Beneath a Prairie Moon by Kim Vogel Sawyer

Author:Kim Vogel Sawyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2018-03-20T04:00:00+00:00

He jumped. He turned around and scowled at her. “What’re you doin’ there, hidin’ like a sneak?”

“I…I was merely—”

He shook his head. “Never mind. Sheriff Thorn’s walkin’ Miz Bingham over to Preacher Doan’s to let him know about the classes startin’ up tomorrow. She said to tell you to go up to your room an’ study. She’ll take care o’ the cleanin’ chores by her own self when she gets back.”

Abigail peeked into the dining room. Any man who wasn’t eating was cavorting as if he’d had access to a barrel of malt beverage. How would she find the courage to walk past the boisterous bunch to the stairs? She’d rather stay in the kitchen and wash dishes until they all went home.

“You goin’ or what?”

“I…”

“Miz Bingham said—”

“Yes, yes, Athol, I heard you.” She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. How could she have called him by his given name? These men’s improper ways were seeping into her being. She jerked her hand downward. “I’m going.”

With her shoulders back and head high, she forced her feet to carry her out of the kitchen and around the corner. She eased along the wall toward the front of the restaurant, as far as possible from the dancing men. The long bar provided a welcome barrier between her and the diners. Once behind it, she considered crouching low and waiting until everyone left, but fear of discovery compelled her to dart to the opposite end.

As she stepped clear of the bar, the dancers stopped their stomping and formed a circle. They linked elbows, swayed from side to side, and broke into a rowdy song about buffalo gals dancing by the light of the moon. She had no idea what a buffalo gal was, but she feared it described the kind of women who’d once lived in the upstairs rooms. Her face flamed at the thought.

Some of the diners clapped, others sang, and still others bobbed their heads and smiled. None seemed to take notice of her, however, and she continued her trek for the stairs. She’d made it halfway across the front wall when her familiar nemesis, W. C. Miller, latched gazes with her. With a broad grin, he broke loose from the swaying circle and wove between tables, still singing, and made a beeline for her. She sped her steps, and he did, too, but by lifting the hem of her skirt and running—how she hoped Mother wasn’t peering through one of heaven’s portals to witness her unladylike display—she made it to the stairs before he reached her.

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