Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1)

by Lynnette Bonner

  Joe’s hands clenched, and from the righteous indignation pouring off him, she got the feeling he would have liked to wring necks.

  “Anyhow… After that first year…well…I suppose you’ve got a pretty good picture.” She pressed her lips together. Why was she telling him this? She’d never talked to anyone about this before. “She did it for me.”

  He tilted his head, so much compassion in his eyes. “And you did it for her.”

  “And look how much good it did.” She forced herself to her feet.

  He stood with her, curling the brim of his hat as he rolled it through his fingers. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Joe. You’ve been more than kind.” The door clicked softly when she shut it, and she heard his boot steps disappearing down the hall. She fell onto the stool before her dressing table. Propped her forehead into one palm. Stared at the envelope.

  She reached one hand under and fingered the cool wood of the derringer’s grip. Unstrapped it, drew it out, and laid it on the dresser before her.

  Such a small tool of destruction. Barely five inches from handle to barrel tip. She rubbed one finger along the cool metal and studied herself in the mirror once more.

  And after she pulled the trigger? What would death feel like? Was it really the end?

  Not a sparrow falls.

  The words arrowed through her, seemingly spoken straight to her heart. Aggravated, she shoved back from the dressing table and marched across the room. Pain stabbed through her, and she folded her arms around her ribs in an attempt to lessen the shooting darts of anguish each movement caused.

  Did God really see her fallen mother? Did He care what had happened to her? If He cared so much, why hadn’t He stepped in to help them long before now? Before it was too late? She’s gone.

  The sobs hit her then. She collapsed onto her bed and curled onto her side, wishing she could believe in the fairy tale of a caring God.

  If He cares that much about small sparrows, we can be sure to know He cares for us even more.

  Her hand fisted into the blankets, and she wished she could get the woman’s words out of her mind. She’d nearly gaped when the schoolteacher had come over and asked her to join them for dinner. Didn’t the woman know anything about the way society operated? Didn’t she care about keeping her job? Her reputation? It was ridiculous. The thought of Liora Fontaine eating in public with people like the sheriff, the doctor, the schoolteacher.

  Yet now she had the foolish woman’s words tantalizing her with the fantasy that there was a God who actually cared for people. A God who saw even when the birds fell from their nests.

  Would that it were true. Nothing in her life had indicated a God who cared for her more than for the birds.

  Stop your whimpering, you little mongrel. No one’s coming to your rescue, because no one cares. I’m leaving. And I want you to remember until the day you die that it’s all your fault!

  Liora closed her eyes against the memory.

  Much more familiar words.

  Much more truthful.

  Much less comforting.

  Reagan Callahan, boots propped comfortably atop one corner of his desk, sighed and tossed the stack of wanted posters back onto the blotter. He massaged fingers and thumb against the headache pulsing just behind his eyes, feeling the weight of his responsibilities to the people of Wyldhaven hanging like a heavy burden squarely around his neck.

  The judge was due in next week for the trial of the Waddell gang. Reagan had hoped he’d have the rest of the gang rounded up by then, but he’d gone out hunting their trail for several hours each of the last three days and had come up empty. At least if he wasn’t finding any tracks that meant that the outlaws weren’t lingering around the outskirts of town waiting for their chance to dispatch Charlotte.

  He still hadn’t initiated a talk with her about the danger she was in. After Doc had interrupted their dance the other night, he hadn’t gotten another chance to speak with her. He hadn’t seen her again for the rest of the evening, and she’d been fastidiously avoiding him all week—he knew because just yesterday she’d seen him coming down the street and had quickly ducked into the post office to avoid meeting him. The action had hurt more than he would have thought possible. Maybe he’d just been imagining her feelings at the dance.

  Reagan’s feet slipped off his desk and thudded to the floor, effectively jolting him back to the present. He sighed and slurped another swallow of coffee. The coffee was stone cold—probably about the same temperature as Miss Brindle’s leanings toward him. He grimaced at the sentimental thought. Great. Now he was going addlebrained.

