Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1)

by Lynnette Bonner

  Zoe stopped on the other side of the bridge, cupped both hands to her mouth, and yelled at the top of her lungs, “The sheriff is likely in his office this time o’ mornin’.”

  Forcing a smile, Charlotte waved her thanks. She cast an inspection over the town once more. Frustration was beginning to become a very familiar feeling! At least it shouldn’t take her long to find the sheriff’s office. She lifted her skirts and rotated right there in the middle of the street, surveying the signs on each building.

  She saw that the place where she had stayed the night was called Dixie’s Boardinghouse.

  Dixie, that’s right.

  Next to Dixie’s was a building labeled McGinty’s Alehouse and Rooms. Across the street was a building simply labeled Merkantile that had Charlotte grumbling beneath her breath about the very blatant need for education in these savage lands. Next to the mercantile was a tall, narrow building with Post Office engraved into a placard that hung on squeaking chains above the doorway. Finally her revolving gaze landed on the building labeled Sheriff’s Office and Jail on the same side of the street as Dixie’s Boardinghouse.

  Jaw clenched, she headed that way. At the very least, the sheriff needed to know what a crook the man who was luring people to this town was, and in addition to that, perhaps he could find her the first stage headed back home.

  Sure enough, Zoe had been right. Through the front window she could see that the sheriff had his boots propped on one corner of his desk, a steaming tin cup in one hand, while he perused a folded-over section of a newspaper. Behind him, two jail cells held three men in various states of repose, presumably the outlaws who’d nearly gotten her killed yesterday.

  Without bothering to knock, Charlotte barged through his door.

  The sheriff jolted so high that he sloshed hot coffee from his tin cup onto his hand. He hissed and plunked the cup onto the desk, shaking the liquid onto the floor. “Miss Brindle.” He winced and swiped the back of his hand against his denims. His words were louder and decidedly more hostile after that. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  The three men in the cells came to attention.

  “Well, if it ain’t the lady that caused us all to be caught,” one groused.

  “Quiet!” the sheriff commanded. “We would have arrested you all whether Waddell took a hostage or not.”

  Charlotte determined to ignore the foul outlaws and focus on the reason she was here. She folded her arms and pondered the best place to start. How could you let me think you were not married just didn’t seem the best footing to begin on, especially not with three ill-groomed hoodlums looking on. Besides, in reality the man had done nothing terribly improper. It was the strange circumstances that had dictated yesterday’s improprieties.

  She decided to start with the boardinghouse fee. “I would like to reimburse you for the expense of my stay last night.”

  “Ohhh! Where did she stay, Sheriff?” There was more than a little innuendo in that question, but then the outlaw pushed it further. “Ain’t it generally t’other way around? You payin’ her?” The men guffawed heartily.

  Charlotte felt her face pale.

  “I would like to reimburse you for the expense of my stay last night,” one of the outlaws mimicked.

  The sheriff was on his feet in a heartbeat, and before she could even blink, a gun appeared in his hand.

  He stalked a few steps toward the cells. “Would be a shame if my gun accidentally discharged and took a few pieces of flesh out of your sorry hides, now wouldn’t it, boys?”

  All three men lifted their hands to indicate they wanted no part of that, and sank onto their respective cots.

  The sheriff holstered his pistol and returned to his desk. He waved his hand and picked up their conversation as though there had been no interruption. “Think nothing of it. Once Zeb returns, the fee will likely be part of your salary. I’ll get reimbursed.”

  If he could ignore those men, then she could too. Charlotte reached for her reticule. “But I can reimburse you now.”

  The sheriff picked up his coffee. “I said don’t worry about it.” He lifted the cup to his lips.

  Charlotte suppressed the pucker that wanted to perch on her brow. “Your wife likely won’t appreciate you spending money on me.”

  Once more hot coffee sloshed out of the sheriff’s cup. This time it drizzled down his chin and onto the front of his shirt. “My wife!?” The sheriff sputtered and swiped at the liquid before plunking the cup back down on his desk. “Who told you I had a wife?!”

