by Barbara Goss
“Your wife will never satisfy you like I can,” she yelled after him.
“Oh, but you’re wrong Abby—she satisfies me more!” He walked down the back stairs and out to his horse. His wife fulfilled him so much more than Abby ever could, mostly because he loved her, and that made all the difference. He hoped his visit would put an end the letters.
Fiona rode on the back of Martin’s horse, holding on to his waist with one hand and her small carpetbag with the other, her head was filled with maybes all the way into town: maybe Sam wasn’t seeing Abby; maybe he had no idea what was in the letter; maybe she should stay and talk to him about it first. Still, she'd have to confess her past to him. She’d end up in jail or even hanged, and she couldn’t bear for him to see that.
As they rode to the train station, they passed the saloon. She gasped when she saw Sam walking down the back stairs. There was no turning back now—she had her proof.
Martin turned in his saddle. He’d seen him, too. He squeezed the hand that was clenching his waist.
Sam delivered the mangle to his mother, who was thrilled with the gift. As she took it from him, he noticed her hands. They were red, rough, and swollen, and some of her fingers had been permanently bent after so many years of scrubbing. Why hadn’t he noticed them before?
Sam hugged her. “Happy birthday, Mother. Thank you for all you do and have done all these years.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Now, get home and hug your bride for me,” she said with tear-filled eyes. “Tell her I’ll see her on Sunday.”
“I will,” Sam said, deep in thought. He climbed up onto the wagon’s seat and started the horse toward home.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed to no one but his horse. I’ve never told Fiona I loved her. He’d seldom said it to his mother and he’d never said it to anyone else. What an insensible dolt he'd been. If you loved someone, you needed to tell them.
Sam recalled the tears his words had brought to his mother’s eyes. Why hadn’t he said those words to Fiona? She'd probably guessed by his actions that he loved her, but he’d never said the words. He’d have to do that as soon as he got home. Why had those words been so hard for him to say?
He was forever doing things for his wife to show her how much he loved her, but why hadn't he also told her how much he'd loved her? If anyone deserved an award for being the biggest dull-head in the world, it was him.
Sam hadn’t been the least bit attracted to Fiona until he'd seen her in the bathing costume. Why could he not see how beautiful and wonderful she was when he'd first laid eyes on her? Had he been blinded by Abby’s intimate manipulation? He thought back—even in the loose-fitting dresses, she’d had the same face and eyes, yet they hadn't ever beckoned to him as they did now. He felt like such an oaf.
He tied his horse to the post. Sam looked forward to his barn-raising next week. He walked into the house by the back door and called, “Fiona, I’m home!”
It was nearly noon, and she hadn’t even started his lunch. He walked into the sitting room to find it was empty. Could she be upstairs?
As he walked to the stairs to check, he noticed a crumpled paper on the sofa and an envelope on the floor. Abby’s envelope! His heart felt like it had stopped. He felt dizzy and steadied himself on the sofa.
She’d opened it.
He ran up the stairs, thinking she'd be moving out of his bedroom in tears. He had to explain. Sam searched both rooms, but to his despair, Fiona was gone.
Sam knocked frantically on his mother’s front door. Fiona didn’t know anyone else. She had to have run there after reading the letter. When his mother opened the door, she looked surprised to see him again so soon.
“Sam?” she asked. “What is it? What’s wrong? You’re pale as a ghost.”
“Is Fiona here?” he asked.
Now it was his mother’s turn to pale. “No, isn’t she at home?”
“No. She…she’s angry with me and left without giving me a chance to explain."
“Come in.” She held the door open wider so he could enter. “Have you looked everywhere for her?”
Sam nodded. “I thought for sure she’d have come here.”
“I haven’t seen her. Oh, dear!” Addie exclaimed with both hands on her face. “Here comes Martin. Maybe he’s seen her.”
Sam saw Martin tie his horse and stroll toward them.
“You two look upset. Is there a problem?” Martin said.
“Fiona’s missing!” Addie cried.
Martin continued into the house. “Is she?”
Sam wondered why Martin sounded so calm. “You know where she is, don’t you?” Sam said.
Martin took his timepiece out, glanced at it, and said, “Yes, I do.”
“Where?” Sam asked.
“She’s on a train headed back to Boston,” Martin said calmly.
“What?” Addie and Sam said at the same time.
Martin strolled calmly into the sitting room and sat in the armchair.
“Tell me what’s going on, Martin!” Sam demanded, standing in front of Martin’s chair.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” Martin said.
When both Addie and Sam had been seated, Martin continued. “She knows about you and Abby—how could you do that to her, Sam?” Martin said, obviously disgusted with him.
Chapter 13
Sam rubbed his face with his hands. “I didn’t do anything!”
“I saw the letter from Abby. Fiona was in tears when she showed it to me. Then, when I rode her into town, we both saw you coming out of her place,” Martin said.
“Sam,” Addie exclaimed, “how could you hurt that sweet wife of yours? Why would you do that? I warned you about that harlot.” Addie got up as if to walk away, but Sam grabbed her arm.
