Mrs. Singleton gasped.
Zane pressed while he had their attention. “Did either of you ever know him to be violent?”
The couple looked at each other. After a long moment, the man stood, wiping his hands on his apron. “If there’s nothing else, sir, I think my wife and I would like to be alone for a while.”
Interesting… Zane nodded, folding the sketch. He started to put it into his pocket, but stilled when Mrs. Singleton put out her hand.
“Would… I be able to have that sketch, Mr. Holloway?”
He nodded. “I’ll bring it back to you when I’m done with my investigation, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She followed her husband from the room, both of them keeping their heads held high. But well he knew the grief that would likely take them to their knees once they were out of sight.
He swallowed. At least they had each other.
He took a gulp of coffee that went down hot and hard. He ate mechanically, more because he knew he needed to than for the enjoyment of it. He left double payment on the table and stepped out into the cool evening air. Zane paused on the boardwalk and glanced up and down the street. He supposed it was time to make another visit to the sheriff. What was the man going to say when he learned that Steven Pottinger had been very much alive, at least a few days ago?
Just as he remembered from the last time he was here, the sheriff’s office was so cluttered with crates and stacks of newspapers that the door wouldn’t even open all the way. Zane had to squeeze through. The paunchy man with flaccid cheeks looked up from behind a haphazard pile of books, so dusty that the title on the top copy was disguised. He was eating a whole pie, straight from the tin.
“Help you?” the sheriff barked, wiping crumbs of crust from his mouth.
Zane’s patience was suddenly wearing thin. He tugged his badge from his belt and tossed it down on top of the dusty stack of books. “Afternoon, Sheriff Berkley. You might remember me from about a year and half ago when I came through here because I was assigned the Steven Pottinger murder?”
The sheriff assessed him up and down, then shrugged. He turned to gaze out the window behind his desk as if he had nothing better to do. “What if I do?”
Feeling his eyes narrow, Zane picked up his badge and hooked it back onto his belt. “Steven Pottinger is alive.”
The man spun toward him so quickly that his jowls jiggled.
Zane nodded. “He tracked his wife and mother to a town out west. But he arrived under an assumed name. And I backtracked him all the way to Beaufort. In the hotel room up in Beaufort where he was using the alias Abraham Johnson, the body of Prissy Singleton was found. Murdered.” Zane folded his arms and leaned in to his heels, letting the information sink in. “Now here’s the thing, Sheriff. When I tracked down Mrs. Pottinger she had quite the story to tell. That story involved a certain sheriff that she had sought help from on several occasions. A sheriff who ignored her repeatedly. Even when she showed him the burn marks of cigars left on her arms by her cur of a husband.” Zane pulled out a chair, propped his boot atop it, and leaned forward against crossed arms.
The sheriff squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and suddenly couldn’t seem to meet Zane’s scrutiny.
“How much was he paying you?” Zane let every ounce of anger he was feeling inhabit the question.
The sheriff threw both hands up, palms out. “Now see here!”
The good thing about wearing your pistols strapped down and facing forward was that people generally didn’t realize you had laid hold of them till it was too late. Zane’s hand was already wrapped around the handle of his pistol. He casually straightened and let the cocking of it make his point. There was something mighty sobering about looking down the barrel of a forty-four caliber Colt at point-blank range. He knew because he’d experienced the feeling more times than he cared to remember.
The sheriff leapt from his chair, eyes darting around the room as he searched for the quickest route of escape. However, he was quite literally boxed in behind his desk, with Zane blocking the only path.
Keeping the gun carefully trained on the man, Zane scratched his prickly jaw, wishing for nothing more than a bath and a good night’s sleep before he needed to catch the train back to Wyldhaven. At least now he was getting somewhere. And it was definitely time to put this investigation to pasture. “I have an aversion to being sent on wild goose chases, Sheriff.”
The man’s face turned so pale that Zane wondered if he was going to be able to remain on his feet. “I only did what I was told to do. He ran this town. And I swear I did not know that he was still alive.”
Zane sucked his front teeth thoughtfully. “So, what you mean to say is that you didn’t intend to send me on a wild goose chase, but that you did know the Pottinger women were being abused and you didn’t have the gumption to do anything about it.”
“I knew no such thing!” The man shook his head emphatically.
Zane snorted his disbelief. “I also have an aversion to liars, Sheriff.” He lifted his pistol and sited along the barrel, taking careful aim at the man’s ear.
“Alright, alright, alright!” The man stumbled back until he bumped into the wall, then cowered behind his hands. “Maybe I did realize what he was doing, but I was in between the proverbial rock and a hard place.” His voice rose into a whine. “He threatened my family if I ever so much as checked into any of her stories. Or let anything get around town about it.”
That explained why no one seemed to want to talk to him about Pottinger. “And so, being the fine, upstanding, godly man that you are, you let him bully you.” With a disgusted release of breath, Zane holstered his pistol. He straightened and dropped his foot to the floor. “Get over here.”
The sheriff scuttled around his desk until he stood trembling before him.