  Another round of guffaws emanated from the cells.

  Charlotte darted them a look of irritation, feeling a little light headed. Her gaze turned to the street where she’d just been talking with Zoe, and the pucker did settle into place this time. She looked back at the sheriff. “You don’t?”

  “No! I don’t!” The sheriff’s tone indicated his thankfulness to the Almighty over the fact.

  How did she get herself into these predicaments? “It’s just that…I met Zoe Kastain just now, and she said she worked for ‘Mrs. Callahan.’”

  A glint of humor started in the sheriff’s eyes, spread to his lips, and then burst forth in a full volley of laughter.

  Charlotte didn’t see what was so hilarious. She folded her arms and gave the man her best glower.

  Which only made him and the outlaws laugh harder.

  Charlotte lifted her chin. “Did I misunderstand her?”

  Sheriff Callahan finally managed to contain his amusement. “The Mrs. Callahan Zoe referred to is my mother, not my wife.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, a definite twinkle in the blue eyes he leveled on her.

  An unaccountable relief washed through her. “Oh. I see.” The relief was immediately followed by pique. Why should she care whether the man was married or not? She wouldn’t even be here for but a few more hours!

  “Was there anything else I could help you with this morning, Miss Brindle?” His back-to-business tone of dismissal raised her temper a few notches.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.” She slapped the brochure onto the desk in front of him, propped one hand to the side of it, and then gave it an extra stab for good measure. Tapping the picture of the town with eyebrows raised, she indicated he should give it a good look himself. “Did you know, Sheriff, that this…this!…is what Mr. Heath is using to lure unsuspecting patrons to this, this—” She gave up on an apt word and settled for a sweep of her hand in the general direction of the street, and the buildings to the south of the sheriff’s office, and then to the prisoners behind him.

  The sheriff picked up the brochure and gave it a once-over, one golden eyebrow arching upward. After a moment he dropped the brochure back onto his desk, lifted his hands in a what do you want me to do gesture, and then folded them on the desk before him. And if she wasn’t mistaken, a twitch of humor still quirked one corner of his lips!

  That did it! The anger that had been on slow simmer roiled up and spilled out of her mouth. “You think this is funny, do you? Your town founder is out there lying to people—deceiving them into coming here! And all I get from the sheriff—the same sheriff who’d set a trap for those ruffians that nearly got me killed yesterday as I was arriving—is a smirk and silence?” She felt quite proud that she’d managed to speak the words through unclenched teeth.

  “I believe she called us ruffians,” one of the outlaws said in feigned hurt.

  The sheriff rubbed one hand over a jaw that had seen the use of a razor sometime between when she’d left him last evening and now, and studied her with those blue eyes that brought to mind the waters of the Neponset River back home. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do, miss. I’m not saying that I believe Heath is doing the right thing with this.” He tapped the deceptive drawing of the main street on the pamphlet before him. “But I don’t doubt that he fully expects the town to look just like that one of these days, and I also don’t see that there’s much that I can do about it.”

&
nbsp; “Well, forgive me!” Charlotte adjusted her lace day gloves. Her irritation mounted as she noticed the fingers on her right hand were a ruin of mud, likely from the dog’s lead. She gave the sheriff the best cowing look she could muster. “Forgive me for thinking that you, a man of the law, would want to do something about his deceit. Deceit that pertains to your town nonetheless. But I can see that I was wrong. Well, never mind that.” She snatched up the brochure and stuffed it back into her reticule, then folded her hands before her and lifted her chin primly. “I would like my cases. They were on the coach yesterday. And I would like the first ticket on a coach out of town this morning, please.”

  The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck and eyed her with lowered brows. “I’m afraid there’s no coach coming through here until next week this time, miss.”

  Despite herself, Charlotte’s jaw dropped for the second time that morning. No more coaches for…for a whole week?

