Hannah Grace

by MacLaren Sharlene

  Silence overtook the two for the next several moments as George dug into the plate of roast beef and potatoes Eva had dropped off at his table when she'd deposited a mug of coffee under Gabe's nose. Gabe's mouth watered, his stomach grumbled. He sipped on his coffee and ruminated about the boy.

  "What's your trade, anyway?" George asked between chews.

  Gabe took another slow swig before setting the tin mug on the table. "You ever hear of Judge Bowers?"

  "Ed Bowers, the county judge? 'Course I have. I work the newspaper. I'm a line editor, not a reporter, but I read the headlines before anybody else does. I hear he just appointed a new interim sheriff up in Sandy Shores-someone from..." A light seemed to dawn in his eyes. "Ohio," Gabe grinned. "You wouldn't be...?"

  "You should be a reporter," Gabe said. "You've got the nose for it,"

  "You learn, you know, Well, I'll be. Too bad about Sheriff Tate, though. He was a good man, honest and fair. Heard his heart just gave out," George shook his head. "The law business is hard on the body. Good thing you're young. What are you-twenty-four? Twenty-five?"

  "Twenty-eight."

  George nodded, as if assessing the situation. "You can handle it. Most of what happens in these parts is petty crimes, but there's the occasional showdown. Not often, though," he added hastily. "You watch yourself, young man. You'll do fine,"

  "Thanks. I appreciate that,"

  Not a minute too soon, Eva returned, this time plopping a plate of pan-fried fish in front of Gabe. On the side were cooked carrots drizzled with some sort of glaze and a large helping of applesauce. The most wonderful aromas floated heavenward, and his stomach growled in response. "Eva, you are an angel." He smiled at her and felt a certain pleasure to see one side of her mouth quirk up a fraction and the tiniest light spark in her eyes.

  "Pfff," she tittered. "Go on with you." She swiveled her tiny frame and hobbled off toward the kitchen, still looking like a scarecrow, but with a little less severity.

  As he always did before delving into a meal, Gabe bowed his head and offered up a prayer of thanks to God. Then, he draped a napkin over his lap, knowing George Vanderslute's eyes had taken to drilling holes in his side.

  "You're a praying man, I see,"

  Gabe took his first bite. "I am. I pray about everything, actually."

  "Huh. That's somethin.' Seeming stumped, George forked down the rest of his meal in silence, the smoke from his cigar making a straight path to the ceiling.

  As much as he would have liked taking his sweet time, Gabe wolfed down his plate of food, thinking about the miles of road that still stretched out before him. If he didn't arrive before nightfall, he'd have to camp alongside the tracks again, and the thought of one more night under the stars didn't set well with him.

  The image of the mysterious little imp who'd stolen from the back of a wagon, rummaged through a waste barrel, and disappeared down an alley materialized at the back of his mind. Would he be shivering in some dark corner tonight, half starved? Gabe swallowed down the last of his coffee, determined to chase him out of his thoughts.

  Protect him, Lord, he prayed on a whim, suppressing the pang of guilt he felt for not taking the time to search for him.

  Sandy Shores came into view at exactly a quarter till ten, three hours after he left Holland. It had been the slowest, steepest, and most precarious leg of the entire trip, requiring him to navigate gravelly slopes in the light of the moon. Not for the first time, he thanked the Lord for his sure-footed mule, Zeke the Streak, who could not run if his life depended on it but still had strength enough to pull a redwood from its roots; and for Slate, his dapple-gray gelding, calmly bringing up the rear but possessing the speed of a bullet if the situation called for it.

  A cool breeze was coming off the lake, bringing welcome relief from an otherwise long, hot day on the trail. Gabe cast a glance out over the placid lake, amazed once more by its vastness. At first glimpse, one would never suppose its distance across to be a mere one hundred miles; it seemed more like an ocean. Gentle waves licked the shoreline, making a whooshing sound before ebbing back into the chilly depths. The Sandy Shores lighthouse, sitting like a proud mother at the end of the pier, flashed her beacon for incoming fishing boats and steamers.

