by Josie Finch
“Yup,” she said. “Take him away.”
Joseph sidestepped to stand in front of the deputy. “Excuse me.”
Deputy Martin glared. “Who the hell are you?”
“Pastor Ellis… the circuit pastor.”
“Eh-heh. You see him break in?” He pointed to Mr. Harting. “See him sneaking around?”
“No, I came in late. But I can tell you, nothing's broken, no one is hurt. He was just a traveler seeking a warm place to stay for the night. He's not a criminal.”
Deputy Martin gave a grunt that wasn't an answer to anything
Joseph continued, “Let me take him. I have a room at the boarding house. We'll get some sleep, some food, and I'll ride with him out of town in the morning. It’ll be no trouble at all.”
The deputy seemed torn between being the hero of the night and being able to pass off the night’s work to Joseph. He scratched his neck.
“I guess I can leave that up to Missus Larson, here. It’s her house.”
Joseph gave Margaret a pleading look. For the breath of a moment he thought she might agree. But then she glanced to Abigail, and Joseph saw what she saw. Her granddaughter was looking at Mr. Harting as though she’d just fallen in love. Joseph had to admit he didn't blame the young lady. Decent looking men were far enough in between to see out on wild prairie towns, let alone one who was above decent looking. Even with the cut across his face, Mr. Harting was handsome. Handsome and doomed.
“Nope,” Margaret said. “Lock him up!”
Deputy Martin nodded. “All right. Let’s go.”
The deputy grabbed Mr. Harting and shoved him toward the kitchen door. Mr. Harting winced beneath the force and Joseph instinctively reached out, but the deputy cut him off before he could catch Mr. Harting’s arm.
“Hurry up,” Deputy Martin barked. “If all you want is a warm place for the night, you’ll get one in the jail. You can tell your story to Sherriff Betts in the morning.”
Joseph followed the men outside. The deputy quit shoving Mr. Harting when it became clear he wasn’t going to fight back.
Joseph’s heart ached, knowing Mr. Harting was the real victim in all of this.
They began walking toward the jailhouse in the night and Joseph tried one last time to bargain with the deputy.
"You don't really believe this man is guilty," Joseph said.
"Can't say, preacher man,” the deputy said. “My job is to lock him up tonight. We'll see what the sheriff says about it in the morning. You can stop by ‘round nine if you want to see about a bail. Iffen the sheriff sets one."
Joseph knew he didn't have any money for a bail even if the sheriff set one, so he remained silent as the deputy ushered Mr. Harting down the street.
Standing in front of the Larson house, Joseph cast a look over his shoulder. In the excitement, Margaret and Abigail had forgotten about him. The door was locked up tight and the lantern drifted from the parlor window to the kitchen.
Joseph breathed a long, sad sigh, then made his lonely walk back to the boarding house.
Chapter Three
Good job Warren. Less than eight hours ago you were in your studio in California and now you’re locked up in a jail in the middle of Kansas with a baby—inside you.
Yeah, well, he argued with himself. At least it’s warm in here.
Warren sighed. There were blessings to be found in the situation and Warren gave many thanks for them. To begin, there was a small bench bed in the corner of his jail cell. There were no blankets but the deputy had let Warren keep his coat—another miracle. The deputy hadn’t even searched the pockets for a knife or derringer before he locked the cell door. Either the deputy was just that lazy or Warren looked just that pathetic.
Regardless, Warren knew the bad situation could be much worse and he focused on the positives. He was safe, for now. The jail was small with only one cell, but Warren was the only occupant. He would be able to get some sleep. Warren knew worry would not make his situation any better in the present moment, but some rest would help him. He needed to take care of his body and his body needed sleep.
Warren curled up on the bench. Jumbled images from the preceding hours flashed in his mind. He said a quick prayer for Lettie before he drifted off into an uneasy slumber. Warren woke a few times to strange dreams or new sensations in his body— being abruptly pregnant brought with it some interesting feelings, physically and emotionally.