  Reagan snorted, wearily crossed the room, and poured himself another cup of the coal-black coffee that had been thickening on the office’s wood stove since five o’clock this morning.

  From one of the cells at the back of the room, Horace Crispin chuckled. “Feelin’ a mite discouraged that you ain’t found Waddell yet, Sheriff? Don’t you worry none. He always shows up when you least expect him.” The man guffawed and slapped his leg.

  Reagan didn’t even glance the man’s way, but he couldn’t help but realize Horace had just voiced his worst fear. Waddell or his gang could attack Charlotte just about anywhere, and what if he wasn’t close enough to protect her? Feeling fatigued beyond belief, Reagan plunked the cup back onto his desk and fell into his chair.

  With school starting first thing Monday morning, Reagan needed to track Charlotte down and make sure she understood the gravity of the danger she was in. Once school started, there would be an infinite number of suppers she’d be invited to, and Reagan couldn’t have her traipsing all over the place without a guard, at least not until all the hubbub from the Waddell gang died down. Either that or he captured them all, and the chances of that happening before Monday were looking less and less likely.

  Until a more permanent building could be erected, school was going to be held in Dixie Pottinger’s boardinghouse dining room. School would start after the breakfast hour and end well before the dinner hour, so the only income Dixie would be losing was from her lunch crowd. And the school board had agreed to pay Dixie two bits per child per week to help offset the cost of the lunches she wouldn’t be able to sell to her boarders.

  That was likely where he’d find Charlotte, and he’d put off the confrontation with the town’s new schoolteacher long enough. Reagan locked up the sheriff’s office and made straight for the boardinghouse, but when he arrived, Dixie told him that Charlotte had gone across the street to the mercantile to pick up a few things for her “classroom.” Reagan tipped his hat in thanks and headed over there.

  The bell above the mercantile door tinkled when he entered, but neither of the room’s two occupants seemed to notice.

  Charlotte stood before the counter with both tiny hands plunked on her hips. “No chalk!? First you have plenty of pencils but no paper, and now you have a chalkboard but no chalk? Mr. Heath assured me that all the supplies for the school would be taken care of! I can’t teach without paper and chalk, Mr. Hines!”

  Reagan did his best to suppress a grin.

  Jerry’s freckles were almost an exact match to his curly red hair at that moment, and he rubbed the back of his flushed neck, looking very much like a schoolboy receiving his first switching. “I’m not sure how the chalk got overlooked, Miss Brindle. And I’m out of paper because of the oldest Kastain girl. She can draw a picture so pretty it could make your jaw drop.”

  Reagan couldn’t see the look Charlotte leveled on the man, but he saw the tilt of her head, and the look must have been a doozy, because Jerry got right back to business.

  “But I can assure you I’ve placed the order now, and the chalk and paper should be here inside a month. Six weeks at the most.”

  “Six weeks?!” Charlotte threw up her hands and spun around in exasperation. Her gaze landed on him, and she seemed to freeze for just a moment before she resumed her task. She bent and hefted a rather large crate of various it
ems onto the counter. “Very well. I’ll take these, and I presume it’s okay if I charge them to the school’s account?”

  Jerry always kept a nub of a pencil behind his ear, and Reagan didn’t think he’d ever seen the man move so fast as when he pulled the pencil down and set to tabulating. “Oh yes. Of course, Miss Brindle.”

  Charlotte spun toward Reagan, folding her arms and tilting her head. “Sheriff.” There was still the slight sting of hurt in her tone.

  Reagan hated that he’d been the one to put it there. He realized he was shifting his Stetson through his fingers and squeezed the brim tight to put a stop to the nervous action. “Charlotte. I wondered if I might have a word with you?” He swallowed. He hadn’t meant to address her so informally.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second but must have decided to let his faux pas pass, because she said, “Actually, I’m really rather busy.” She swept a gesture to the box of supplies. “As you can see, I’m just about to head back to the boardinghouse to finish up my final preparations before school starts. Since tomorrow is the Lord’s day, I need to finish up tonight.”

