Bandit's Hope (18 page)

She tightened her lips and turned her head to the side.

Tiller teased the top of her hand with his finger. "Do you want me to wait and ask your pa? Is that it? Because I don’t mind waiting."

Frowning, she jerked away. "You’re wrong for me, Tiller McRae."

Anger flashed on his face. "Why do you think so?"

"Because you’re a dandelion," she spat.

"A what?" His voice came out shrill. "Woman, you’re not making any sense."

Her fury rose to meet his. "You live like the wind, with no ties to anything. The roots you shun have me bound to this place heart and soul."

Understanding softened his eyes. "Mariah, there’s more to me than an aimless drifter. If you’d take the time to get to know me—"

Tears washed over her cheeks in an unexpected flood. "That’s just it. I’m out of time." Darting past him, she bolted for the door.

Tiller watched Mariah go with sickening dread. Every step she took pounded deeper regret into his wounded soul. He’d felt the same empty sorrow while fleeing Scuffletown, a sense of sudden, irreplaceable loss.

What had she meant by "out of time"? It could only mean she planned to send him packing now that he’d finished most of the repairs.

Tiller slapped the counter so hard his palm stung. He’d miss the hard work. The garden. The little room he’d made his own. Teasing talks with Miss Vee and Dicey. Long walks along the Pearl with Mariah.

Without her, he’d miss the childlike pleasure of a new porch. Bible lessons from a nodding sunflower. Bare feet and muddy toes.

In a rush of certainty, Tiller knew he couldn’t leave her. He belonged with Mariah as surely as they both belonged at the inn. He had to find a way to make her believe it.

Reaching the back door in purposeful strides, he yanked it open.

Mariah stood on the top step, watching a big man climb down from his wagon.

Tiller tensed, his eyes jumping to the hammer he’d laid outside the door.

Mariah didn’t seem threatened, though she drew back her shoulders and stiffened her spine. "Morning, Gabe. Did you read my thoughts?"

The man’s bulging stomach reached the steps before him, his large, drooping mouth seconds later. Hauling the rest of him closer, he hitched up his pants and tilted his head to the side. "I ain’t read nothing, Miss Mariah." His bushy brows drew to a frown. "You know I can’t read."

She laughed as if he’d said something funny. "Oh, Gabe. I just meant that I was thinking about you, and here you are."

"You was?" He drew in his fat bottom lip, no small feat, and slurped, catching a string of drool before it escaped down his chin.

"I was indeed."

"Well, I’ll be." A leer replaced his befuddled stare. He didn’t have enough sense to hide his lurid thoughts. "I’ve been thinking about you, too."

The garden gate squealed on rusty hinges, and Mariah’s head swiveled toward it.

Miss Vee puttered along the path with a basket of vegetables, headed for the house. Raising her head, she missed a step then came to a full stop, staring at Mariah and her guest.

With a quick glance at Tiller, Mariah took the steps to the ground and linked her arm with Gabe’s. "Walk with me."

"Sure thing." His heavy gaze fixed on Mariah like she’d asked him to supper and she was the bill of fare. "Where to?"

Tugging his bulk into motion, she ignored his question and hurried him along beside her. "I’ve been meaning to ride out and check on you and Mr. Tabor. How is your father’s health these days?"

They strolled past Gabe’s rig, their voices still carrying but not their words.

Miss Vee reached the porch, stopping with one hand on the rail to stare after them. "My eyes tell me Mariah just left with Gabe Tabor hanging off her arm like a bloated tick. My common sense can’t believe it."

Tiller blew out a breath. "Your common sense lost the bet."

"What’s she doing hugged up to the likes of him?"

Leaning for the hammer, Tiller wiped it clean with the tail of his shirt. "I was wondering the same. Who is he?"

Miss Vee pursed her lips like she wanted to spit. "Little vermin owns the neighboring farm. At least he will when his ailing pa dies. More’s the pity. Won’t be long before Gabe runs that place underground."

Tiller took the basket from her hand. "Why’s that?"

"He’s simpleminded. Lacks the sense to keep his boots strapped. His daddy does all but wipe his nose for him." She shook her head. "Gabe makes it hard to feel sorry for him though. He’s full to the brim with mischief."