Warren didn't know how many hours had passed when he woke feeling not anxious or scared, but inexplicably warm and hopeful. He took a deep breath and stretched, finding his body much more relaxed and rested. The buzz of exhaustion that had been settled behind his eyes lifted and Warren sat up easily on the bench. He wrapped his coat around his body. He could hear two voices in the other room, and surmised that is what had woken him up. One voice was the gruff deputy. The other, Warren realized with a gasp, belonged to the traveling pastor that had tried to help him in the old woman's house.
Warren held his breath and listened closely, but he could not make out any details to the conversation. After a minute, the two men stopped talking and Warren heard one set of steady footsteps down the corridor, approaching the jail cell.
The pastor appeared in front of the bars, carrying a lantern. He wore a wool hat with a wide brim. His long black coat was faded but fit him perfectly. He had a smaller frame but a powerful presence. The lamplight reflected starkly in his dark eyes.
Warren bit his tongue to keep his reaction from showing on his face. The pastor might not have been an angel, but his spirit was kind and compassionate. Humans, even the difficult ones, always felt special to Fallen angels. Warren knew his ancestors had sacrificed themselves for the mortals of earth, gave them their place in Heaven. There was a bond with humans that was strong and unconditional.
But this human. He was better than usual.
Warren swallowed. He rarely found himself smitten with anyone, and he told himself that, in the current situation, he really needed a friend. His feelings were desperation, nothing more.
There was a small stool in the corridor and the pastor pulled it up to sit next to the bars. He set the lantern down next to him and motioned Warren to come closer. Warren pulled the bench up to sit level to the other man from inside his cell. The pastor took off his hat and held it in his hands.
“I’m pastor Ellis,” he whispered, “And I'm here to deliver you the Rite of Sanctum Carcerem.”
Warren frowned. “I'm sorry... what?”
Pastor Ellis gave a small smile. "I told the deputy the Rite of Sanctum Carcerem was a religious right like hearing confession. Most people don't know the difference between Catholicism and other denominations. I’ve found if I say something in Latin with a serious voice, I can usually get my way. That’s why he's letting me talk to you in private."
Warren swallowed. “Why did you want to talk to me in private?”
“Because I believe you are innocent and I want to help you.”
Joy and relief burst in Warren’s chest.
“Thank you.”
The pastor started, “But, Mr. Harting…”
“Warren.” His face flushed, realizing too late he had interrupted. “Sorry, uh… You can call me Warren.”
“All right, Warren,” pastor Ellis said. “You should probably tell me why you were in Miss Larson’s house.”
Warren sighed. He had been composing a story in his head. He hoped it would work.
“I left Beckettsville two days ago, traveling by myself. I left in a hurry, with few supplies, because I got an emergency message.” Warren paused, doing his best to sprinkle a few real details into his story. “My sister… she had a baby. But she… got into some serious trouble. I’m going to… take care of the baby for her. Actually, I plan to raise the child myself. But I’m afraid that if I don’t get to Cunard within the next week… something will happen to the baby.” Warren hated to lie to the pastor. It felt wrong. But he had to make his story believable. He added, “Last
night, I was robbed by highwaymen in the middle of the night. They took what little I had. I tried to fight back, but I’m afraid I’m only a photographer and I’m not used to being out in the wilderness by myself.” He pointed to the wound across his face. “There was two of them and only one of me.”
The pastor frowned. “You didn’t bring a gun with you?”
Warren barreled ahead with another lie. “No. I spend all my money on photography equipment and I live in town. I’ve never needed a gun.”
Pastor Ellis lowered his voice further and leaned in so their temples were inches apart.
“I have a horse. If I help you escape…”
“I can’t ride fast,” Warren interrupted, perhaps too forcefully. He said softly, “They beat me up pretty good.”
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No offense, but I’d rather take my chances than try to find one around here.”
“I understand,” Pastor Ellis said.
