Bandit's Hope (21 page)

"A secret?" His interest piqued, Tiller scooted to the edge of his chair. "What did you tell her exactly?" He blinked. "If you’re free to say."

Otis thoughtfully scratched his cheek. "That’s the trouble, son. I don’t know if I’m free to say or not. I can’t remember what I said."

Frustrated, Tiller pressed him. "Try harder, Otis. It could be important."

A pained look crossed his face. "It’s no good. I’ve strained my thinker since it happened. Nothing comes to me. Not a whiff."

Tiller patted his trembling hand. "Easy. Don’t rile yourself. We’ll find another way to help her."

Otis pulled his hand free to squeeze Tiller’s fingers. "I know you’ll bust a gut trying, son. Because there’s nothing but good in you."

The flames grew unbearably hot, and the room closed in on Tiller. He ducked his head. "Please don’t call me that, sir. I’m a long way from good."

Otis smiled. "Ain’t we all when you get right down to it? The Good Book says, ‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’ We’re all sinners, boy. You’ve done no worse things than me."

Tiller swallowed hard, but the painful knot refused to budge. He slid out of Otis’s grasp. "I reckon that’s not so. I’m afraid I’ve done far worse. In fact, there’s something you need to know about me, and it’s time I told you the truth. Otis, I—"

Footsteps over their heads stemmed his words. Angry at the interruption, he scowled up at the stairwell.

Mariah stood a few steps off the top landing, her hand clutching the neck of a white dressing gown and her flowing hair draping her shoulders like a lustrous black cape. She was a vision straight from a man’s dreams.

Her expression was the only flaw, and the most striking thing about her. Sheer panic had frozen her features and paled her beautiful face.

Gaping at Otis as if she’d stumbled onto a ghoul, she spun on her heels. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt."

Otis stirred and reached his hand toward her. "Little missy, don’t go."

Leaping from his chair, Tiller started after her. Before he reached the bottom stair, she was gone in a whirl of white lace.

"There, you see?" Otis said, wonder in his voice.

Stunned, Tiller stared over his shoulder. "For pity’s sake. She was scared stiff."

Otis pointed a shaky finger. "That’s the same look she had when I gave her the message from God."

TWENTY-ONE

T
he road home had changed. Not because of overgrown trails or washed-out bridges—things a man might expect. Joe felt the difference in his spirit, a restless sense of going in the wrong direction.

On other trips to Mississippi, the past lured him. Each step closer to the land of his ancestors stoked an eager fire within. This time the miles drained him as he rode away from the cabin he shared with his wife.

The full moon overhead lit his way. After the first long day, Joe had traveled at night when most of the world rested. At first light, he sought hidden places to sleep before the roads filled with travelers. This way, he fell asleep knowing he would see trouble before it spotted him.

He followed a winding, scum-coated creek for miles until the water ran fast and clear again. Reining the horse beside a mayhaw thicket, he eased his aching body from the saddle and lay on his belly for a drink from the rushing stream.

After tending the animal’s needs, he built a fire to heat a tin of beans. With his bones warmed and belly full, he spread his bedroll in a clutch of trees as fiery orange rays from
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peeked over the tall grass on the horizon, setting it aflame.

Overhead, a spiraling cyclone of buzzards rose and fell over a distant carcass. The birds reminded him of an ancient tale, the day the animals held a powwow to decide who would steal fire for their tribe. Brave buzzard volunteered to fly to the people of the east and return with fire, which he did without delay. Swooping close to the flames, he hid a burning ember in the long, beautiful feathers on his head. For his trouble, he got a bald, blistered skull to wear for the rest of his days.

Smiling at the old legend, Joe yawned and smacked lazily, the pleasing taste of beans lingering on his tongue. He closed his eyes, wondering if his skirmish with John Coffee would earn him the same fate as the poor buzzard. In previous battles, they’d parted company with the stench of burning feathers in the air. He doubted this time would be different.

Joe loved Mariah, felt a pressing weight of duty to see her marry well. He couldn’t deny that the promise of three fine horses and a passel of land sweetened the deal.