  “And your bags haven’t been retrieved just yet. Though Don, he’s the stage driver, is working on it. He found his missing horse, and the stage should arrive by midmorning to drop off the bags.”

  Her hopes momentarily soared, but the sheriff must have seen it in her expression, for he held up one hand.

  “But from here the stage travels farther west to Seattle. Then it comes back through here on its way east again next week.”

  Dejection slumping her shoulders, Charlotte strode to the window overlooking the street and stared at the dilapidated little buildings across the way. She had had such high hopes for her time in Wyldhaven. She had anticipated school lessons, and Christmas plays, and an Easter pageant. She had envisioned the children at the front of a theater. She had planned out a cotillion to raise funds for schoolbooks, and perhaps even some historical reenactments to teach the children history.

  But all of that envisioning had now been shattered. Because any group of people who would allow themselves to live in such a rundown, dilapidated, degraded place obviously would not be the type who would enjoy cotillions and theater.

  Charlotte fiddled with the brooch at her throat as she stared out the window and pondered her next move. Every option she considered was a little blurry around the edges—not quite graspable.

  How had Mr. Heath deceived her with such totality? She was more than a little perturbed at her own naivety. How could she have been misled so easily? It was her hurry to get away from Kent, that was what it was. She’d obviously been so set in putting space between them that she hadn’t even questioned Mr. Heath’s promises.

  She dropped her eyes closed. All she wanted to do was to go back home. Yet now the sheriff claimed she had no way to escape for an entire week! Whatever was she going to do?

  She would not cry. She simply wouldn’t. She blinked, fast and furious.

  She heard the sheriff’s boots thudding across the floor behind her and felt him come to her side. “I think you’ll like Wyldhaven if you give it a chance, Miss Brindle. The people here come from hardworking folk, and ever since they heard yesterday that a teacher came to town, there’s been nothing but excitement in the air.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him tilt his head and prop his hands on his hips. “You all right, miss?”

  She spun away from him, only offering a view of her back. “Yes. I’m quite fine, thank you.” She tugged at her gloves again. Miss Gidden would be lambasting her of a certainty for the nervous gesture. “I’ll just return to my hotel room. I’ve got some pondering to do.”

  The sheriff hurried past her and beat her to the door. He put his palm on the handle but didn’t open it. Instead he looked up into her face. “If you’ll pardon me, I was set to come by and see you here after a bit anyhow. You see, as soon as Miss Pottinger—Dixie, she’s the one that runs the boardinghouse, who you met last night—well, as soon as she heard you were the new teacher in town, she sent out the word, and there’s set to be a gathering this afternoon. Folks are all a-jitter to meet you.” He tilted her a pleading look. “Can I come by to escort you to the gathering at half past noon?”

  Charlotte swept a gesture down herself. “I don’t have anything clean to wear.”

  “I’ll make sure your bags get delivered to your room just as soon as Don gets them here. Should be well before noon.”

  “I really believe the best thing will be for me to simply return to Boston, Sheriff. This town is not what I thought it would be.”

  “I see. But the word’s already gone out. So if we are to cancel the social, I need to let everyone know.”

  Charlotte sighed. She wouldn’t be staying. So she ought not to go down and get people’s hopes up. Yet what better place to tell them all at once what a crook their town founder was and let them know she wouldn’t be staying. Yes. She would go. She could even use the opportunity to offer them her apologies for leaving them high and dry in need of a teacher once more.

  “Half past noon will be fine, Sheriff.”

  “Very good, Miss Brindle. See you then.” The man swung the door open and offered her a parting smile.

  Charlotte pulled in a little breath. The man’s smile was positively dazzling. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and etched dimples into each tanned cheek. He had even, white teeth and a solid jawline that led to a thickly muscled neck and broad shoulders.

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, Miss Brindle?”

