Bandit's Hope (14 page)

Lowering his face to his hands, Papa groaned. "All these years I’ve judged my brother a shiftless no-account, begrudging his wife and son the necessities of life. When all the time, his sin was not having the backbone to stand up to Effie."

"In fairness to Uncle Sol," Hooper said, recalling his own daunting encounters with the fearsome woman, "she was a mighty hard person to stand up to."

Papa began to cry quietly, the only evidence his quivering shoulders.

Mama glanced at Hooper, and he stepped behind the chair and wrapped his arms around his papa’s neck. "Don’t weep, sir. I feel mighty bad to be bringing you this news. I know how you’ve grieved for that boy."

"And shouldn’t I grieve? It’s my fault he ran off. At the first spell of trouble between us, I threatened to send him back to Fayetteville, straight into Effie’s stingy arms."

He gazed up at Hooper with tears wetting his cheeks. "Son, it all makes sense now. No wonder the boy ran away. In his shoes, I’d be done with the lot of us, too."

Pa wiped his face with his sleeve. "I wish he was standing here now, so I could tell him he’ll never have to go without again."

Ellie squeezed in behind him and kissed the top of his head. "You tried to find him, Papa. We all did."

He raised tortured eyes. "But we quit looking. We never should’ve stopped until that boy was home again."

Wyatt slid his arm around Ellie’s waist. "Sir, my family searched for Nathan right alongside you. It’s tough to find someone who doesn’t want to be found."

Ma patted Wyatt’s back. "Forgive us, dear. We get so caught up in mourning Tiller, we forget your brother’s missing, too."

Wyatt shot her a wry glance. "You’re being kind, Miss Odie. We all know Nathan’s not missing. He ran away and hauled your nephew with him." He sighed. "Tiller was just a boy. Nathan was old enough to know better." He gripped the arm of Papa’s chair. "Mr. Silas, if anybody’s at fault, it’s my little brother."

Pa wagged his grizzled head. "I suppose the days for blame is past, son. Ten years have come and gone since those two left the swamp. God forgive us, what did we do with the time?"

Ellie knelt at his side. "We built homes and bore children, pitched in to help Scuffletown recover from the war. It’s been a busy time for us all, but things are quieter now." She glanced around the room. "Why can’t we start our search again?"

Hooper gave her a tender smile. "Actually, that’s why we’re here. I aim to do just that. And this time I’m going to look until I find them."

Ellie’s face lit up, and she shot to her feet. "I’ll go."

Leaning to see around her, Hooper widened his eyes at Wyatt. "What do you say, old man? I’d like for you and Ellie both to come."

A tiny frown rippled Wyatt’s forehead. "But, sugar … what about our boys?"

Hooper nodded at his wife. "That’s one reason Dawsey’s here. She’s willing to stay behind and care for the twins."

Wyatt flashed Dawsey a grimace then pushed back his hair with both hands. "I don’t know, Hoop. We could be gone for weeks. Dawsey doesn’t realize what she’s signing on for."

Ma pushed into the circle, worrying a tattered dishrag. "I’ll help out, Wyatt. I’ll go over to your place every day to untie her and put out the fires."

Dawsey’s wide eyes swung to the boys. All four wore angelic smiles.

Hooper absently patted her shoulder, his attention turning to Ellie. "It’s a long time to be away from your boys, little sis. I wouldn’t ask if you didn’t track a man better than a hound dog."

Pa shook his head. "There’s nothing left to track. The trail is long cold."

"Maybe not." Hooper squatted in front of the rocker. "Aunt Effie’s neighbor spoke of a local fellow who went to see Effie a few months before she died. This man had just returned from a trip to Mississippi. He swore he saw Tiller strolling along the boardwalk in a town by the name of Canton."

Pa’s eyes lit up. "You don’t say?"

"Aunt Effie called him a fool among other names. She said he had to be drunk or seeing things because Tiller was dead and gone. That got him mad, so he’s had plenty to say around town. I looked him up and talked to him myself."

"And?" Pa asked.

"I believe him. I think the man he saw was Tiller."

"Why do you set such stock in a stranger’s opinion?"

"Because"—Hooper’s gaze jumped to each of them in turn—"when the stranger called Tiller’s name, he spun around to look and then ducked down an alley."

Excitement surged in the room like the tension before a storm.

"And Nathan?" Wyatt asked, his tone hopeful.

"Sorry, buddy. Tiller appeared to be alone, but if he’s in Canton, Mississippi, you can bet Nathan’s close by."

