by A. Valentine
That Sunday, when we were leaving church, we saw Pastor Hofmann deeply engrossed in conversation with an older man I did not know. The Pastor appeared to be fully focused on what the other man was saying, but when he saw William, he put his head up and waved my husband over.
“William, you know the Curate?” Pastor Hofmann said. He turned toward me and added by way of explanation, “He’s with the Anglican church outside Sioux Falls.”
“I do,” William said, sticking out his hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“I’m not sure you’ll think it good news,” the Curate said. He was an anxious man, or so it seemed. He spoke quickly and his hands shook throughout; every moment it appeared his eyes were looking in a new direction. “I’ve come to warn you.”
Just that morning, a stranger had appeared in the Curate’s congregation for Sunday services. Such a thing wasn’t unusual; more and more people were coming to the region every day and many of them were searching for a place to worship.
“But this fellow was different than most,” the Curate says. “Most of the time when someone comes in, they pay a good amount of attention to the service. Yes, people’s minds can wander if I preach too long, but them that are there to worship do tend to keep their eyes facing forward most of the time.”
I wasn’t sure where the Curate was going with this story, so I cocked my head, curious to learn more.
“Our service is just under two hours long; two and a half if you count fellowship,” the Curate explained. “This fellow came early, stayed the entire time, and I don’t think he spent more than twenty seconds total looking toward the front of the church.”
“Was he cross-eyed, by any chance?” I knew my husband was serious, but we all laughed.
“No,” the Curate said. “His eyes were perfectly normal, as far as I could see. It’s just that he wasn’t looking for God. He’s searching for someone else, and judging by how he most ardently directed his attention, I’d say that someone is you, young lady.” He nodded toward me. “There are a number of young women in our flock, and more than a few are ginger haired. The way he stared at them was quite unsettling.”
“To be fair,” William said, “It’s quite easy for any man to find themselves staring at a woman like Abigail.” He blushed a little. “One could almost say it was the natural order.”
The Curate blushed. “Be that as it may,” he said, “what isn’t any part of a natural order or even a divine plan, is when that same young man comes up to me after services inquiring about his long lost cousin, William Adalwolf.”
William’s eyebrows went up. “My cousin?” He snorted. “That would be quite a trick.”
“I know your history well enough to know that,” the Curate said. “So I told him that as far as I knew, you worshipped with the Saints.”
“Thank you for that,” William said.
“This man,” I asked, interrupting their conversation. “Tell me, what does he look like?”
The Curate’s description didn’t sound anything at all like the fire marshal. He said nothing about a tall, broad man with a foul face and stiff legs. Instead, he described, in excruciating detail, a man I knew I’d seen before: the fire marshal.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“The Saints have their services way out there, almost on the county line,” William said. He was driving the wagon home at quite a clip; the horses were kicking up dust and gravel as they galloped along. “By the time he rides out there to see if he can find us, half the afternoon will be gone.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You want us to be home before he gets there.”
“That would be best,” William agreed. “It’s not good to be surprised inside your own home.”
Pastor Hofmann had promised he would send for the Sheriff. He’d wanted us to stay at the church until the law came, but William wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ve got too much at home to protect,” he said. “I can’t have taken the risk of having all my research suddenly burning up in an act of spontaneous combustion.”
I asked about that as we galloped along. “You don’t think Papa’s shop was a case of spontaneous combustion?”
“No,” he said, holding up two fingers. “And here’s why. One: there’s no scientific proof anywhere that spontaneous combustion actually happens. In every supposed incident, researchers have been able to find some source of a spark or other cause. Fires don’t just happen for no reason.”
“Oh.” I let out a deep breath. “I didn’t know that.”
“The fact that the papers report such credulous nonsense as fact doesn’t help matters,” he said. “And of course, one must always keep an open mind. It is possible that your Father’s print shop was the first ever incident of spontaneous combustion.”
“Possible but not likely?” I said.
“Exactly,” William agreed. “Possible but not likely. And then you factor in reason number two, which was the fact we know Robert Benson wanted to marry you.”
“I’m not sure he wanted to marry me,” I said. “He just wanted a guarantee that Father would do everything possible to repay the loan.”
William raised an eyebrow. “Out of the blue, he just randomly decided to demand probably the most beautiful girl in town as the collateral for one particular loan? Be realistic, Abigail. People don’t work that way.”
I blushed. “I wasn’t the most beautiful girl in town. Not even close.”
“Well, we’ll just accept that you’re probably wrong about that,” William said. “How old were you when your Father took out this loan?”
“When he got the press?” I searched my memory. “I think I’d just turned fourteen.”
“And you’re eighteen and a half now,” William said. “Benson got tired of waiting for his payment, that’s all.”
“You think he started the fire in Father’s print shop?”