“If I can just get out of town, I doubt I’ll be important enough for the sheriff or deputy to go after, in the cold and weather,” Warren said.
“You’re probably right. Have you told anyone but me that you are traveling to Cunard?”
“No. Not even anyone at home, where I live. I left in a hurry, to say the least.”
“Well… I know a place where I doubt anyone will come looking for you. It’s only a few miles out of a direct route to Cunard. I can help you get there... if we don’t get caught.”
“I’m so grateful, but I’m so sorry. Truly I am. If the circumstances were different I would never expect a stranger to put so much risk for his own safety on the line for me. You don’t know me. This whole thing could be a lie.”
“I know, Pastor Ellis said. “But even if it were all a lie, I would still help you.”
The pastor’s dark eyes held Warren’s gaze for a moment as the sincerity of his statement sunk in. Warren didn’t know what to say. He was too captivated by the man’s nearness and his warmth—both physically and emotionally.
The pastor put his hat back on.
“Give me an hour and a half,” he whispered. “Don’t tell anyone, but, I’ll be back.”
Before Warren could argue the pastor stood and swept away, taking the lantern light and his warm, comforting presence with him.
Chapter Four
5:14 a.m. The moonlight was bright enough that Joseph could nervously check his pocket watch before he slid it back into his coat.
Joseph had collected his things, cleaned up his room at the boardinghouse, left the key at the front parlor, and slipped out without being seen.
At the Livery, Joseph roused a sleeping stable hand that had the night watch to retrieve his mare. Joseph took his time with the tack, making small conversation with the young man. Joseph made up a story about having to get an early start on the eastern leg of his circuit. If anyone questioned the stable hand about the pastor, Joseph hoped there would be nothing remarkable to note.
But Joseph was just being optimistic. He didn't even know if he would get ten feet away from the jail after breaking out a prisoner before getting caught. They might not even make it out of the jail cell before getting caught.
As Joseph led his mare from the stable, he swallowed his fears and pushed his doubts from his mind. He knew it was very unlike himself to blatantly defy authority. Joseph had always been one to follow rules and obey the law, even in lawless lands.
But Joseph knew it was very much like himself to stand up for what he knew was right and be there for people who needed his help. He didn't need to ask God for approval or pray for forgiveness. Joseph had faith in himself.
Joseph didn’t ride to the jail. It was only a few blocks and he walked Belle easily down the street in the cold night.
He tied a loose knot at the hitching post in front of the jail and gave Belle a reassuring pat. She nuzzled his hand with her velvet nose. Joseph had always taken good care of her and she was a very good tempered horse. But no one else had ever ridden her and Joseph hoped she would be all right having a stranger take the reins.
He pulled his pocket watch again to note the time.
5:17 a.m.
Joseph pocketed his timepiece and then he unclasped the button at his waist, opening his coat for easier access to the six shooter he had holstered on his hip. He always carried a gun, but he had never pointed one at another person. He had fired some shots to scare away a mountain lion out on the trail once, but that was it.
Joseph sighed a silent prayer that he would not have to use the gun and the smoke of his breath disappeared into the night. He took one last, deep breath of cold air and walked up to the door. His hand closed around the freezing metal of the doorknob. Joseph didn't flinch. He turned the knob slowly.
Joseph slipped through the door and closed it silently behind him. The lantern on the edge of the desk burned low, casting long, dark shadows over the room, leaving the corners black. The deputy had pulled a chair right up to the stove. He must have figured the excitement was finished for the night, as he had taken off his boots and put his feet up on the back of a second chair. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, and he was snoring.
The deputy had his arms crossed and his pistol sat in his chest holster, nestled in the crook of his left elbow.
Joseph stood in front of the door like a statue, letting the warmth of the room envelop his body. With the warmth, a confidence also seemed to ascend upon him and he stood straighter, his shoulders wide. He could see everything in fine detail as his eyes adjusted to the lantern light.