  It was a dismissal, but he couldn’t let her get away with it. “Yes. And after school starts, you’ll be even busier than you have been all week, which is why I really must insist you take a few moments to speak to me today.”

  She sighed and leaned into one hip, giving him a glower that he felt sure had made schoolboys confess secrets sworn to silence on blood oaths.

  “The total comes to fourteen dollars and seventeen cents, Miss Brindle.” Jerry nudged the crate back across the counter. “I’ll put this on the school’s tab. And you can be on your way now.”

  Reagan almost smiled at the hopeful, near-pleading note in the man’s voice during that last sentence.

  Charlotte started to lift the crate, but Reagan brushed her aside. “I’ll get that. And we can talk on our way back to Dixie’s.”

  She huffed but did tip him a nod of concession before she turned back to Jerry. “Thank you, Mr. Hines. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “I have?” Jerry couldn’t have looked more confused if he’d tried. “Oh! Well, I’m always happy to be of service.” He hurried around the counter. “Here, let me get the door for you.” He yanked open the mercantile door, jarring the bell, and motioned for them to hurry along their way as if his life depended on it.

  As Charlotte lifted her skirts and stepped down into the street, she wondered what had brought the sheriff out looking for her this time. His boots thudded softly into the dirt beside her, and she glanced over at him.

  Ever since the night of the boxed social she hadn’t been able to think about the sheriff without imagining the feel of them dancing together. She’d known dancing with the man was a bad idea in so many ways, especially for a woman who didn’t want to risk her heart again so soon after having it crushed. Okay, the crushing had come with a lot of relief too, but still she wanted to give herself more time before falling for another man. Yet when she’d seen Butch Nolan striding her way, offering her that horrifying wink, she’d done the only thing a girl could do.

  And now each time she thought of the sheriff, she remembered that tantalizing scent of leather and spice. The feel of his hand guiding her gently from her waist. The warmth of his palm against hers, and the gentle humor in his blue eyes as he tilted his head to tease her.

  She forced her thoughts to the present lest she require the use of her fan.

  Today the sheriff had rolled the sleeves of his blue twill shirt up to just below his elbows. No gentleman of Boston would ever be seen about town with his shirtsleeves rolled up! And yet she found she rather liked the glimpse of brown skin. And the way his forearms rippled as he adjusted his grip on the crate.

  She’d done it now. Charlotte flipped her fan open and put it to good use. She really ought to look away.

  As he maneuvered around the end of a logging wagon and stepped out into the street, he glanced back at her. “Coming?”

  And it was only then that she realized her mouth had gone dry and she’d come to a complete stop at the foot of the mercantile stairs. She darted her tongue over her lips, snapped her fan closed, and lifted her skirts to hurry after him, willing away the warmth she could feel pinking her cheeks.

  “Yes, Sheriff. Now…” With the hopes of covering for her embarrassing scrutiny of the man, she dove right into the topic at hand. “What can I do for you today?”

  A muscle bunched in his jaw. “Reagan.” His blue eyes pierced hers.

  Her heart thudded, and her mouth suddenly felt made of sandpaper. There was only one reason a man would want a woman to address him by his first name. And she just didn’t feel ready for that. Uncertainty kept her silent.

  The sheriff’s brow lowered in consternation. He must have chosen not to press the issue, because he changed the subject. “I fear I have some news that may prove a bit alarming.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte’s hands clenched her skirts more tightly.

  “Yes. It’s regarding Patrick Waddell.”

  At the mention of that man’s name, Charlotte’s feet refused to move an inch farther, no matter that they were right in the middle of the street. “What about him?” Fear lodged in the back of her throat.

  The sheriff paused for a moment but then gestured with the crate for her to move out of the road. “Keep walking, if you would. A wagon is coming.”

