Bandit's Hope (10 page)

Mariah huffed her frustration and fell against the back of her chair. "What’s your point to all this?"

The older woman’s face lit up. "I’m proposing that Tiller stay on and make the repairs in exchange for room and board—with a few buttered rolls thrown into the bargain." She winked. "If you think her yeast bread is good, wait till you taste her pies."

Her eyes darting between them, Mariah scooted to the edge of her seat. "Oh my, you really should’ve run your plan by me first. You see, I already have the repairs worked out."

Miss Vee crossed her arms. "Let me guess. You intend on tackling them yourself, don’t you?"

Mariah opened her mouth to speak, but Miss Vee’s hand shot up. "Young lady, you have more than enough to say grace over. Dash your pride and accept Tiller’s help." Her bottom lip trembled. "For pity’s sake, accept my help. I feel responsible for you in your father’s absence."

Pulling a handkerchief from her waistband, she wiped her eyes. "I’m suggesting this idea for John’s sake as much as yours. He’ll still be recuperating when he comes home. I won’t have him climbing ladders and toting lumber." She shook her finger in Mariah’s face. "One thing’s certain, he’d roll over and die before he’d allow you to do it."

Mariah’s cup shattered in a spray of milky-white tea and shards of porcelain. Flinching, she dropped the jagged remnants at her feet.

Miss Vee struggled to stand. "Oh, honey! I’m so sorry. It must’ve cracked when I poured in the hot water. Are you hurt?"

Tiller snatched a folded towel from the tray. Skirting the table, he inspected Mariah’s hands and found a cut, small but deep enough to bleed. He wrapped the cloth around her wound while Miss Vee shook the broken pieces from her frock and blotted creamy splatter from her chin.

"I’m all right," Mariah said quietly. "It’s nothing. Please don’t fuss."

"We’re going to make sure, if you don’t mind." Miss Vee peered at her face. "I pray no glass flew inside your eyes. Do they sting when you blink?"

Mariah shook her head. "Really, I’m fine." She swiped at her wet skirt. "Though I would like to get upstairs and change."

"Of course, dear." Miss Vee slid her arm around Mariah’s waist. "Come, I’ll help you."

"What about Mr. Gooch?" Mariah asked.

"Don’t fret," Miss Vee said, urging her forward. "I’ll take first watch."

Concerned, Tiller followed them to the landing.

At the foot of the stairs, Miss Vee paused. "We’ll all sleep better if we get this thing settled." Biting her bottom lip, she raised her brows. "Will you do it, Tiller? Will you stay on at Bell’s Inn and help us?"

He studied Mariah’s face, but it offered no hint to her thoughts. "If I were to agree, would it be all right with you?"

Her sigh, sweet with the smell of honey, stirred the air between them. "I can’t think of a good enough reason to say no."

Tiller smiled. "Tell you what … I’ll chew on it overnight and let you know my decision in the morning."

Winking, Miss Vee pointed at the tray on the table. "While you ponder, chew on one of Mariah’s iced cakes. If you decide to hang around, there will be plenty more to follow."

Once they’d gone, Tiller bit into the confection, rolling the buttery goodness over his tongue. Delicious. Only sweetness didn’t set right in a mouth filled with questions. The proud mistress of Bell’s Inn, hard to figure from the start, just became a delightful riddle.

Mariah may have Miss Vee fooled, but not Tiller. Hot water had nothing to do with the broken cup. Some word or deed clenched the girl’s fingers so fiercely she’d crushed it to bits.

Was it Miss Vee’s reminder of Mariah’s responsibilities? The rebuke about her pride? Perhaps the mention of her father, wherever the absent man might be.

Snatching one more cake, Tiller munched on it as he made his way to his room. He intended to replay every second of the evening in his mind until he figured out what thistle had so sorely pricked Miss Mariah’s winsome hide.

NINE

T
he sun began a slow crawl up the far horizon as Joe reached the end of his rutted lane. By nightfall, it would slide down the backside of the sky and sleep closer to Myrtle than he would.