With his niece wed to the chief’s son, Joe would move into a choice position within the tribe. With little George coming, it was a fine place to be. These things he wouldn’t bother telling John. The man seemed blind to their traditions.

For all his trying ways, John’s love for Mariah was great. John’s devotion to his daughter was Joe’s biggest hindrance, but this time he wouldn’t leave Mississippi without her.

He drew the musty blanket over his eyes to shut out the rising sun. Just a few more days to reach the Mississippi crossing. Less than a week and he’d arrive at his destination. He still had plenty of time to work out a plan to steal John Coffee’s fire. For now, his biggest need was rest.

Hooper dashed the dregs from his coffee cup into the fire and kicked dirt over the ashes. They’d slept too long, but after days of hard riding, they were a sore and sorry lot—with a lot more ground left to cover.

Wyatt approached, a bleary-eyed version of himself. "I’ve packed the horses, and Ellie’s scouting the trail. You about ready to go?"

Hooper groaned. "Not in the least. What happened to us, Wyatt? Our gang used to ride the swamp for days, short on sleep and provisions with muddy water lapping our stirrups and a posse on our tails." He reached to rub the small of his back. "I don’t remember once feeling this stiff."

Wyatt grinned. "Good thing you mended your ways, old man." He tightened the neck of his flask and slung it over one shoulder. "Hoop, that was ten years ago. We’re not that band of raiders anymore."

"Still, it don’t make a lick of sense," Hooper said. "I work as hard as any man running my farm."

"Not the same. It’s not easy sleeping on a train for days or riding the overgrown trails around Jackson. These saddles bore in deep after so many miles."

Hooper lowered his voice. "Don’t let on to Ellie, but I miss my feather bed."

Wyatt burst into laughter. "Ellie’s hero? Missing his comforts? You can bet I won’t tell her that."

Ellie ducked out of the trees behind them. "Tell me what?"

Wyatt spun. "Take my word, honey. You’re better off not knowing."

Hooper nudged him. "Why doesn’t my sister look any worse for wear? She woke me up at dawn, scurrying around camp like a youngster on an outing."

Wyatt slipped his arm around Ellie’s waist. "This stuff is in her blood." He gave her a little shake. "Besides, running after our boys keeps her able-bodied. I doubt those sweet cherubs of yours give much of a chase."

Ellie grinned. "Things will change when they’re courting age, Hoop. You’ll stay fit chasing suitors from your door."

He frowned. "No lop-eared boy will come closer than shotgun range. Not a second time, at least."

Wyatt slapped him on the back. "Best keep a good stock of shells around the house. As pretty as your two gals are, half the boys in Hope Mills will be plucking buckshot from their behinds."

Hooper hefted his pack and nodded toward the sun. "Let’s get going. We should’ve been on the road two hours by now."

Ellie pulled away from Wyatt to straighten Hooper’s collar, an obvious excuse to search his eyes. "Do you think we’ll have any luck this time?"

Hooper ran his hand along the back of her head. "We have a good lead. If Tiller’s alive, we’re bound to stumble onto more information." He squeezed her shoulder. "Don’t fret, Ellie. We’ll search Mississippi until we find him."

TWENTY-TWO

T
he blustery weather seemed the right setting for the storm brewing within the walls of Bell’s Inn. Since Tiller opened his eyes, the house had echoed with deafening silence. The kind wrought by the mutual cold shoulders of quarreling women.

If not for their angry steps on the stairs and their scornful snorts as they passed in the hall outside his room, Tiller would swear no females lived in the house—until a ruckus commenced in the kitchen.

His stomach growled, but with the alarming clatter of dishes and the banging of pots and pans, he didn’t dare venture out to fill it. He worried about the poor men who’d paid to spend another breakfast with Mariah and Miss Vee. He doubted Mariah’s biscuits were worth blundering into that skirmish.

Another glance past the curtains at the swirling cloud bank drew his concerns to a more pressing matter—whether or not they’d wind up running for cover. He didn’t relish spending the morning huddled in the cellar with Mariah and Miss Vee. Considering the whole house didn’t seem big enough for their spat, he’d sooner take his chances with a twister.