The corners of Papa’s eyes crinkled the way they did when he was thinking. "I know where Canton is. About twenty … thirty days’ ride on a good horse."

"Thirty days," Ma said. "That’s a long time."

Hooper nodded. "Yes, it is. That’s why we’re taking the train. We’ll book passage to Jackson then hire some horses. If we have to, we’ll ride every inch of the state until we find a good lead."

Wyatt worried his bottom lip, his brow creased in thought. "Suppose Nathan and Tiller don’t want to be found, Hoop? Did you consider that possibility? We’re not looking for boys this time around. They’re grown men and likely to be settled somewhere. Raising families."

Pa slapped the arm of his chair. "No sir, I don’t believe that for a minute. Those two have been up to no good. Only shame will keep a man away from home and family this long." He sighed. "Still … we can’t let that stop us."

He shifted his gaze to the glowing hearth. "Tiller may not want to be found—that wouldn’t surprise me—but if the boy ever decides to come home, it’ll start by learning he’s welcome."

FOURTEEN

M
ariah stuck her muddy foot under the spout and worked the pump’s squeaky handle. Ice-cold water shot out in a burst, splashing her bare ankles. She squealed and jumped back then forced her toes under the flow, wiggling to wash the thick, dried clay from between them.

Next she washed the basket of lettuce she’d cut from the garden. She told herself she might as well pick a few heads while she was dressed for grubbing in the dirt. In truth, she was stalling while she found the right words to apologize to Miss Vee.

Shading her eyes, she scanned the rooftop until she found Tiller kneeling next to the side gable. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop watching him.

He had rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt since leaving the barn, probably once he climbed onto the sun-baked shingles. A dark circle of sweat moistened his back, and his shirttails flapped in the breeze.

She admired the pleasing way his chest appeared chiseled and his tanned skin glistened in the sun. Even more, she liked how he’d laughed like a small boy in the barn and then gazed at her so boldly. In his own way, Tiller McRae was more fetching than the sons of Tobias Jones.

Stop it, Mariah!
Embarrassed, she tugged her attention back to washing her feet.

She may as well get such thoughts right out of her head. No matter how striking she found him, she needed a weak-willed nahullo. One she could lead by the nose and persuade to do her will. Swaggering, self-assured Tiller simply wouldn’t do.

By his own admission, he lived the life of an aimless drifter with no family ties. Not exactly the sort of man to trust with the reins to Bell’s Inn. Or with her heart.

Balancing on one foot at a time, she dried them on her dress. Giving the handle one last crank, she leaned to the spigot for a drink and saw Tiller from the corner of her eye, watching from the roof. By his appreciative stare and the way his hammer slowed, Tiller found her just as much the distraction. Mariah hid her smile and pretended not to notice.

Straightening, she started across the yard, glancing up in time to see Tiller miss the nail and hit his thumb. With a howl of pain, he shook the battered appendage then stuffed it in his mouth.

She covered her mouth to suppress a giggle and scurried across the yard to the back porch. Ducking through the door into the kitchen, she paused at the mirror to gape at her dirt-streaked chin and messy hair, mortified that she’d sat with Tiller in the barn acting the grand lady when she looked like a windblown wretch.

She needed to change her soggy, mud-splattered dress, but first she’d find Miss Vee and beg forgiveness.

"Mornin’ again."

Mariah spun, clutching her bodice, and glared at Dicey grinning from the pantry. "Dicey Turner! Must you creep around all the time?"

Dicey tilted her head. "Since when is fetching the lard creepin’? Folks in this house mighty jumpy." Her startled gaze leaped to Mariah’s tangled locks and filthy dress. Pointing as if Mariah might not be aware of her bedraggled state, she gasped. "Look here what the cat dragged in. What done happen to you?"

"Never mind. Just get on with the piecrusts then start kneading the bread. It’ll be lunchtime soon."

Still staring, Dicey heaved the lard bucket to the counter. "Yes’m, but I hope you plan to wash up and change ‘fore you start messin’ about this kitchen."

Mariah smiled. "I’m going upstairs to clean up, but I’ll come right back in to help." She started for the hall then turned. "When you’re done with the dough, run out to the smokehouse and get a ham. If I’m not back in time, trim the fat for a pot of beans and put the rest in the oven. While you’re there, bring in a link of venison sausage." Remembering Tiller, she glanced toward the roof. "Best make it three."

