by Lily Reynard
“Your first name is Sarah, isn’t it? And you’re new in town.”
Sarah laughed nervously. Her heart was pounding so hard that she wondered whether the sheriff could hear it. “I know everyone calls me Sarah, but my first name is actually Elizabeth. I’m, ah, Elizabeth Sarah Hunter and I’m from Huntersville, Missouri. I’ve never been to Boston in my life.”
Please, oh please believe me. She had never wished for anything so hard in her life.
“Huh. I’ve never met anyone from Missouri who talks the way you do,” he said mildly. “Walt, what do you think?”
Walt drew himself up. “I think that my fiancée doesn’t have to answer any more of your questions, sheriff. We’ve been corresponding for months, and I’m satisfied that she is who she says she is.”
He’s taking my side? Sarah drew in a shaking breath. But why?
She had been expecting Walt to realize the truth and denounce her as a fraud. Surely he and Larkin must be putting the pieces together now—her soft hands, her ignorance when it came to tending chickens and cows, and all of the other myriad of ways that she had undoubtedly betrayed herself over the past days.
In desperation, Sarah said, “That woman who died on the train. I made her acquaintance, and she introduced herself as Sarah, from Boston.”
The sheriff nodded slowly. “Well, now, that’s where things get…peculiar.”
“What do you mean?” asked Walt.
“It just so happens that our new lady doctor took a photo of the dead woman and sent it to the address on Miss Franklin’s luggage.”
A sick jolt traveled to the pit of Sarah’s stomach. Oh no!
The sheriff continued, “That’s how Miss Franklin’s father knew to contact us. Turns out that the woman in the photo wasn’t actually his daughter, though the contents of her suitcase matched his missing daughter’s belongings.”
“Well, now, that is a mystery,” Walt agreed, his tone and expression both blandly pleasant.
“That’s what I thought,” Sheriff Plummer said.
He fixed Sarah with another sharp look, and she knew he wasn’t going to let this rest.
“You find out anything, I’d be mighty obliged if you let me know,” he said. “There’s a papa back East who’s scared to death for his daughter’s safety and worried that she’s all alone in a frontier town.”
“Of course,” Larkin said. “Anything we can do to help.”
Sarah nodded numbly. Her thoughts were racing around inside her head in a panicked whirl. Father and Mr. Burgess know I’m alive! What am I going to do now?
“Thank you.” The sheriff lifted his hat again. “Gents. Miss.”
Then he turned his horse and rode back towards town.
As soon as the sound of hoofbeats had faded away, Larkin asked, “Sarah? Are you all right?”
“I—I’m not feeling well,” she replied. “I want to go straight to bed when we get home.”
Home. How much longer am I going to be able to call it that?
Walt removed his arm from around her, and she felt a chill.
A heavy silence thick with unasked questions descended upon them as he continued to drive the wagon towards home.
As they rolled through a landscape suddenly filled with threatening shadows and lurking danger, Sarah frantically tried to decide what she ought to do next. Maybe I should run away from the ranch.
And go where? Asked a sensible-sounding voice in her head. The ranch house was in the middle of nowhere. It would be a long walk back to town, where she would be stranded with no money and no means of support.
Or you could tell Walt and Larkin everything.
It was tempting. But once they learned the truth, would they protect her from Mr. Burgess? Or would they turn on her?
* * *
Is it true? That the woman I fell in love with at first sight isn’t actually Elizabeth Hunter? How could the happiest day of my life have turned so bad, so quickly?
All the way back to the ranch, Walt ached to ask Sarah for an explanation of the strange encounter with Sheriff Plummer. But she was huddled between them on the wagon’s bench seat, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed, and she looked so scared and sick that it made his heart hurt.
Even now, with the sheriff’s words stirring up certain inconsistencies that he’d noticed about his bride-to-be, his first instinct was to comfort and protect her.
At the same time, his gut churned with a toxic mixture of suspicion and denial that maybe he’d been played for a fool, just like Lark had warned him.
On her other side, Larkin glowered. Once or twice, he appeared about to speak, but Walt caught his eye and shook his head. To his relief, Lark settled down, though Walt could sense that temper of his simmering just below the surface.
Before they confronted Sarah or made any irrevocable decisions about their future together, he wanted to talk to Lark.
Once they arrived back at the ranch, Sarah got down from the wagon and stumbled into the house, pleading a headache. She looked so pale and drawn that it probably wasn’t a lie.
Walt and Larkin continued to the barn, where they set about unharnessing Toledo and rubbing him down. The two of them worked in silence for a while as Walt pondered how to ask the questions that were crowding his head.
“So, Lark,” he began.
Larkin immediately straightened up from sponging the mud off Toledo’s legs and gave Walt a sharp look over the big gelding’s back. “You finally ready to talk about Sarah?”
Walt sighed. “You bothered by some of the things that the sheriff said?”