He had a long ride ahead to reach Mississippi, and the same distance to come back. In between loomed the time it would take to convince John Coffee to release Mariah.

Joe halted his pony and shifted in the saddle to stare behind him. His ancestors left their Mississippi homeland in tears, but the place Joe had carved out of the vast Indian Territory was
apookta.
His happy place. Long, lonely days stretched ahead before he could return.

Gray smoke swirled from the crooked stovepipe, reminding him of the pleasant morning spent with his wife. Myrtle had slipped out of bed early or else hadn’t turned back the covers at all, since she’d managed to wash and pack all of his clothes, load his rucksack, and prepare a breakfast fit for three men.

In light of the fact Joe was leaving, and considering the news she’d served alongside his eggs and fried bread, she probably hadn’t slept a wink all night. Tears had brightened her eyes in the firelight—tears of joy or fear, he couldn’t tell—before she lowered her chin to her chest and whispered the words he’d waited twenty years to hear.

Myrtle would bear him a son, for surely a male child wrestled for life beneath her bosom. He’d been too patient, too hopeful for the babe to be anything else. They’d call him George after George Hudson, the first principal chief under the new Choctaw constitution. Joe would teach him to hunt and fish, to honor his mother, and to sit tall at tribal council.

Myrtle said the miracle came to her in November, near the time of the white man’s Thanksgiving. For the first time in Joe’s life, there would be cause to celebrate the season.

He couldn’t help but wonder why fate waited until all hope had dimmed. Why the gift had come at a time when he wouldn’t be home to share its unfolding.

In the distance, Myrtle stepped out of the front door with a dishpan in her hand, hustled to the edge of the porch, and let the water fly in a silvery arc that caught the morning light.

Watching her dart inside, Joe sighed with contentment, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His wife had carried the child and the secret close to her heart for nearly six months, which meant the boy would come by the dawn of the Mulberry Moon.

Sudden pain squeezed his chest and worry tickled the back of his mind. Myrtle was spritely for her age but hardly a girl. Fretting drove her to bustle about, looking for work to fill her hands and occupy her troubled mind. She’d toil hard, sleep few hours, and eat too little until he returned. He imagined her lumbering about the cabin, hauling water, chopping wood, bent over the washboard, her body swollen with his child.

The picture set his teeth on edge. John would not stand in his way this time. Mariah would be a comfort to her aunt in her condition and a great help with the baby. With his niece settled in his home, his obligation to his sister fulfilled at last, Joe could relax and enjoy his new son.

Ghostlike, Myrtle appeared again, drifting across the porch with one hand on her stomach, the other splayed over her heart. She stared toward the southern pasture, her back to him. Joe knew she wept even before she leaned into the rail and gripped her face.

He clenched his jaw and fought the urge to turn the dun pony and race to her side, take her in his arms, and soothe her fears. With a leaden heart, he forced his eyes to the front and tapped the horse’s flank with his heels.

Home wouldn’t be apookta for Myrtle until Joe returned, but his spirit couldn’t rest until he settled his business with John Coffee. The sooner he began the journey, the better for all concerned.

TEN

To the honorable Dr. T.
Moony

Canton, Mississippi

Dear Dr. Moony,

This letter serves to inform you of my father’s recent demise. As you predicted, his condition worsened day by day until, on the evening before last, shortly before the midnight hour, he lost his feeble hold on this life and passed into blessed rest. I want to thank you for your kind administrations in our hour of need.

Respectfully,

Miss Mariah Minti Bell

P.S. The enclosed should cancel the balance of my debt.

Mariah laid down her pen, the tightness in her chest beginning to ease. She would seal the letter and hire Rainy to deliver it first thing this morning. The money tucked inside should satisfy her debt in full and cancel her prior arrangement to make payments for Father’s care. Once she’d paid her bill, Dr. Moony would have no reason to return to the inn. They had no friends or relatives in Canton, no close connections in town, so the good doctor wouldn’t likely mention the death of John Coffee Bell to anyone there.