  Electric streetlights lit the way as Gabe turned east off the railroad path onto Water Street, which led to the center of town. On the corner to his right stood the three-story Sherman House, the hotel he would call home until he found permanent housing suitable for his budget, if not for his taste. According to Ed Bowers, who had made all his room arrangements, he had a view of the Grand River Harbor and the big lake from his third-floor window. Nice for the interim, he thought, but not a necessity for my simple lifestyle. He'd grown up in affluence and decided he was ready for humbler circumstances. His father's money had been well-earned, and it had reaped him warranted respect in the community and surrounding areas. Even so, Gabe couldn't live off his father's wealth and still respect himself. Besides, he'd had enough of women pursuing him for his family money-Carolina Woods, for one-and it was high time he moved away from Ohio, where the Devlin name didn't make such an impact every time folks heard it mentioned. Furthermore, a smaller town meant smaller crimes, he hoped-the kind that didn't require gunfire to resolve them.

  Boisterous piano music and uproarious laughter coming from a place called Charley's Saloon assaulted his senses after two hours spent with nary a sound, save for Zeke's occasional braying, some sleepy crickets' chirps, and a gaggle of geese honking from the lake. Gabe wondered if he should expect a run-in or two with a few of Charley's patrons.

  His eyes soaked up the names of storefronts Jellema Newsstand, Moretti's Candy Company, Hansen's Shoe Repair, DeBoer's Hardware, Kane's Whatnot-and he wondered about the proprietors who ran each place. Would they accept him as their new lawman, particularly since the late Sheriff Watson Tate had held the office for well over twenty years?

  When he spotted Enoch Sprock's Livery on the second block, he pulled Zeke's reins taut. Slate snorted, his way of exhaling a sigh of relief for having reached their destination.

  "I know what you mean, buddy," Gabe muttered, feeling stiff and sore himself. He threw the reins over the brake handle and jumped down, landing on the hard earth.

  "You needin' some help there, mister?"

  A white-bearded fellow with a slight limp emerged from the big double door.

  "You must be Enoch,"

  "In the flesh," The man extended a hand. "And who might you be?"

  "Gabriel Devlin,"

  "Ah, the new sheriff. We been expectin' ya'. Hear your room's waitin' over at the Sherman," They shook hands. "Nice place you're stayin' at,"

  Gabe grinned. "News gets around, I take it,"

  Enoch snorted and tossed back his head. "This ain't what you call a big metropolis." He took a step back and massaged his beard even while he studied Gabe from top to bottom. "Awful young, ain't ya?"

  Is this how folks would view him? Young, inexperienced, still wet behind the ears? He supposed few knew he'd been responsible for bringing down Joseph Hamilton, aka "Smiley Joe"-a murderous bank robber who wielded his gun for goods throughout Indiana, Ohio, and parts of Kentucky. His last spree was on February 4, 1901, when Gabe received word in his office via telegraph that undercover sources determined Smiley Joe had plans to rob the Delaware County State Bank at noon that very day.

  It hadn't made national headlines, but every Ohioan had the best night's sleep of his life after reading the next day's headlines: GABRIEL DEVLIN, DELAWARE COUNTY SHERIFF, TAKES DOWN NOTORIOUS MIDDLE-WEST BANK ROBBER!

  Having watched the entire robbery out of the corner of his eye while pretending to fill out a bank slip, Gabe, who had placed two plainclothes deputies at the door in case the villain tried to escape, confronted him while the deputies aimed their guns. "Smiley! It's the end of the line for you, buddy," he said coolly. "Drop the bags and turn around slowly, hands in the air."

  At first, it appeared Smiley would com
ply. His shoulders dropped and he started to turn. "Drop the bags!" Gabe yelled. "Hands to the sky!"