Lightning flashed outside his window, filling the yard with brilliant light. The peal of thunder that followed and the way it shook the house made the cellar seem like a good idea after all.

Braving the tempest in the kitchen was unavoidable. He had to warn the women.

Tiller snatched his hat from the hook on the wall, reliving for a moment how he’d swiped it right off Nathan’s head. Pushing aside the prickly memory, he swept out the door and down the hall.

At the kitchen door, he took a deep breath and boldly stepped inside. Gloom hung from the rafters like cemetery fog. Just as he feared, the poor lodgers hunkered over their plates picking at their food in silence, their wary eyes skittering between Miss Vee and Mariah.

Formidable, stiff-shouldered Miss Vee scoured a cast iron skillet so hard she’d soon wear through the bottom. Scowling, straight-backed Mariah scrubbed the silver off her utensils, tossing them on the counter with a loud, careless clatter. Dicey lurked inside the dim pantry, staring out with frightened eyes.

Mr. Lenard, the wretched fellow who’d requested more biscuits, nibbled on the corner of one, frowning like a man forced to eat sawdust. Bickering women could sure ruin a man’s day.

Noticing Tiller on the threshold, his face lit up as if he’d spotted a lifeline. "Look, boys. Here’s our fish fryer. How are you this morning, son?"

Tiller nodded. "I’m fine, sir. At least for now." He lifted the curtain from the back door to peer out. The oak tree seemed to reach for him, pleading with wildly waving limbs for a rest he couldn’t give. It wouldn’t do for a tree that size to be split by lightning or hurled by the wind. If the big oak fell on the house, there’d be nothing left to repair. "Hasn’t anyone noticed it’s blowing up a powerful gale?"

All three women glanced his way.

"There’s been a little thunder and wind," Miss Vee said. "I just figured it for another rainstorm."

Tiller’s somber gaze moved from her to Mariah. "If we’re lucky, rain is all we’ll get."

Mariah opened the wooden blind over the sink with her thumb. "It’s that bad?"

Dicey crowded beside her to peek out. "Mercy sakes, them pines swaying right for us."

"It’s not the pine I’m worried about," Tiller said. "If the wind kicks up a notch, that oak will be joining us for breakfast."

Dicey tried to smile, but her chin wobbled. "Mista’ Tilla’, you funnin’ us."

"I wish I was." He met Mariah’s frightened stare. "Is the root cellar fit for company?"

She looked dazed. A white ring of fear lined her mouth. "I honestly don’t know. I haven’t been down there in so long." Drying her hands on her apron, she tugged the strings and laid it aside. "What will we need?"

Tiller shrugged "Water, I suppose. A lantern or two." He opened the door, and the wind rushed in, wildly billowing curtains, tablecloths, and the ladies’ skirts.

"Shut it, Mista’ Tilla’, please!" Dicey screamed, stooping to the floor and covering her head.

Ignoring her shrill cries, Tiller held Mariah’s gaze. "I’ll go down and check things out. Wait here unless I call you."

She nodded.

"Hold up, son." Mr. Lenard wiped his mouth and stood. "I’ll go with you."

Miss Vee stood on tiptoe to pull down a candle and a box of long matches. "Take these. You’ll need them."

Mr. Lenard fisted them and scurried out the door on Tiller’s heels.

Tiller had spotted the cellar doors from the roof when he made his repairs. Clutching his hat, he ran to that side of the house. With his free hand, he latched onto the handle and motioned for Mr. Lenard to take the other side. They pulled together, and dirt sifted like flour into the dark hole in the ground.

Tiller went first, feeling his way down the slanted ladder. Before ducking inside, he paused for another quick look at the storm. The sky held a greenish cast, and the peaks of the tall, dark clouds were churning.

Mr. Lenard stood above him staring at the fearsome sight, his clothes flapping around his large frame. He glanced at Tiller with an ominous shake of his head.

Tiller descended into the darkness, batting away spider webs and crumbling dirt dauber mounds from the rungs. At the bottom, he moved aside for Mr. Lenard, who sprang to the ground and turned his back on the drafty opening to light the candle. Shielding the flame with his palm, he held it aloft.