Tiller stiffened and stared toward the river just as their bobbing heads disappeared down the sloping bank. "Should I go after her?"

"Mariah can take care of herself. She knows how to handle Gabe."

Miss Vee frowned over her shoulder as if battling second thoughts. "But if she’s not back soon, you and that hammer might want to take a stroll." Patting Tiller’s shoulder, she pulled his gaze from the Pearl. "Have our fishermen returned?"

"No ma’am. Not yet."

She grinned. "I hope that means catfish for supper. I think I can scratch up enough meal for a nice creel of fish. Enough for a batch of corn fritters, too, if we’re lucky."

"That sounds pretty good on an empty stomach."

Her green eyes widened. "Mariah didn’t fix your breakfast?"

"She did." He glanced toward the river. "I got a little distracted from my plate."

With a sympathetic smile, she tugged on his sleeve. "Let’s go see if it’s fit for warming. After you eat a bite, you can help me give Otis a bath. It’s been a week since his last one. The poor man’s ripe as a split fig."

EIGHTEEN

S
till wary around Otis Gooch, Tiller followed Miss Vee inside his room with a sloshing pan of water. Each time Tiller saw him, he wondered if that would be the day Otis remembered.

He slept drawn up on his side with his face to the wall, his scrawny behind jutting halfway off the bed. They drew near, and Tiller decided Miss Vee was mistaken. Otis had passed ripe days ago. Warmed by the fire they kept stoked for the thin-skinned old man, the air sagged with the smell of rotted armpits.

Miss Vee made a face.

Tiller grimaced and shook his head.

She nudged the side of the mattress with her knee. "Come forth, Lazarus. It’s time for your bath."

Otis rolled toward them, his toothless mouth a gaping maw. Drawing in a wheezing breath, the tail end of a snore, he coughed and mumbled.

When his body relaxed into sleep again, Miss Vee banged the bed harder. "Come on, now. Time to wake up."

One eye opened a slit; then the other followed suit. "Mornin’, good lady."

"Morning is said and done. It’s nearly lunchtime."

He frowned and scooted up on his pillow. "Did I miss breakfast?"

She shook her head. "You ate hearty and enjoyed every bite. Don’t you remember?"

He didn’t answer, but doubt swam in his eyes.

Tiller scooted past her to set the water on the table. "Are you ready to get clean?"

His wrinkled face lit up. "Howdy, Tator."

"It’s Tiller, sir."

He held up his crooked finger. "I was close. I knew it had to do with growing things. How are ye, son?"

Tiller grinned. "I can’t complain."

Otis scratched his wiry head. "I sure could, but complaining don’t do any good." He motioned with his fingers. "Come close and I’ll tell you a secret, boy."

Trying not to breathe through his nose, Tiller leaned in. "Yes, sir?"

Otis squinted at him. "Did you say your name was Tiller?"

Biting back a smile, he nodded.

"Well, Tiller, I learned some time ago that a grateful heart will take you miles farther than grumbling." He nodded firmly. "I’ll tell you something else, too. This old heart has plenty to be grateful for."

Tiller stared in disbelief. The man was penniless and sleeping in a borrowed bed. He was dressed in another man’s nightshirt with his head bashed in and strangers tending his needs. As far as Tiller could see, he didn’t have one thing going his way. What could he possibly have to be thankful for?

"Let’s get on with the washing," Miss Vee said, throwing another log on the fire.

While Otis chattered endlessly, Tiller got him shucked and scrubbed down the best he could. Discreetly holding her nose, Miss Vee traded him a clean union suit for the soiled nightshirt.

Holding the one-piece garment in front of Otis, Tiller opened and closed the button-flap drop seat in back, as if demonstrating the ease of use. He glanced toward Miss Vee, who was warming her hands by the fire, and they shared a quiet chuckle before Tiller helped him to slip it on his frail body.

Otis beamed. "I reckon nightshirts are more in fashion, but there’s nothing like a union suit for keeping a body warm." He stretched to see around Tiller and called to Miss Vee. "All done, dear lady. You can turn around."