  Other deputies, all placed strategically around the bank, surrounded him. The bank stilled to funeral parlor silence as customers scattered and backed against all four walls, terror pasted on every face.

  But Smiley Joe wasn't one to surrender, and, in a rattled state, he went for the eleventh-hour approach: he drew his gun. Wrong move. Shots were fired, and, when it was over, one wounded customer lay sprawled on the floor, groaning and bleeding from the shoulder, while Smiley Joe Hamilton lay dead, Gabe's gun still hot from the bullet he shot through his head.

  "That's all right by me, you bein' young," Enoch was saying. "Time for some new blood 'round here. 'Sides, any friend o' Judge Bowers is a friend o' mine," A slight accent from the British Isles colored his tone.

  "I appreciate that."

  "Want I should take your rig inside and tend to your animals?"

  "That'd be mighty nice of you."

  Gabe made a move to retrieve his money pouch, but Enoch stopped him. "You just get what you need out o' your rig, and we'll settle up in the mornin.'

  "You have no idea how good that sounds." Gabe reminded himself to retrieve his carpetbag from the back of the wagon. All he needed was a change of clothes for tomorrow, his shaving gear, a bar of soap, and some tooth powder. Right now, nothing sounded better than a soft bed. Shoot, I might even sleep through breakfast, he mused. Ed Bowers didn't expect him in his office until mid-afternoon.

  Slate sidestepped the two as they went to the back to remove the tarp. When they did, they got the surprise of their lives.

  "Wull, I'll bejig-swiggered. What is that?"

  Gabe stared open-mouthed at the bundle of a body curled into a tight ball.

  "Looks to be a sleeping boy," he murmured.

  he bell above the door sounded a new customer's entry into Kane's Whatnot. Hannah ceased refolding the towels Mrs. Mayworth had completely undone in her quest to find the perfect one for her newly painted, yellow kitchen. She smiled at the elderly Edwin Fisher as he entered, his cane hooked over one arm. He carried the thing more than he used it.

  "Good morning, Mr. Fisher. Have you come to check out some new books?"

  Under his other arm, he lugged three large volumes. Ever since losing his wife back in February, he frequented the town library, which was stationed above the general store. Hannah figured that reading provided an escape for the retired postmaster, who had to be approaching eighty years of age.

  "That I have, my dear."

  `And did you read all of those?" she asked, nodding to the books under his arm.

  "For the most part," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "These, yes." He held up two volumes of Mark Twain's works. "This, no,"

  Hannah leaned forward and read the title. "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I've not read that one yet."

  He scowled. "Too strange for my taste. Hence the title, I suppose. A bit on the dreary side, actually. I waded through the first half of it before giving up on it altogether." He leaned forward and whispered, "If you want to know the truth, I read the ending to determine if I wanted to keep going."

  She gasped. "Reading ahead? That's a mortal sin!"

  `And you've never done it, I suppose," he teased back with a chuckle.

  "Never-well," she said, dipping her chin in feigned shame, "all right, I'll admit that I did peek at the last page of Brewster's Millions, but that's the only time I've cheated. I simply had to know if he would manage to spend all that money by the given deadline and gain an even larger sum as his reward. I do so hate a story with a sour ending."

  A flash of amusement crossed his wrinkled face, his white moustache quivering. "I understand. By the way, who's tending the library post today?"

  "Maggie Rose." The Kane sisters took turns staffing the library. "I know she'll be happy to see you. She's set aside another of Twain's volumes that she thought you hadn't read yet."

  "Ah, how you fair ladies do look after my interests."

  She flashed him a smile. "We wouldn't do it for just anybody, you know."

  "I can't believe that. Everyone knows the Kane sisters are a notch above the rest, helpful, kind, generous-and pretty, to boot."