“Sit.” Zane motioned to the chair his boot had just vacated.
The man did.
Zane pulled out his handcuffs and threaded the man’s hands through the slats of the chair, then cuffed his wrists together. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, Sheriff, it’s that if a man is willing to lie about one thing, he’s just as likely to lie about another.” Zane sauntered to the area behind the sheriff’s desk.
The man’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
Zane ignored him and opened the top drawer on the right. Several broken handcuffs and a pistol that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years were the only items in that drawer. He continued his methodical search to the background music of the sheriff’s sputtered complaints until he found a leather-bound notebook at the very back of the bottom left drawer. The notebook contained dated notes about investigations the sheriff had run. And haphazardly jotted though they were, it only took Zane five minutes to find one dated just three weeks previous.
“Followed P.S. to Beaufort. She met S.P. at the Grand Hotel. S.P. left on his own two hours later, and disappeared in the foot traffic near the train station.”
Zane’s anger surged. For the past year and a half, he’d been hunting the murderers of a man who hadn’t been murdered. And this sheriff had known, but said nothing.
With four strides, he was around the desk. He snagged a fistful of Berkley’s shirt and leaned down, letting his anger speak for itself.
Berkley cringed and turned his head away. “P-please. I was going to let the Marshals Office know just as soon as he did something worth telling!”
“The fact that he was alive was worth telling, considering he’d been reported as dead by you earlier. Did you give any thought to the fact that the Marshals Office had the two Pottinger women listed as ‘armed and dangerous’?”
Berkley only sputtered. A clear indication that he hadn’t been thinking much at all.
Zane didn’t release him. “What about Miss Singleton. Did you know prior to her trip to Beaufort that he’d made contact with her?”
More sputtering.
Zane was disgusted. “You did know. And now she’s
dead!”
Berkley’s eyes widened. “You can’t pin that on me!”
Zane released him. “How long did you know?”
“I’ve been following her for a few months. The first time I happened to see them was an accident. They met at a pub where I chanced to be eating while in the city. But she returned home on the same train as I did that night. And she always came home safely from every other meeting, though mostly they met at his hotel where…” Berkley rolled his hand through the air. “I assumed they…” More hand rolling. “So three weeks ago when she met him at the Grand, I thought nothing of it. When she didn’t come back home, I just assumed that they’d run off together. I was just happy to have the man out of my life. He made everything miserable.”
Zane felt exhausted and yet free. All his work from the past couple years had finally come to fruition. “The investigation into the Pottinger murder is concluded, Sheriff. Rose and Dixie Pottinger’s names have been cleared as suspects. But if I were you, I would be expecting a visit from the members of your town council first thing tomorrow morning, because City Hall is my next stop after I return to the Golden Vittles and give the Singletons the final sketch of their murdered daughter.”
With that, he pushed out the door and headed back the way he had come, leaving the man hand-cuffed to the chair. The town council could decide what to do with him. He’d meant what he said. This town deserved a better lawman than the one they had. He wouldn’t stick around for the aftermath, but he certainly intended to start it rolling. After the courthouse, he would find a hotel room for the night and then catch the train back to Wyldhaven in the morning. Steven Pottinger had some explaining to do if he was still alive when Zane got back.
And dash it all if just the thought of returning to Wyldhaven didn’t bring to mind vivid blue eyes and a soft, inviting smile with a bit of standoffishness around the corners. He scrubbed both hands over his face.
He must be more tired than he realized. Either that or his heart had already been lassoed up and cinched down tight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
For a week and a half Steven lingered on. He hadn’t really come around other than to moan and be given more laudanum since Flynn had tried to extract the bullet.
That first night when Flynn had come with her to sit by Steven’s side, she hadn’t known if she would be able to remain in the room with him. Her mouth had prickled with metallic fear, and her pulse had thrummed the warning to escape while she still could. She had so many emotions swirling inside her when it came to this man. Dislike. Terror. Anger. Disappointment. Hurt. Futility. Revulsion. Everything in her still cried out with the need for revenge!
And yet, something about the gray pallor of Steven’s face, and the moans of pain that he emitted every once in a while, had strangely tugged at her compassion. She couldn’t explain her change of heart and yet she’d lost her fear of being near him days ago, for when she looked at the enfeebled shell of the man lying on the bed, she could see no remains of the monster who had tortured her repeatedly. How fleeting life was. Had he looked ahead to the end of his days when he’d been torturing her? Had he pondered that one day he would come to his end and have a Maker to face? Dixie hardly thought so.
Each day when she didn’t need to be elsewhere, Dixie, felt compelled to sit by his side. She prayed while she sat. She prayed while she dabbed the feverish sweat from his forehead with a damp rag. And she prayed while she read Isaiah chapter 40 over and over. Lord, help me to hope in you. She was determined not to let Steven make her lose her hope ever again.
Parson Clay came by daily, and she found his visits encouraging. Before he left each day he always squeezed her shoulder and quoted John 16:33. “These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”
Still, Dixie struggled.
Would God asked her to return to living as Steven’s wife? She prayed for strength.