“Mother, sit down,” he ordered. “I’ll tell you both exactly what happened.”
When his mother had resumed her seat, Sam took a deep breath and began. “One day, while Fiona was living here, I became attracted to her and kissed her. From that day forward, I had nothing whatsoever to do with Abby, and I went to break it off with her. Since then, she’s been sending me love letters, daily, at first, and then maybe once a week. I read the first few, and then I threw them away. I finally stopped reading them and threw them in the general store trash bin, unopened. One day, the trash bin was being emptied or something, because it was gone, and so I jammed it into my pocket, and Fiona found it while doing the laundry. I tried to talk my way out of it but evidently, she didn’t buy my story.
"I’m so sorry. I wish I’d never met Abby.”
“What were you doing at Abby’s place this morning?” Martin asked.
“After Fiona found the envelope, I knew I had to have it out with Abby to try to get her to stop sending me the letters. I blasted her, and then I left.”
Addie patted Sam’s hand. “I believe you, son, but how do we get Fiona back?”
Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “I have no idea. If I travel to Boston, how will I know where to find her?”
Martin cleared his throat. “I think you’d have no trouble.”
“What do you mean? It’s a huge city, Martin.”
“I just know,” he said.
“Would the orphanage know where to find her?”
“Maybe,” Martin said.
“I’ll catch a train first thing tomorrow,” he said. Then a thought hit him. “What about my cattle? My barn raising?”
“I’ll take care of it for you,” Martin said. “Just bring Fiona back, no matter what it takes.”
Fiona’s tears prevented her from viewing the scenery flying by her window. Her heart ached. How could she have been so blinded by Sam’s attentions that she didn't realize he was still seeing Abby? He’d gone into town on some excuse every day, except for Sunday. She’d fallen head over heels for a cheating scoundrel.
She sniffed into her handkerchief. Despite it all, she loved him—or she did until she'd read the letter a
nd saw him coming from Abby's place. They’d been so happy, and their lovemaking had been so wonderful, but evidently, Abby was still able to give him something that she couldn’t. Why had he married her if he wanted Abby?
Then it came to her: by marrying her, his mother had given him the land and the cattle.
Of course, that was it. How foolish she felt. He must have thought her the most gullible woman to fall for his act.
Fiona made a vow to never trust another man, ever, which would be easy to do in a jail cell. Maybe they’d even hang her. She wondered what she’d do first when she arrived in Boston. Should she go right to the police or seek out Mary Littlefield first?
Mary Littlefield had been such a pleasant lady. She'd always spoken gently and kindly to the staff and they'd all loved her, including Fiona. She felt more sympathy for Mary than she did for Chester Littlefield.
Fiona listened to the sound of the train’s wheels on the tracks. Clickety Clack, Clickety Clack—each mile taking her farther from the only family she’d ever known. If she hadn’t had this murder to deal with, she’d have sought shelter with Addie and Martin. She knew Addie would have welcomed her warmly. Just thinking about the Jordan family—and the fact she'd never see them again—brought more tears to her eyes.
Fiona walked the streets of Boston, wondering what to do. Should she go to the police or to Mary Littlefield? At that moment, she was lost and had no idea where to find either one. She kept wandering until she came upon the orphanage. When she knocked on the door, Sister Mary Catherine opened it and squealed, “Fiona!”
“Hello, Sister. May I see Mother Superior?”
“Certainly. She’s in her office. Come.”
Fiona followed her into Mother Superior’s office. She’d always feared the woman, due to her severe demeanor.
The head nun looked at Fiona from head to foot. “Fiona, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Fiona said.
“There are many people looking for you,” the head sister said.
“I know. I’ve returned to set things straight,” Fiona said.
“Is that a wedding ring on your finger?”
Fiona looked down at the hand. She’d forgotten all about it. “Yes. I’ve married.”
“Did you kill Chester Littlefield?”
“I believe I may have,” Fiona confessed.
“Why?” the nun asked.
“He was trying to…to rape me, Mother Superior. I was frightened and hit him over the head several times and then ran.”
“What about the knife?” the nun asked.
“Knife?”
“Yes. He’d been stabbed in the chest twice—in your bedroom, if the newspapers are to be believed.”
“I didn’t stab him,” Fiona confessed. “I hit him over the head numerous times with the chamber pot.”
“Mary Littlefield has put ads in about a hundred newspapers, looking for you.”
“She has?” Fiona knew that had been the case, but thought it best to act surprised.
“I recommend you turn yourself over to the police, Fiona. If you tell them the story you’ve just told me, I’m sure they’ll be lenient. You were protecting your honor,” the nun said.
“I want to, but I don’t even know where I'd go.”
“Would you like me to take care of it for you?” the nun asked.
Fiona sighed. “Yes. I might as well get it over with.”
“Sister Mary Catherine will show you to a room for the night. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”
Two burly policemen escorted Fiona to the police station the following morning. She had to repeat her story numerous times, but they didn’t seem to believe her. They kept questioning her and screaming things at her like, “We know you did it. Just confess and we’ll go easy on you,” and, “If you tell us the truth, we’ll let you go free,” but Fiona wasn't buying any of it. She'd admit to hitting Chester over the head, but never to stabbing him. It seemed that someone else wanted him dead as well.