He spotted the keys hanging on a nail next to the hallway. He calmly walked by the sleeping deputy and grabbed the keys, silencing their cold, jingling laughter in his firm grip. He walked down the corridor as though it were any normal afternoon, not five in the morning with the intent to break out a prisoner.
Even though Joseph had been quiet, Warren was ready, standing at the door to the cell.
Joseph leaned in close and felt the heat of Warren’s breath on his cheek in the dark.
“The deputy is asleep. If we are careful we can sneak out around him,” Joseph whispered. “My horse is tethered in front. Are you well enough to ride at all?”
Joseph only caught a glint of eyes. “Like I said, not fast,” Warren answered. “But well enough.”
“Quiet will be better than fast.” Joseph breathed deeply, surprised with himself that he was not shaky or uncertain. “When you get outside, walk her down the main street, three blocks. There's a wide alley next to Hasting's mercantile. Take it, past several houses. It leads to a steady decline and then a field. From there you can ride. Cut across the field to the grove of trees about a quarter mile out of town. I'll stand guard here, make sure the deputy doesn't wake up. And if he does… Well. I should be able to keep him long enough for you to get away. If I don't meet you in the thicket after twenty minutes, ride south without me.”
Joseph felt the hesitation and sensed Warren was gripping the bars tightly.
"I… don’t want to leave without you,” Warren whispered. “I'll need your help.”
"I will do my best to make it. But if I can’t you’ll have to go on without me. I trust you’ll take care of the mare.” Joseph swallowed hard and finished, “She’s a good tempered animal.”
"I understand," Warren answered sincerely.
“All right. I have the keys. Are you ready?”
“If you are.”
I am, Joseph answered silently. He felt lightly with his fingertips in the dark, locating the lock. When he inserted the key and turned it, the weight of the mechanism unlocking sounded like a cannon in the night. Both of them held still and listened for a moment. A snore rumbled from the other room.
Joseph bit his lip and prayed for hinges that didn't wail. He slowly pulled the cell gate open. Relief blossomed as the door floated open without a sound.
Joseph stepped aside and let Warren emerge from his prison. Instinctively, he reached into the dark and guided Warren�
�s elbow, motioning him to go first down the hall.
As the two of them stepped into the front room, Joseph drew his pistol. The low lantern light illuminated their features and Warren met his gaze. Without a word, Joseph gestured for him to get to the door.
Before he went, Warren placed his hand on Joseph's shoulder. Joseph could feel the immense gratitude in the brief touch, even through the thick layer of his wool coat. Warren then hastily turned and headed for the door. Having been cramped up on a jail bench for several hours, Warren's steps weren't as silent or graceful as Joseph would have liked, but they were quiet enough. The deputy's snores were loud enough they covered the sound of the door closing as Warren escaped.
The cold burst of air that followed sent a worried chill down Joseph’s spine. The flames in the stove hissed then cackled back to life. But Joseph’s bravery did not return.
Now alone, without Warren near, Joseph's heart was pounding hard, his temples throbbing. He felt as though all the fear he should have been feeling the whole time spilled over him at once. There was an ache in his joints as Joseph willed himself to stay focused and not tremble. He easily hung the keys back on the nail and then stood still, silent, and waiting.
The deputy huffed in his sleep. Instinctively, Joseph spun the gun in his hand. Most men in his place would have thrust down on the hammer to prepare the gun to fire. But Joseph instead spun the gun over, changing his hold so he could use the heavy wood handle to hit the deputy over the head rather than shoot him.
Hot air flared Joseph's nostrils. He wanted to laugh at himself. Up until now he had felt like a tough, vigilante hero and imagined himself with his gun drawn and bravery shining through him like the moon in the dark night.
But now he was just cowering in a corner, not even knowing if he could actually hit the deputy hard enough to knock him out if he woke up.
Joseph was about to muster up the courage to take a step across the room when the deputy jerked in his sleep. His legs fell from the back of the chair and his arms flailed to keep his balance as he reclined.