Could she ever forgive him for all he had done to her and to Rose? She prayed for resolve.
This morning she had cooked breakfast for the diners and then left Liora to do the cleaning. As she wiped Steven’s brow once more, she considered how thankful she was to have Liora helping her during this trying time. She was efficient and good at finding things that needed to be done without having to be told.
Dixie had also offered Liora a room at a rate that matched Ewan’s, even though her boardinghouse rooms were twice the size of his and more comfortable. The girl had jumped at the chance to move out of McGinty’s Alehouse.
There was a tap on the door behind her and Dixie turned, expecting to see Parson Clay, but was surprised to see Marshal Holloway instead. “You’re back.”
He took off his hat as he stepped into the room. “Yes, ma’am.” His gaze slipped to Steven. “He’s still alive?”
“Yes.” Dixie scrambled to her feet, knowing she might be experiencing her last moments of freedom. “Are you back to arrest us?”
He shook his head, and she lost the strength from her legs and sank back into her chair.
“Turns out the sheriff back in Birch Run knew all along what Pottinger was doing to you. He’s also known for quite some time that he was alive.” He tipped a nod to Steven. “So, I’m here to tell you that all charges against you have been dropped.”
Dixie sat in stunned silence for a moment. All charges dropped. Such a relief washed through her! She had to tell Rose!
“Thank you, Marshal..” She jumped back to her feet and lifted a handful of her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He nodded.
She rushed across the hall, great joy surging through her. And to think she could have thrown all this freedom away if she’d followed through on her desire for revenge.
Rose was on her feet when Dixie rushed through the door. She’d been getting out for longer and longer periods each day, but Dixie had urged her to continue resting and going easy at home for a few weeks more.
Now she pulled the startled woman into an exuberant embrace. “All charges against us have been dropped!”
Rose gasped. “Truly?”
“Yes!”
When Dixie released her and pulled back, Rose had tears in her eyes. Dixie waited, hoping Rose could see the question in her scrutiny.
Rose waved a hand. “I just wish he was a different man. I’ve tried so hard to reach him over the years.”
When the door opened Kin looked up from his cot in his cell. He wondered how much longer he was going to have to stay there. Who was taking care of his horse? And he needed to make arrangements for Pa’s burial. He should have put up more of a fuss last week when they’d put him back in this cell. Joe had said Kin only needed to stay till they figured out what to do with him. But one night had turned into two, then three, then a week and more.
In a typically evasive grown up fashion, the sheriff had said they were “working out some details” and that was why Kin needed to remain in the cell. But Kin knew they were just trying to figure out who to saddle with his care.
Kin had wanted to inform him that he’d basically been on his own since his mother died, but that would have disparaged Pa’s name, so he’d refrained.
At least the sheriff had built the fire up good and hot, and then banked it well before he left last night.
Now the sheriff stepped into the room, followed by the minister.
Kin glance down at the rough floorboards between his feet. Here it came. The man was probably here to lecture him about how stupid he’d been. Maybe even flay a section of his hide in repayment for the knock to the head he’d taken when the carriage tipped over.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Kin, this here is Parson Preston Clay.” He swept his hat in the man’s direction.
Kin swallowed and nodded a greeting. He hadn’t paid much attention to the man the other day. But now he scrutinized him from head to foot, mouth dry. He was a lot younger than Kin figured a man of the cloth shou
ld be. And he wasn’t soft looking like most ministers Kin had come across. Broad muscular shoulders stretched the material of his black shirt till Kin could see the strain at the seams.
He was surprised to see a kind smile soften the edges of the man’s green eyes.
He felt his brow lift. Okay, so maybe the man wasn’t here for retribution. Still… An uneasy feeling hung in Kin’s stomach. He narrowed his eyes.
The sheriff hooked his hat on the peg by the door. “Turns out the parson needs a place to stay, and you need someone to care for you, so I’m proposing that you allow the parson to stay at your place. At least until you get out of school—”
“I don’t need anyone to care for me. And I’m not going back to school.” He’d decided all that during the nights when he’d lain awake, staring at the knot in the plank ceiling. “I’m old enough to work for one of Mr. Heath’s logging crews.”
The sheriff and the parson exchanged a look.
To Kin’s surprise, it was the parson who spoke up. “Schooling and work—that’s your decision. But you’d surely be doing me a favor if you let me bunk at your place for a bit.”
The sheriff, who was just lifting the ring of keys from his desk drawer, gave the parson a surprised look, but didn’t contradict the words as he stepped over and unlocked Kin’s cell. “After investigation, it has been determined that you didn’t have intent to harm anyone on the stage, other than maybe giving them a scare. Though it could be said that you are responsible for the man who was shot, I’ve talked it over with Joe and with those who were on the stage, and we’ve decided that you can’t be held responsible for what happened. You are free to go.”
Kin felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The sheriff could have charged him as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. He knew that very well. He bent and retrieved his hat from the end of the cot. “Thank you, Sheriff.” He curled the brim into his palm as he stepped out into the main part of the room.
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 20