At the end of a long, grueling day, she was put into a cell. She panicked when she heard the click of the lock, ran to the bars, and screamed, “I didn’t stab him!”
Fiona cried through the night when she wasn’t pounding the thin pillow on her cot, and she realized she’d never been so scared or angry in her whole life.
When Sam arrived in Boston, he was lost as soon as he'd stepped off the train. He’d never been in such a big city before. Where should he begin? Since the sun was dipping below the horizon, he thought he should get a hotel room first, and then a map of the city.
He found a hotel several blocks from the train station, but they had no vacancies. The clerk told him there was another inn four blocks away, so he picked up his valise and walked to the next hotel where he was given a small room with a single bed. Sam undressed and climbed into bed. He had a hard time finding a comfortable spot, since the mattress was so thin and lumpy, and he lay there wondering where his precious wife was spending the night. He hoped she was safe.
He’d ask for directions to the orphanage tomorrow.
In the morning, Sam dressed hurriedly, knowing he had a lot to accomplish that day. He went to the front desk and asked for a map of the city.
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have a map, but you might get one at the library on 15th Avenue."
Sam gave him a look he hoped said, “Are you kidding me?” He wouldn’t even know where to begin to find it.
“Can you give me directions to the Catholic Orphanage, then?” he asked.
“Sure. Which one?”
“There’s more than one?” Sam asked.
“Well, let’s see…there’s St. Anne’s in Worchester, the Home for Destitute Catholic Children and St. Francis Home in Suffolk, St. Joseph’s in Bristol, St. Peter’s in Middlesex, and St. Vincent’s in Suffolk.”
All Sam could do was stare at the man. He tried to remember if Fiona had given him any clues as to which orphanage she’d been reared in. He remembered she'd said there had been a lot of children.
“Which of those was open twenty years ago and has many children?”
“St. Joseph’s is the oldest, but I couldn’t tell you how many orphans they have. It’s a big place. The Home for Destitute Catholic Children is the second oldest. The others are fairly new places,” he said.
“Are either of them in walking distance?”
“The doorman can call you a cab, sir,” the clerk said.
Sam thanked him and walked to the front door where he asked the doorman to find him a cab.
When he'd been seated in the cab, he told the driver to take him to either St. Joseph’s Orphan Home or The Home for Destitute Catholic Children, whichever was the closest. He ended up on the doorstep of The Home for Destitute Catholic Children where he spent half the day waiting while they looked up records. He also spoke with many people, but no one had heard of a Fiona Sullivan.
By then he was hungry, since he hadn’t eaten breakfast. He walked down the busy street, found an eatery, went in, and sat down. While he waited for a server, he picked up a newspaper that someone had left on the table, and froze when he read the headlines: Fiona Sullivan, murderer of Chester Littlefield, found at last.
Chapter 14
Sam stared at the headlines, stunned. There must be another woman named Fiona Sullivan, he thought, but after the way Martin had acted, he knew it was his wife. Martin had known—she must have confessed to him, and he couldn’t break the confidence. So what was he to do now? He scanned the article and discovered where Fiona had been taken, tore the article out of the newspaper, and put it into his pocket. Sam passed on lunch—he seemed to have lost his appetite.
He hailed a cab, giving the driver the name of the police station where Fiona had been taken, and sat back, trying to think of what he could do to help her.
Boston was bustling with buggies, farm wagons, and other cabs, and Sam's cab weaved in and out of the traffic. The traffic seemed to have no pattern. Twice his cab had to weave around anothe
r carriage coming in the opposite direction on the same side of the road. People walked all over, some of them in the street, some of them on the wooden walkway. It was chaos. He wondered how many accidents occurred, what with traffic going every which way.
The stores and shops were plentiful. By the look of shoppers weaving in and out of them, they were thriving. Men walked around with newspapers, some of them reading while they walked. Women were carrying baskets and packages. It was something to see for a man who’d never been out of central Kansas.
The cab then halted before the brick building that was the police station. Sam paid the man, stepped out, took a deep breath, and walked inside to see policemen working at their desks. One of them stood and walked over to greet him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I understand my wife has been arrested and brought here. I’d like to see her, please.”
“Fiona Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me check.” The policemen turned and walked over to where two men in suits stood talking, then he returned to Sam.
“I’m sorry, but she can’t have visitors yet,” he said.
“Why not?”
“We’re still interviewing her. She insists on sticking to the same story and refuses to tell us the truth. Until she does, she can’t have visitors,” he said stoically.
“I still don’t understand why I can’t see her; she’s my wife.”
“It’s the rules, sir. I’m sorry.” The policeman walked away, leaving Sam standing there.
Sam went to the nearest telegraph office and wired Martin for money, telling him he needed a lawyer. He’d have to check back periodically for an answer. Knowing how slow things worked, he didn’t know what else he could do.
Back in his hotel room, he knew he'd forgotten one important step, and that was prayer. He got down on his knees and prayed.