“That would be my hypothesis, yes,” William said. “I very much doubt that he did the deed himself. It’s more likely he sent one of his lackeys to do it for him.” The farm was in sight; he pulled the horses to a slower pace so we could make a more discreet approach. “Probably the same fellow he’s sent to fetch you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shotsi was dead. I knew it as soon as I saw her little brown body sprawled on the ground. Her head had been bashed in, most likely by Robert Benson’s walking stick.
“He’s here,” I hissed to William. “We have to get away from here. Let the Sheriff handle it.”
“I’m not going to be run off of my own homestead,” William replied. He drew a pistol that I didn’t know he had from inside his vest pocket. “Stay behind me, and at the first sign of trouble, I want you to run.”
“We’re past the first sign of trouble,” I said. “We’re up to the twelfth or thirteenth sign of trouble, by my accounting!”
William laughed. “That’s my liebchen. Mind’s always going a million miles an hour, no matter what else is going on.”
“You two might as well come in,” a deep voice called from inside the house. “I’m not going to wait all day, and I shouldn’t have to walk all the way out there.”
William and I looked at each other. There was no doubt at all in my mind. That voice belonged to Robert Benson.
He was sitting in the front room, in William’s chair, with one of the countless journals my husband subscribed to open on his lap. “You are to be complimented,” he said to William, “on your fine library.” His gaze turned toward me, and I shuddered as he examined my form. “And your taste in women.”
“Thank you,” William replied. “I go to great lengths in the keeping of both.”
Robert Benson laughed. “And who could blame you? If I were a man of your youth, and a gem of such worth tumbled unexpectedly into my lap, I would hang on to it tooth and nail. Everyone says you’re a bright man. It’s not beyond you to see what a treasure Abigail is.”
Every word Benson said, although complimentary, made me feel slightly ill. It wasn’t as
if I was a person to him. Instead, I was an artifact, an object d’art to be acquired and displayed.
William said nothing. Benson had seen the gun my husband was holding, but it didn’t seem to trouble him.
“The thing is that your youth prevents you from seeing some unavoidable facts,” Benson continued. “Nothing alters the fact that this young woman has been promised to me for many, many years. The law takes breach of contract – particularly the marriage contract – very seriously.”
“I signed nothing!” I spat. “There is no contract.”
“Your father signed.” Benson shrugged. “You were a minor, so it was only fitting. The law is what the law is.”
“And under that same law, Abigail is my wife,” William said. “A woman who is married to one man can’t be wed to another. Our marriage rendered any contract engaging her to another void.”
“Somewhere in this mess you must have an Introduction to the Law,” Benson sneered. “That argument may impress what passes for a judiciary out here on the frontier, but I assure you that’s not the way things work in the civilized part of the country.”
“Well,” William said, “that’s too bad, because here is where you are, and here is where Abigail is going to stay.”
Benson reached inside his coat pocket, a motion that caused William to cock the trigger on his pistol. Benson held a hand up, seemingly unconcerned. “Hold on, cowboy.” He extracted a thick envelope from his pocket and put it on the table. “In this envelope is enough cash to fund your research endeavors for the rest of your life.” When he dropped it, I could see the green edges of bank notes. “Surely that’s enough to persuade you this marriage wasn’t meant to be?”
“I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard this, Mr. Benson,” William said, speaking through gritted teeth, “but there are things in this world that just can’t be bought.”
“What nonsense!” Benson said. “You’ll think differently after you count what’s in there.”
“I’m not going to count it,” William said. “I’m not interested in money. I want you out of my house.” He adjusted the grip he had on his pistol. “Now.”
“Such a waste.” Benson got to his feet, in a slow process that was clearly painful for him. “You’re obviously bright, and have vision and potential. But you don’t know that the law says a widow is free to remarry as she pleases.”
The gun in his hand was many times larger than the one William was holding. I did the only thing I could think to do: thrust myself between the two men, directly in the line of fire.
“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t shoot!” I turned toward Robert Benson and asked him the question that had been burning in my mind. “Why in the world are you willing to go to such lengths just to marry me? There are a million women in this world. Plenty of them would love to be rich. Pick one of them to keep your house and share your bed.”
“I don’t want to pick any of them,” he replied. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you playing in the garden outside of your Father’s house, with your hair in braids.” His tone grew wistful. “You were wearing a blue checkered dress.”
I blinked. “I had that dress when I was a small girl. Eight years ago – maybe ten.” The thought of this man watching me while I was still in grade school sickened me. “You know I’m not that child any more. I’m a woman grown now. Grown and wed.” I cocked my head and raised my voice on the last word, emphasizing my marital state. “Whatever you’ve been imagining happening, Mr. Benson, it can’t happen. It’s too late for that.”
“I’m willing to forgive your indiscretions,” Benson replied. “You’re young, and you were scared. I can see I’ve handled things badly, and I’m sorry about that. But I can look past what you’ve done. All you need to do is come with me now.”
“No.” I shook my head. “William and I are married, and I love him.” The words flew from my lips like bullets from a gun, and I could see Benson wincing as each one landed. “You can’t just come in here and expect that I’ll willingly walk away from my husband.”