She crossed to them and lifted the pan of dirty water. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"Not a thing. I’m much obliged for the clean clothes." He cut grateful eyes up to Tiller. "And the bath."

Tiller smiled down at him. "It’s nothing. No trouble at all."

He reached to take the dirty water from Miss Vee, but Otis caught his arm. "The Lord wants you to know He don’t see all you’ve done for me as nothing, and He’s in charge of settling accounts. He said to tell you so."

Tiller’s head began to roar. The gnarled fingers circling his wrist shot sparks to his flesh like cotton socks on a wintery morn. Unable to move a muscle, he stilled, watching Otis.

"When you do the will of God from your heart, you’re doing service to the Lord, not to men. And God will reward each of us for the good we do." Otis nodded and released him. "It’s true. The Good Book says so."

Warmth flooded Tiller’s body, and weakness shook his knees. He reached for the tub Miss Vee held out, fearing he might not have the strength to carry it.

She seemed unaware of his distress, but the old man’s kind eyes followed him across the room.

Miss Vee paused at the door. "I’ll be back in a while with your lunch. We’ll make it something so special you’re not likely to forget."

Otis smiled, but he still watched Tiller. "You come back in here after lunch, boy. We’ll continue our little chat."

With a hesitant half nod, Tiller followed Miss Vee into the hall.

"What was that?" he asked breathlessly once he’d put some distance between himself and the room.

She lifted her brows. "What was what?"

He pointed. "You didn’t hear? Didn’t feel …"

"All I could manage to do in there was smell." She chuckled. "We’ll have to do better by him from now on, or we’ll miss that reward he keeps crowing about." Turning the corner into the kitchen, she laughed aloud. "I’m just glad it’s God who’s keeping score and passing out prizes. Left to Otis, he wouldn’t remember long enough."

Dazed, Tiller jumped when Mariah opened the back door.

Ashamed that he hadn’t thought of her well-being once they got busy with Otis’s bath, he breathed a relieved sigh that she’d returned safely.

She stepped over the threshold, a basket overflowing with bright red berries on her hip. "Look what we found. A big patch of wild strawberries. Aren’t they nice?"

Miss Vee grunted. "I saw that deplorable Gabe Tabor. What did he want?"

Mariah dunked her basket in a pan of fresh, cold water, drew it out and shook it, then rested it on the counter. "Did you know the fields in the South were once covered by these? Like a great red blanket spread out for miles. Mother told me about seeing them as a child. She called it a glorious sight." She gathered a double handful and dropped them into a bowl. Bending under the counter, she rummaged in the cutlery jar and withdrew a paring knife.

"What were you thinking to go off alone with that man?" Miss Vee persisted. "What was he doing here?"

Mariah ducked her head. "If you must know, he asked me to go on a picnic."

Miss Vee’s mouth fell open. "For heaven’s sake. I hope you told him what bank of the Pearl to jump off."

Mariah turned the color of the glistening fruit in her hand. "I told him I’d love to go." She began to cut thick slices into a bowl on the counter. "In fact, I’m making a pie for the occasion."

Rendered speechless, Tiller stared. He could almost accept the Choctaw brothers as rivals. Any fool could guess what a woman might see in them. But the gangly, potbellied dullard with a lustful glint in his eye? Impossible.

Evidently, Miss Vee shared his thoughts. "Mariah Bell. Please tell me you jest."

Mariah frowned. "Oh, stop. He’s not so bad. His father’s an unreasonable old toad, but Gabe can be quite nice when he wants to be."

Miss Vee hissed through her teeth. "Gabe Tabor couldn’t be nice tied up and knocked unconscious. That son of a toad is twice as warty as his father. At least the elder Tabor has some semblance of morals."

Mariah wiped her hands on her apron. "For pity’s sake. It’s just a picnic. Besides"—she shot an angry glance at Tiller—"I won’t discuss my personal life in front of the hired help."

He winced and started for the door. "I’ll just get on back to work."

Miss Vee clutched his sleeve as he passed. "No, you won’t. We all know you care about this thick-headed girl as much as I do." She glared at Mariah. "Tiller stays. I want him here with me to help talk sense into you.”