Her shoulders tensed as Mr. Gooch’s pain-wracked face drifted into her mind. She and Miss Vee had taken turns sitting with their battered guest throughout a fitful night. The right thing would be to bring Dr. Moony out to care for him, but doing the right thing would roll the boulder that sealed her tomb.

Unlike the blessed Savior, there’d be no resurrection.

If Mr. Gooch took a turn for the worse, she’d have no choice. For now, everyone seemed perfectly content with the Indian healer. Thankfully, Tobias accepted goods in trade for his services since she had no money to pay him—she patted the bulging envelope addressed to Dr. Moony—especially now.

Mariah stared out the window, biting her bottom lip. Which need would get the meager few dollars she had left? The help’s salaries or stocking the pantry? Feeding Sheki or repairing the loose boards and chipped railing?

Jutting her chin, she counted out the few dollars she owed Miss Vee, Dicey, and Rainy and set them aside. Those dear ones wouldn’t suffer lack because of her deception. She’d find some way to cover the other needs.

A knock on the door brought her hand up to hide the letter. "Yes?"

Miss Vee peered in. "Are you awake?" She stepped inside, her brow etched with concern. "You’re usually downstairs brewing coffee by now."

Crumpling the letter, Mariah hid it in the folds of her skirt. "Gracious, I know. I’m dawdling worse than Dicey this morning. A lingering touch of spring fever, I suppose."

"We’re two days into June, Mariah. The time for spring fever is past." Mariah shot her a pointed look, and she held up her hand. "All right. I won’t hover." At the door, she paused and smiled. "But hurry along, will you? We have to fill Tiller’s stomach in case he’s decided to accept your proposition. He’ll need strength to tackle all those repairs."

My proposition?
Hardly. Miss Vee and Tiller had worked out the terms of the arrangement across the top of her unwilling head. "I’ll feed him, though I have doubts about filling his stomach. Go on down. I’ll be right along."

Laughing, Miss Vee pulled the door closed behind her.

Mariah glanced up and frowned at her anxious face in the mirror. With Miss Vee’s reminder, the web of deceit tightened. If Tiller accepted the job, he would need building material. Lumber, shingles, and nails weren’t free.

The thought of her redheaded guest quirked her mouth to the side. Tiller had wriggled under her skin on several different occasions. So far, this day fared no better. How dare the insufferable man ride into her life and provoke such angst?

First, he’d positively leered at her in front of the Jones brothers, implying with his crooked grin that he’d read her private thoughts. Last night he’d tracked her up the stairs with a knowing gaze that peered right into her soul.

She cringed. Tiller couldn’t possibly know why she broke the cup, but she had been admiring Christopher’s flashing eyes and Justin’s dazzling smile, so he wasn’t far off the mark on that score. Even so, a gentleman wouldn’t blatantly accuse her. Blast his foul manners!

How dare Miss Vee ask him to stay on against Mariah’s wishes? Could she bear having Tiller McRae and his bloated self-assurance underfoot every minute of the day? With a man like him around, a woman’s secrets weren’t safe.

A shudder took her, and she slanted her eyes from the mirror. One secret he mustn’t guess. She determined to bear the weight of it with more care, no matter how heavy it lay on her shoulders.

Tiller fastened the last button on his shirt then plopped on the bed to pull on his boots. The familiar rattle of a woman in the kitchen drifted down the hallway, along with the unmistakable smell of brewed coffee.

Whatever breakfast came of the clanging pots and pans would be welcome, but Tiller needed the coffee. He had flipped like a gambler’s nickel half the night, twisting the quilt around his legs and dragging his sheets from the bed.

Once he admitted he wasn’t ready to leave Bell’s Inn whatever the risk, the decision to accept Miss Vee’s offer came easy. After that, so did sleep, what little he got before the sun peeked through the blinds.

He pulled the snaggletoothed comb from his pocket and smoothed back his hair, grateful the bright orange color of his youth had mellowed some to match his beard. Fingering the two days’ growth on his chin, he decided shaving could wait one more day.