  Behind her she heard the jangle of the trace chains and the grind of wagon wheels over the corduroyed logs of the road. Oh for heaven’s sake, she was apparently determined to make a fool of herself today. She lifted her skirts and hurried to the other side, pausing once more in front of Dixie’s Boardinghouse. Her heart thudded against her breastbone at the mere thought of Waddell. What would the man have done with her if Reagan hadn’t come to her rescue?

  “What about Patrick Waddell, Sheriff?” Charlotte willed herself to breathe normally. The outlaw’s violent actions had, quite frankly, terrified her. She really had no desire to ever see him again.

  The sheriff took in her features and must have read the fear in her eyes, because he hurried to reassure her. “Please don’t be concerned, Charlotte. Everything is going to be just fine, but can we”—he adjusted the carton of supplies in his arms and glanced around—“head into Dixie’s parlor before we continue this discussion?”

  Charlotte followed his gaze and noticed that practically every visible window in town had a face plastered to it. All of them taking great interest in her and the sheriff’s conversation. “Oh…o-of course.” Charlotte led the way into Dixie’s and pushed the door shut behind them. Did everyone in town know something she didn’t know?

  She led him through the foyer and into the dining room, and motioned to the table that would be her desk, come Monday morning. The sheriff deposited the carton on its surface and then removed his hat.

  He glanced around the room. “I see you’ve already done much to turn the room into a school.”

  By the tone of his voice, she couldn’t tell if he was impressed or simply surprised. So she merely shrugged. Thankfully, the crates that Father had shipped to her on the train had arrived just yesterday, and she’d spent a good portion of the night converting Dixie’s dining room into a room that could suffice for both dining and educating.

  Three small bookshelves, which she had scrounged from Dixie’s attic, held both books and tea services, with a few dried flower arrangements scattered throughout. Two blue Mason jars on her desk held fountain pens and pencils, but she had draped swags of lace around them to disguise the utensils. The room held two large rolling chalkboards. (Thankfully, Mr. Heath had thought ahead and recognized the need for those.) And on the backs of each, Charlotte had hung copies of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. On the dining room walls, Charlotte had put up educational prints—the landing of the Mayflower, George Washington at Valley Forge, the arrival of the French fleet at the end of the Revolutionary War, and Charlotte’s personal favorite, a painting of a woman help
ing slaves escape during the Civil War. Decorated with pretty frames and here and there a swag of dried flowers, the prints would serve as beauty for Dixie’s patrons and lesson props for Charlotte’s students.

  But the sheriff—Reagan—wasn’t here to see any of that.

  Charlotte pressed her palms together. “What was it you wanted to tell me, Sher—Reagan?” She couldn’t prevent a tremor from invading the question. And if it had just as much to do with her complying with the use of his given name, well, he didn’t need to know that.

  Reagan’s eyes shone in a way that made her long to say his name over and over again. But after only a moment, he seemed to remember why he was here, and his face turned serious again. He crimped the brim of his Stetson and pressed his lips together. “Yes, I’m afraid I have some bad news—”

  “Is he alive?” she interrupted.

  Reagan hesitated a moment but then must have decided it was okay to answer, because he said, “Actually, we still aren’t sure. Of course we know he was alive when he attacked William. But since then, no one seems to have seen him. At least no one that’s talking.”

  Charlotte swallowed.

  “But my news really has more to do with the Waddell gang than with Waddell himself. You see, I got word a couple weeks back… It seems that Waddell’s crew has decided to hold you accountable for Waddell’s…demise.”

  “Me!?” The word was naught more than a chirp. She felt her eyes widen. “Was that the reason you pushed so hard for me to return home?”

  He nodded, his blue eyes full of concern. “One of the reasons, yes. The main reason, really.”

  Charlotte pursed her lips, still not sure she was ready to let him off the hook for being so adamant about her returning home, but with the knowledge that she could be in danger came the first niggling doubts over whether staying in Wyldhaven really was the right decision.