?”

  “Yep.” Clive combed his fingers through his shaggy beard. A few crumbs—probably from his breakfast biscuits—dropped onto his stained striped shirtfront. “Least a little. Maybe.”

  Mack smirked.

  Clive snorted and made a face. “The thing is, you’re the only one who ain’t gonna be sprucin’ up your house or buyin’ new suspenders or seein’ to livestock. The rest of us, we got duties here. But nothin’ in a hardware store’s so important that you can’t shut down for a day to make the trip. ’Sides that, you’re the only one who ain’t gonna pick out a wife from the bunch, so it only makes sense for you to go.”

  Clive’s comment about Mack’s livelihood being unimportant stung, but he decided not to argue the point. “How do you make sense out of me going after those women? Seems to me, since I’m not interested in them, I ought to stay out of the whole thing.”

  “And you can, after you’ve brung ’em to Spiveyville. But since you don’t plan on marryin’ up, we can trust you not to grab the comeliest one for yourself before the rest of us get a gander at ’em. See?”

  “All I can see is that I’m being lassoed into losing a day’s business and making a long drive for no good reason.”

  Clive angled his head like a fighting rooster. “You sayin’ helpin’ out your friends an’ neighbors ain’t a good enough reason?”

  Shame fell over Mack like a sack of grain. Hadn’t Preacher Doan talked on putting the needs of others above self only last Sunday? Hadn’t these same townsfolk gathered around and supported him during his neediest time? His ma, bless her soul, modeled Christian love and kindness every day of her life. What would she tell him to do? He sighed. He knew what she’d tell him.

  He hung his head. “When’re they due in?”

  Clive whooped and threw both arms in the air. “Train’s set to arrive at Pratt Center’s CK&N Railway station at two next Monday afternoon.” He gave Mack a solid clap on the shoulder. “All the fellas is gonna be right excited to see our brides, an’ we’re all gonna be beholden to you for bringin’ ’em to us. Gotta go spread the good news now. Thanks again, Mack!”

  Clive bolted out the door, and Mack shook his hea
d, worry building an ache in his gut. “Beholden,” Clive had said. Well, Clive—and all the others—might choose a different response if these ladies turned out to not be ladies at all. He hoped his friends and neighbors wouldn’t hold him responsible when the entire scheme collapsed.

  October 15, 1888

  Pratt Center, Kansas

  Helena Bingham

  Helena stepped from the passenger car’s platform onto the dirt street. A gust of wind tugged at her wide-brimmed feathered hat and peppered her broadcloth travel suit with dust and fine sand. The folds of her overskirt captured tiny grains, the pale bits of grit obnoxious against the peacock-blue fabric. With a little grunt of irritation, she smacked the skirt clean, leaving a few more smudges on her gloves, which had been pristine white when she began this journey three days ago but now were the most unappealing shade of mouse gray. Swallowing another uh! of irritation, she lifted her gaze to the town.

  The newness of the city showed in the crisp white, unpainted clapboards covering nearly every business on the wide, unpaved street. The railway station stood out with its coat of red paint and bold-yellow window casings, as proud as a cardinal in a flock of sparrows, but its cheerful appearance only served to highlight the dismal appearance of every other place of business. Unexpectedly, a thread of empathy wove through her. Perhaps she’d been too quick to judge Abigail for criticizing the previous placements. Everything within her strained to climb back on board the train and return to Newton and her well-ordered, beautifully decorated world as quickly as possible. But she couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  Abigail’s aghast face resided in her memory, along with the young woman’s shocked query—“You intend to send me, alone and unprotected, to a gang of loutish men?” As much as Helena hated to admit it, she’d been shortsighted in her plan to have Abigail tutor the Kansas ranchers. She held no doubt Abigail could teach the men decorum. Helena hailed from the upper society herself and understood manners and morals as well as anyone, yet she’d never met a woman who held to the standards as stringently as Abigail Marguerite Grant. But sending her alone, without chaperonage, would invite trouble. She must ensure the young woman’s safety. So here she was, standing on the dirt street of an uncivilized Kansas town, with her trusty derringer weighting her velvet reticule.

  Abigail descended the metal step and stood close to Helena, her slumped shoulders and dark-rimmed eyes making her seem much older than her twenty-five years. Helena recalled her own dear sister, Marietta Constance, carrying the same sorrowful countenance in her midtwenties. Now at a mature forty-one, a full eighteen years younger than Helena, Marietta’s permanently rounded shoulders and the lines of unhappiness etched in her brow gave her the appearance of the older sister. Automatically, Helena chided, “Stand up straight. Tired or not, a lady never slouches.”

  Abigail snapped upright as if someone had tied a string beneath her chin and gave a yank. She scanned the area, her full lips set in a moue of distaste. “It doesn’t seem as if anyone is waiting for us.”

  Railroad workers and other disembarking passengers bustled to and fro. All seemed to throw curious glances their way—understandable, considering how their city finery contrasted the simple calico dresses and bonnets worn by other women—but no one approached them. Helena gestured to a long bench tucked against the station’s wall in a patch of shade. “The answering telegram from Spiveyville assured me we would be collected from the station. Perhaps our driver has been delayed. Let’s sit over there and wait for his arrival.”

  On their way to the bench, Helena captured the attention of a young man wearing gray trousers, a blue shirt, and the telltale brimmed railroad cap. “Would you please bring our luggage from the baggage car? Two trunks and a valise, each tagged with the name Bingham.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He trotted off.