“Yeah. And I gotta tell you, Walt, I’ve had questions about her ever since she arrived,” Lark said.
Walt felt cold as his friend’s words confirmed his worst fears. But he had to know. “Like what?”
Up until today, Walt would have bet that Lark would be happy to see Sarah go. But now, the other man looked as unhappy as Walt felt.
“Well, she’s a rattling-good cook and a hard worker, but she’s no farm girl.” Larkin shook his head. “For one thing, she didn’t know anything about actual chores. I had to show her how to milk Rosa, and you should have seen her trying to collect eggs from the henhouse that first morning.” He paused. “And then there’s that fancy accent of hers. She sound like she’s from Missouri to you?”
As much as Walt hated to admit it, Larkin had a point. Sarah most definitely didn’t sound like she was from anywhere near his home state, beginning with how she pronounced “Missouri.” Walt’s parents had always referred to 'Missour-uh' rather than Sarah’s pronunciation of “Missour-ee.”
“No,” he told Lark. “But I just figured a few white lies here and there were part of having a mail-order bride. I mean, you expected her to be a hatchet-faced spinster, and instead we got…Sarah.”
Sweet, beautiful Sarah. When he’d first seen her waiting at the train station, he couldn’t believe his luck.
“Sure, there’s white lies, and then there’s great big whoppers,” Lark pointed out. “And I’m inclined to believe that the sheriff might be right, and our Sarah isn’t the same person who wrote you those letters.” He cleared his throat. “I meant to tell you—while you were at the mine, I started having doubts, so I read through your letters from Elizabeth.” Before Walt could say anything, Larkin continued. “Don’t you think it’s strange that she signed herself ‘Liza,’ and never once referred to herself as Sarah? But the thing that bothers me the most is that she should have a scar on her arm from that accident she wrote you about. But Sarah doesn’t have a scar—I looked for it while I was canoodling with her.”
“Damn.” Walt blew out a breath as he turned to hang the tack on its hooks preparatory to wiping it down and cleaning it. He’d been hoping against hope that Larkin might be able to dismiss some of the oddities that Walt had noticed. “You’re not wrong about any of that. It’s just…well, she seemed so perfect.”
“Well, what are we gonna do about it?” Larkin asked. “If our Sarah isn’t
Elizabeth Hunter, then who the heck is she? And if she’s really this runaway Sarah Franklin, then we should tell the sheriff.”
Walt pondered this as he began wiping down Toledo’s bit with a damp rag, removing bits of hay and dried spit. If he agreed with Larkin, he would probably lose his chance to marry Sarah.
She was the sort of wife he’d always dreamed about, sweet and kind and hardworking.
But is all that worth anything if she’s a liar? How could we ever trust her?
And there was one thing that was really bothering him about this whole affair.
If Sarah wasn’t actually Elizabeth Hunter, then why on earth would Sarah lie about being Elizabeth in the first place? And how did she know so much about Elizabeth’s life and the things that she had written Walt?
Most troubling of all was the question: And if the woman sleeping in the upstairs room isn’t Elizabeth Hunter, then where is Elizabeth?
He remembered the dead woman on the train, and his blood ran cold.
“Before we do anything, let’s talk to her,” Walt said, still desperately hoping that this was all some awful misunderstanding.
If Sarah wasn’t who she claimed she was, then had anything they had shared since her arrival been genuine? Or had it all been lies, told by a skilled confidence woman?
Walt felt sick at the thought.
Larkin nodded.
“The sooner the better, Walt,” he said, his voice gentle. “We’ll ask her over breakfast.” He turned his attention back to Toledo, but not before adding, “At least we didn’t get hitched to her before this came up.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sarah spent a sleepless night in her lonely upstairs bed, her insides churning with dread. She had bought herself a brief reprieve by pleading a headache and fleeing upstairs, but morning was coming, and with it, a whole regiment of unwelcome questions was marching towards her.
Now that Father knew that she wasn’t actually dead, it was only a matter of time now before everyone here discovered her true identity. This was what she had feared all along, and now her nightmares were coming true.
But first, she had to face Walt and Larkin. They were most likely going to be furious, and she wouldn’t blame them if they were. She had lied to them. Repeatedly.
And yet, she was also the tiniest bit relieved. She had always hated that she had to lie to them about being Liza, but with Mr. Burgess on her trail, she didn’t know how she could have done things any other way.
I should have confided in Walt and Larkin and thrown myself upon their mercy, she thought with bitter hindsight. But why would they believe me? Why would they trust me?
Sheriff Plummer certainly hadn’t seemed convinced by her last night.
What do I do now? Where do I go?
Only one thing was clear. She couldn’t take the chance that the sheriff, or Walt, or Larkin would send word about her presence here to Father.