  She forced her eyes to the street outside. “No, Sheriff. Nothing else. Thank you.” She swept through the door with as much dignity as the step down to the muddy street would allow.

  Behind her, she heard an outlaw cackle. “I do believe she’s sweet on you, Sheriff!”

  Were her cheeks as red as they felt? How did she manage to entrench herself in these awkward situations with such regularity?

  Sweet on him indeed! Only three weeks ago she’d been set to marry a different man! She wasn’t about to dive into that pool again. Much less so soon!

  Patrick Waddell woke with a groan.

  Wretched misery. He cursed.

  He tucked his left hand into his armpit and scooted farther into the patch of sunshine that thankfully was warming the morning. He’d spent the night shivering and gasping in pain each time he moved.

  He’d tried to get a fire going, but with his right hand out of commission, he simply hadn’t been able to rub the sticks together fast enough to make it work, even though he’d routinely lit fires that way in the past. After a time, he’d given up and concentrated on splinting his arm. But the ties he’d needed to hold the splint in place had cost him part of his shirt. After that he’d been too exhausted to do much but shiver and try and sleep.

  It had been a torturous night.

  Then this morning the sun had thankfully been out. Now that he’d caught a few hours of shut-eye, he needed to do something about finding food. His stomach growled at just the thought of it. He hadn’t eaten since that measly meal the coachman had provided yesterday at noon. Just a few more minutes here in the sun to rest and dry out a little more, and then he’d be on his way. On his way to where, he wasn’t quite sure. Maybe he’d be able to find a patch of blackberries. They ought to still be in season round these parts.

  He must have drifted off, because the next thing he became cognizant of was voices. Female voices. He kept his eyes closed and stayed real still.

  “Is he dead, Ma?”

  “Hush, Zoe. Of course he’s not dead. When was the last time you saw a dead man’s chest rise and fall like that?”

  There was a pause. “I ain’t never seen a dead man.”

  “You have never seen a dead man.”

  Another pause. “Ain’t that what I just said?”

  “Isn’t—never mind. Here let’s see if we can wake him—”

  Since he was already awake anyhow, he opened his eyes. They were leaning over him, a pretty middle-aged woman with hair the color of the frost-dusted pumpkins that used to grow in his mother’s garden of an autumn, and a younger version of herself still in pigtails. The ol
der woman was reaching out to touch his shoulder.

  She leapt back when he opened his eyes. “Oh! Land sakes of mercy!” She pressed one slender hand to her chest with a startled laugh. “You about scared the stuffing right out of me, mister.” She rubbed her hands in worry. “You look like you’ve seen the wrong side of luck lately. What’s your name?”

  Patrick scrambled to think what he ought to do. The stupor of sleep still fogged his thinking. He blinked his eyes and gave his head a little shake, but that produced a moan when shards of fire shot through him from the gash. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to lay here and die.

  When he didn’t answer, the woman’s eyes widened. “Oh. I’m sorry. Maybe we should introduce ourselves first. I’m Susan Kastain and this”—she swept a gesture to the little girl by her side—“is my daughter Zoe.”

  The fog had cleared a little more now, and Waddell realized two things. These people might be what kept him alive. And he couldn’t tell them his real name. He hadn’t managed to get more than a few miles from the town of Wyldhaven. At least that would be his guess. And since the sheriff of that town had been the one to confront him at the river, it was a pretty good guess that the people of that town would have heard his name.

  “Name’s…” He bit his lip. What name should he use? “Hank Sherman.” That was a combination of his father’s name and his mother’s maiden name. Shouldn’t be too hard to remember that.

  “Well, Mr. Sherman. It’s a pleasure to meet you. When was the last time you ate?”

  His stomach rumbled at the mention of food. How long had he slept? He’d been hungry earlier, but right now he was so hungry and full of pain his stomach probably feared his throat had been cut. “I can’t rightly say when I last ate, but I could sure swallow a bite or two.” He gave what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. “I have been better a time or two, yes, ma’am.”