Benson sighed. “No, but you’ll walk away from his corpse.”
Everything happened at once at that point. Benson lifted his arm and cocked his pistol; I leapt directly toward him, hoping to knock him to the ground with the force of my weight. At the same time, from behind me, I heard William fire his gun.
Then Benson fired. The room was full of thunder and screaming. I raised my hands to my ears to block out the thunder, and realized I was the one who was screaming. It took all my will to stop, a task that became even more difficult when I realized the very top of Benson’s head was missing.
“Oh no,” I said , scrambling off of his prone form. “Oh no, oh no.” If William’s bullet had landed, what had happened to Benson’s shot. I didn’t want to turn around, terrified that I’d find my husband’s bloody corpse sprawled out behind me. “This can’t be happening.”
Then I heard those familiar beloved German tones ringing in my husband’s words as he clarified the situation. “It isn’t happening, liebchen. It has happened.”
I whirled around. William was standing there, pale faced and unsteady, but as far as I could see, unharmed.
“You’re all right?” I demanded, rushing to him.
“I am,” he said. “The same cannot be said for our clock.” The ornately carved wooden clock that had hung high on the wall had been blown apart; springs and gears spilled out of its case in every direction.
“Are you sure?” I began pulling back William’s vest, frantically searching for any wounds.
“Yes, Abigail,” he said patiently. “There is more blood on you than there is on me.”
I stepped away from him then and looked down at myself in horror. My dress was covered in blood and gore; I’d no sooner realized this than I had to run out onto the porch and vomit.
I was out there, struggling to avoid my composure and avoid looking at Shatsi’s battered body when the Sheriff arrived, riding a big black horse. He had his gun unholstered before he was out of the saddle. “Am I too late?”
“He tried to kill us!” I said. It was all I could do to keep from fainting. I had to cling to the porch post to stay upright.
“What happened?”
“William shot back at him,” I said. “Killed him dead.” I felt sick again, but there was nothing left in my stomach. “It’s horrible.”
“Where’s William now?”
“I’m in here, Sheriff,” my husband called through the doorway. “It is as Abigail says. Mr. Benson is quite dead.”
“You’d better come out here,” the Sheriff called. “No gun. With your hands up.”
William did as the Sheriff asked. “Come over here,” the Sheriff said. He patted William down. “How is it that you don’t have any blood on you while she’s covered?”
“My wife…” William paused, searching for the right words. “She is brave and foolish both. She was struggling with Benson, trying to keep him from shooting me.”
“And you shot him with her in his arms?” the Sheriff looked at me for verification.
“Everything happened so fast,” I said.
“It had not been my intention for the gun to fire at that time,” William said. “When he fired, my reflexes took over. I pulled the trigger without meaning to.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t kill your wife,” the Sheriff said.
“Rest assured that if I had, Sheriff, the very next shot would have gone into mine own brain.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was an inquiry. No one could find the fire marshal; the Saints swore up and down that he’d never arrived in their community to search for us, and as far as anyone knew, he didn’t return to the Shenandoah Valley either. Pastor Hofmann and the Anglican Curate vouched for our side of the story; that was enough to secure our liberty.
“It is the opinion of the court that William Abelwolf was acting in self defense, protecting his home, property and wife, when he shot and killed Robert Benso
n. Therefore there is no reason for the territory to bring a case against Mr. Abelwolf.” The district attorney read slowly from his document before looking up at the Sheriff. “Are we agreed?”
The Sheriff nodded. “The way I see it, the man brought it on himself.” He shook his head. “What he did to the dog was bad enough. A man like that needs killing.”
William bowed his head. “Thank you, sir. Does that mean I am free to go?”
The district attorney nodded. “Absolutely.”
My husband grinned from ear to ear. “Oh, thank God.” He left the stand. I rushed into his arms and embraced him with all of my might.
“Thank goodness they saw reason!” I exclaimed. To the very last moment, I’d been sure that somehow Robert Benson’s wealth and influence would count against us; even from beyond the grave, surely there was a way that he could make our lives miserable. But nothing had happened, and having been cleared of responsibility for Benson’s death meant William could never be tried on the matter again.
“And now I have to introduce you to someone very special,” I said to my husband. I took him by the hand and led him to the back of the courtroom, where my Father sat waiting. He’d been there for every day of the inquiry; the contract Benson had forced him to sign had been entered into evidence. “William, this is my Father. Papa, this is William.”
Father stood up. We’d been apart from each other less than a month, but he appeared to have aged a full year. I didn’t remember him being quite so short, or quite so frail. He extended his hand to William.
“It’s good to meet you, son,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to do so sooner, under more propitious circumstances.”
William smiled, and took Father’s hand. “Well, the circumstances we have are much better than what they could have been, so I’ll take them gladly.” He pulled Father into a hug and embraced him briefly; when William stepped back, I saw tears in Papa’s eyes. “It is good to meet Abigail’s father. You know she loves you dearly.”
