Free Masked by Moonlight by Allie Pleiter Page B

world grew still for a moment, as if startled into silence by the sight. Her gaze swayed to Reverend Bauers, who met her eyes with an expression of astonishment that surely matched her own.
    Nailed to the door with a white ribbon.
    Then, suddenly, she caught sight of more white ribbons. Dozens of people clutched a white ribbon and an actual dollar bill. It may have been the first time any of them saw or held, much less possessed, paper money. A dollar was no small amount, but a paper dollar—that was a double surprise. God, in His infinite wisdom and humor, had taken Stuart’s ugly twist and turned it into something splendid.
    “See?” spouted Quinn. “The Bandit!” Georgia marveled that the child had been able to keep quiet at all, given the sparkle in his eyes as he pulled her forward.
    “Can you believe it?” Reverend Bauers was beet-red from the excitement. “Have you ever in all your years…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
    Georgia could only shake her head. She was afraid to speak, sure she would give herself away if she uttered even one syllable.
    The money had been nailed to the top of the archway, about nine feet off the ground. The white ribbon fluttered in the breeze, and hands from the crowd reached up to touch it, as though it would bless them on contact. When she’d read Stuart’s passage, Georgia had envisioned a frilly white ribbon—something off a hat or dress. This was a simple strip of white cloth—not fussy, but noble and absolutely perfect.
    “Come, lad,” Reverend Bauers called, pointing to Quinn. “What do you say we get this down and put it to good use?”
    The boy sprinted toward the reverend, who hoisted him up to reach the nail. It did not come free easily, and in the end three men had to hold Quinn up while he wiggled it loose. When he finally succeeded, and was lowered into the crowd clutching the money and the ribbon, a cheer rose up. Georgia absorbed every detail so that she could tell Stuart. Even he couldn’t remain unaffected by the scene unfolding before her.
    Hope had come South of the Slot.
    God had brought it. Invited by the persona of her Black Bandit.
    Her satisfaction was so deep, so complete, that if the world never knew of her role, it would be more than fine.
    Thank You, Lord, Georgia prayed as she watched Reverend Bauers lock the money up in the mission safe a few minutes later. Fifty dollars would go a very long way in his resourceful hands. Thank You so very much for giving me such a laughable idea and turning it into this. I’m blessed beyond words.
    The reverend dusted off his hands and turned to her, grinning from ear to ear. “I never thought I’d have occasion to say this, child, but God bless Stuart Waterhouse.”
    “Stuart?”
    “Come now,” said the clergyman, pulling her a bit closer while he lowered his voice. “Do you think I don’t know? It’s obvious the Bandit is Stuart’s doing, so don’t try to hide it.” He narrowed one eye playfully. “Although I’d mind what you say around him from now on. After this hits his presses, he’s liable to pounce on any story you tell him. It’s a good thing Mr. Covington seems sporting about the whole matter, I’ll tell you that.”
    So they all thought Stuart wrote the Bandit stories.
    Well, of course they did—it would be the natural conclusion of anyone who really sat down to think about it. And surely now the reverend and Mr. Covington had every reason to think Stuart was George Towers. They’d naturally assume she’d told Stuart the story of the Bible, and he’d used it. Such behavior was expected of him.
    But Stuart hadn’t done it, had he? No, she had. She had done something so “Stuartlike” that everyone immediately attributed it to him. Not a compliment to her character.
    Still, look what God had accomplished with it. Did that mean she had done the right thing? Or that God had made good come from her poor choice? The fact that there was no clear answer was disturbing