And if Mr. Burgess was truly offering a huge reward for her return, then it was because he wanted to make an example of her. He had the reputation of being someone you didn’t cross. And she had not only defied him but humiliated him as well by running away.
She was certain that if she fell into Mr. Burgess’s clutches, it would truly be a fate worse than death.
After several hours of tossing and turning, her thoughts racing in useless circles, Sarah gave up the hope of getting any sleep.
She still had time before dawn.
I should run away, she thought with a pang. Then I wouldn’t have to try to explain to Walt and Larkin how I pretended to be Liza and how cruelly I’ve lied to them.
It was a coward’s way out, but maybe it would be for the best. This way, she wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in Walt’s eyes…or the angry betrayal in Larkin’s.
Sarah threw back her coverlet and struck a match to light the bedside lamp.
Then she crossed the room to where Liza’s trunk stood against the wall, and opened it. She had long since unpacked all of the clothing and hung it in the armoire or folded it away in the chest of drawers, but there were still a few items scattered along the bottom—Liza’s small Bible; the packet of letters she had exchanged with Walt; shoes that were a size too large to fit Sarah’s feet, though she had fortunately fit into Liza’s skirts and shirtwaists; a collection of glass bootblack bottles filled with dye, a compact sewing kit in a plain wooden box, and Sarah’s carpetbag.
The trunk was too bulky and too heavy for Sarah to carry down the stairs. She would have to leave it behind, along with anything that wouldn’t fit in her carpetbag. She reached in to retrieve the carpetbag, and the lamplight highlighted an odd bulge in the trunk’s lining.
She patted it cautiously, not sure if it was a trick of the light, and felt a thin, flat rectangular object between the lining and the wooden wall. She felt around the bottom and sides of the trunk’s interior, wondering if perhaps the object was part of the trunk’s construction, but found no corresponding object on the opposite side. She did find a place where the lining had been slit and carefully sewn back together again.
Consumed with curiosity, she opened the sewing kit and used one of the slender metal seam-rippers to reopen the seam. Then she reached inside. Her fingertips encountered stiff paper, and she drew out an envelope.
It was unsealed and unaddressed.
Sarah opened the flap and stared in disbelief. It was filled with money, mostly one-dollar bills, with a single ten-dollar note tucked in the back.
It was too good to be true, an incredible stroke of luck in her darkest hour.
Thank you, Liza, for this one last gift, thought Sarah with deep gratitude, closing her eyes for a moment before she began to count the money.
It appeared to be enough to pay for a room and meals at the Hotel Bede for the days that remained until the next train arrived, with enough left to purchase a ticket to Butte.
She would have to figure out how to survive once she arrived at her destination, but at least Butte seemed like a large enough town that she might be able to disappear into the crowd if Burgess sent his men after her.
Right now, it was her only option. She rose to her feet, carpetbag in one hand and the precious envelope of money in her other hand, and went to the armoire.
Her heart breaking, she began to pack the bare necessities for starting over…again.
Every fiber of her being rebelled at the thought of leaving the ranch and the two men that she’d grown to care deeply for. But she couldn’t stay here.
If Mr. Burgess discovered that she was living here with Larkin and Walt, he would kill them too. She couldn’t let that happen to them.
I thought I could build a life here and escape the fate awaiting me in Boston. I don’t want to leave, but what other choice do I have? Even if Mr. Burgess doesn’t hunt me down here, Walt and Larkin couldn’t possibly want a liar and a fraud living under their roof.
The sky outside had turned the polished pewter shade that heralded sunrise when she tucked the sewing kit into the last bit of free space inside her carpetbag. She opened the bedroom window and cautiously stuck her head outside, checking to see whether she could steal away.
She caught a glimpse of two figures entering the big barn and knew that she had a short window of time to make her escape while Walt and Larkin were occupied with their morning chores.
At least she knew the way to town, though she had no idea how long it might take her to walk there.
Enough dillydallying, she told herself firmly. I need to be out of sight of the house before Walt and Larkin finish their chores.
She picked up her carpet bag, which bulged now and weighed a considerable amount, and headed downstairs.
* * *
Sarah was gone.
As Larkin and Walt headed back to the house after finishing their morning chores, Larkin renewed his determination to confront her over breakfast and find out whether there was anything to the sheriff’s story.
He’d spent a restless night, torment
ed, wondering if he’d been a complete fool to fall for her. He couldn’t imagine what Walt was going through right now.
His friend had been quieter than usual as they worked together to feed the horses and muck out the stables. Last night, he’d fallen silent after they resolved to speak with Sarah over breakfast, and the two of them hadn’t discussed the situation further.
What was there to say? Either Sheriff Plummer had made a big mistake…or the woman who had wormed her way into their house and hearts was some kind of honey-fuggler or flimflam artist.
Gotta give her a chance to explain herself, he told himself, but it was difficult not to feel betrayed. Last night, she was sure acting like she was guilty of something.