"Miss Mariah, you sure?" Dicey blinked her confusion. "It ain’t like we got us a full house. Who gon’ eat all that?"

Mariah sidestepped to the mirror again to wind a coil of hair at the base of her neck. "They’ll come. I’m praying hard for guests."

"You praying for miracles."

"We need one," Mariah said over her shoulder. "The coffers are on their last breath. In the meantime, we have meat in store and a man on the roof working up a healthy appetite."

Dicey rolled her eyes. "Ain’t nothin’ healthy ’bout the way he eat. For a tall, skinny man, he got a reckless hunger."

Mariah’s fingers stilled on her hair. "You really think he’s too thin? I don’t find him the least bit skinny."

Dicey cocked her head to the side and grinned. "Uh, huh. It’s like that, is it? Jus’ how does you find him?"

Tugging her eyes from the mirror and the slow flush crawling up her neck, Mariah turned. "Miss Vee’s been reading to you from those trashy dime novels again. Now, where did she get off to?"

"She tending that old man. He finally decide to wake up."

"He did? Oh, Dicey, why didn’t you say so?"

Dicey cocked her hip. "I jus’ did."

Mariah hurried down the hallway to what she’d come to think of as the sickroom. Pausing at the door, she cautiously peered inside.

Miss Vee had a chair pulled up to the bed, her back and shoulders rounded as she leaned to feed her patient spoonfuls of what appeared to be oatmeal.

Otis Gooch sat up in bed, dutifully opening his mouth. He gummed the cereal with pursed lips, smacking disgracefully.

"Last bite," Miss Vee said then wiped his mouth as if he were a child. Standing, she placed the bowl on the nightstand.

Mariah slipped up from behind and caught her hand, stretching to whisper in her ear. "Forgive me?"

Miss Vee’s rigid body relaxed. Her fingers twined with Mariah’s and squeezed. "Look, honey. Our patient’s on the mend."

Mr. Gooch lay propped against two pillows, a weak but contented smile on his face. "If my head didn’t hurt so fierce, I’d swear the Almighty sent two ministering angels to escort me home." He chuckled. "But I reckon I’m still earthbound. If’n I was in heaven, you wouldn’t be covered in muck, little missy." The man peered closer. "Though I’m thinking this one might be one of your angels, Lord, muddy or not. She sure looks like one."

Mariah smiled down at him. "No angel here, sir. Just a flesh and blood woman, uncommonly prone to frailties and faults." She glanced over her shoulder. "Just ask my dear friend."

Mr. Gooch winked. "Honey, you’ll do just fine."

He held out his trembling hand and Mariah took it, settling in Miss Vee’s vacated chair. The bony fingers felt fragile in her grip, and the wrinkled, paper-thin skin softer than silk to the touch.

"I can’t tell you how grateful I am," he said. "You folks are like the Good Samaritan come to life right out of the scriptures."

Mariah shook her head. "Not at all. We’re just the innkeepers. The real Samaritans were the men who brought you here and left without telling us their names. They saved your life."

He frowned and tilted his head. "One of them a red-haired fella? I seem to remember someone …"

Mariah patted his hand. "You must mean Mr. McRae. He’s a guest here." She glanced at Miss Vee. "At least he was until we hired him on. He works for us now, so you’ll be seeing him again."

"Well, that’s good because I—" He grimaced, and his wobbly hand rose to his temple. "I want to thank him, too."

Miss Vee touched Mariah’s shoulder. "Come along, sugar. We’re tiring him."

Standing, Mariah stepped aside to let Miss Vee move closer to the bed. She pulled the extra pillow from behind Otis’s head, easing him down. "You rest up, now. I’ll brew a cup of feverfew tea for that headache."

Wincing, he shaded his eyes against the light. "I don’t want you ladies fretting about the cost of my keep. I can pay you for your trouble. You can count on that." Struggling to sit up again, he waved his skinny arm. "I have money. Lots of it. My whole life savings is"—he strained forward, craning his neck to search the room—"s–somewhere."

His bleary gaze focused on a point across the room, and he lifted one bent finger. "There he is. That’s the man I was talking about."

Miss Vee and Mariah turned toward the door, but no one was there. They gave each other knowing looks.

"Well, I’ll be." The poor man seemed confused. "The fella’ disappeared. Just like that." He blinked at Mariah. "Why’s he all wet?"

Squeezing past Miss Vee, she gripped his shoulders and urged him against the bed. "Just rest, Mr. Gooch."