  Helena guided Abigail to the bench and they sat side by side, ankles crossed, hands in their laps. Abigail’s reticule dangled by its string against her thigh, but Helena kept hers nestled beneath her gloved hands in case she had need of the derringer. Some of the men striding up and down the street held a rough appearance.

  A telegraph sign poked from the corner of the railway station. Perhaps she should have the telegrapher send a message to Marietta and assure her they’d arrived safely in Kansas. Her dear sister would likely pace the floors until she received the news. Marietta tended to worry too much, and her active imagination always conjured the most ridiculous scenarios. Although it pained Helena to trust Bingham’s Bevy of Brides to Marietta’s keeping for the next two weeks, perhaps the responsibility would fill her sister’s hours enough to rid her mind of invented trials. One could hope, anyway.

  The railroad worker to whom Helena had assigned the task of retrieving their luggage approached, pulling a small wheeled platform. He doffed his hat, swiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead, and grinned. “Here you go, lady. Two trunks an’ a carpetbag. Seems like an awful lot for just two people.”

  She’d taken more luggage for a four-day riverboat cruise than what now waited on the flatbed cart. She turned a tart look on the fellow. “I asked you to bring my belongings, not to offer commentary on my travel practices.”

  The man’s grin faded. He blinked, removed his cap, and scratched his head. “What’s that you said?”

  Helena pinched a nickel from her reticule and held it out. “Never mind. Thank you for your trouble.”

  The man pocketed the coin and then plopped his cap over his unruly hair. “Are you ladies needin’ a rig? There’s a livery stable about two blocks north. I can ask my boss if he’d let me run over and—”

  “We have a driver coming, young man.” The wind gusted and Helena grabbed the rolled brim of her hat. She’d applied three jeweled hatpins, and all three were trying to tear her hair from her head. Perhaps she should have opted for a smaller hat, similar to the little straw bowler set at a perky angle in front of the thick braid secured into a coil at Abigail’s crown.

  Helena frowned. “Is it always this windy in Kansas?”

  “No, ma’am. Sometimes it’s downright blustery an’ carries a whole wall of dirt. We’re all enjoyin’ this nice mild weather.” He tipped his cap, turned on his heel, and hurried off.

  Abigail clamped her fingers over Helena’s wrist. “Did he say a wall of dirt?”

  Helena patted the younger woman’s hand, although unease pressed at her the way the wind pressed flat the ostrich feathers woven to her hat. “I’m sure he’s exaggerating. I’ve heard of dust storms, of course, but they are more prevalent on the open prairie and during the dry months. This is October, when fall rain and early snowfalls moisten the ground. Don’t borrow trouble, Abigail.”

  Abigail nodded, but her dubious expression brought a reminder of Marietta’s constant state of uncertainty, and sympathy struck anew. Helena offered another comforting pat on the young woman’s hand, and to her relief a small smile quivered on Abigail’s lips.

  Helena leaned against the lap siding and steeled herself against a yawn. Tiredness sent her thoughts drifting backward. She’d begun her matchmaking business partly because she’d enjoyed such wonderful years with her dear husband, Howard, and believed every woman should experience marital bliss at least once in life, but mostly because she’d witnessed the increasing sorrow in her dear sister’s eyes when suitor after suitor passed her by. From a business standing, Helena should have sent Abigail packing months ago, but from a personal standing, she couldn’t bear to do it. Marietta was well beyond hope, but Abigail was still young enough to march up the aisle in wedding finery. Helena vowed to do whatever she could to keep Abigail from falling into the same unhappy, dissatisfied pit in which Marietta now resided.

  The engine’s whistle blared, offering a welcome intrusion. Steam puffed from the smokestack, and the iron wheels groaned against the silver lines of track. The locomotive’s power vibrated the platform and the wooden bench, and tingles traveled u
p the back of Helena’s legs. The train rolled forward, the whistle continuing to pierce the air until the engine and all eight cars departed the town.

  A few minutes after the last whistle faded into the distance, a horse-drawn wagon drew close to the platform, and a thick-chested man with a dapper horseshoe-shaped mustache brought the team to a halt. He set the brake with a thrust of his boot, then leaped nimbly over the wagon’s edge. Dust rose when his feet met the ground, but the wind quickly whisked it away. He swatted his brown trousers and suit lapels with his palms, adjusted the ribbon at the throat of his plaid shirt, and finally lifted his gaze. It settled on Helena and Abigail. He stared at them through narrowed lids for several seconds and then gave a little nod, as if agreeing with himself about something.

  He clumped up on the platform and strode directly to them, dragging his cowboy hat from his head and revealing a headful of slicked-down dark hair as he came. His blue-eyed gaze drifted briefly to Abigail and then settled on Helena. “Good afternoon, ladies. Are you some of the brides from Massachusetts?”

  Helena rose and extended her hand. “I am Mrs. Helena Bingham, owner of Bingham’s Bevy of Brides. This is Miss Abigail Grant.” Abigail stood and dipped in a slight curtsy while gripping her reticule in front of her. “And you are…”

  “Mack Cleveland, ma’am.”

  Helena pressed her memory, but the name didn’t sound familiar. “Are you a prospective groom, Mr. Cleveland?”

  His clean-shaven cheeks blazed red. “Um, no, ma’am. But the men of Spiveyville are real excited about you all coming.” He glanced left and right. “Are the brides inside the station? It’s a four-hour drive back to Spiveyville, and I’d like to get loaded and on our way as quick as possible.”

  Abigail flicked a puzzled look at Helena.

  Helena looped her arm around Abigail’s waist. “It’s only the two of us.”