  She dropped her gaze to the unfolded towels. Pretty? Maggie and Abbie, to be sure. Endowed in all the right places, they were. To cover her insecurities, she took up again the task of refolding towels and sought to change the subject. "Shall I call Maggie to bring down the book, or are you of a mind to navigate the stairs today?"

  He pulled back his curved shoulders and stuck out his chin. "What do you take me for, my dear? An invalid?"

  She giggled. "Well, the least you can do is leave the books with me. Tell Maggie I'll bring them up later."

  "I'll not argue with you there." He handed them over, then hobbled toward the stairs, hooking his cane over his wrist, as usual.

  "You be careful now," she called after him, smiling to herself when he waved a backward arm at her, mumbling something under his breath.

  A handful of customers came and went over the next half hour, forcing Hannah to give up straightening linen so that she could fill customers' orders. A lull in busyness allowed her to resume folding linen in the back of the store, so she wasn't at her post by the counter when the door opened again, this time admitting the first unfamiliar face of the day. Hannah stayed concealed behind the shelves of jam and preserves, peering out at the new patron.

  At his heels was a young lad, skinny as a fence rail and looking like a flea-infested ragamuffin with his torn shirt, his too-short pants, his soiled toes that poked through his worn boots, and jet-black hair that looked like it had seen neither drop of water nor ounce of soap since spring. His tanned, burnt-umber skin showed signs of having spent hours in the sun. Did the man work him in the fields from morning till night? Her immediate reaction to the situation was revulsion-not at the poor lad, but at his neglectful father. What man could show such disregard for his own offspring, especially when he himself looked to be reasonably wealthy?

  Instead of going out to greet them, Hannah remained hidden. She couldn't explain the indolence that had come over her, keeping her from giving a gracious welcome to the newcomers. She thought that if Mr. Fisher could see her now, he would certainly take back those words about every Kane sister being helpful, kind, and generous. Normally, she would have bent over backward to be gracious, especially to a new customer, but some strange sense of perturbation had started in her chest as soon as the pair entered the store. Perhaps it was the way the lad had eyed the candy counter with particular interest, and the way his father had so pointedly ignored it.

  The boy remained as closemouthed as a clam while scuffling along behind the strange man, who had taken to looking at men's vestments. After picking up a flannel shirt and examining it quickly, he set it back on the top of the stack and sauntered past the candy counter, the women's hats, the brooms and dusters, and, finally, the apothecary jars and toiletry products at the rear of the store. Hannah watched him turn down another aisle and stop in front of a twenty-five pound sack of stone-ground meal, mumbling something to the boy, who said nothing in return. When the man glanced around the store, Hannah ducked behind a stack of grain sacks, careful to avoid his notice.

  The man resumed moving about the store, his tiny companion acting as his shadow. At closer range, Hannah could make out a few of his features-his clean-shaven face with its square-set jaw that clenched and unclenched every few seconds, his broad shoulders, his strong yet lean physique. But that was all the time she would allow herself to examine the brute, who hadn't the slightest apparent concern for his son.

  Hannah noticed that the man appeared to be seeking assistance, so she finally emerged from behind the counter. "May I help you find something?" she inquired.

  The man looked almost startled, focusing on Hannah for a few seconds before removing his hat with a sweeping gesture. "You carry much in the way of kids' clothes?" His
voice, though deep, rang crisp and clear. "I'm looking for something that would fit this little mud puppy."

  What a strange way to address one's child, Hannah thought. Crude, uncaring man.

  She found her voice hidden in a distant part of her throat. "It's-you'll find the children's clothing against that far wall there."

  "Oh, I guess we didn't get over there yet." He put a hand to the boy's bony shoulder and pushed him in the other direction. With his back to her, she was able to glimpse his straight, fresh-cut hair, still tickling his shirt collar but a stylish length, the color of beach sand. If he had the time and resources to visit a barber, why couldn't his son go, too?

  The fellow picked up a pair of boy's overalls and held them up against the lad's body, checking for size and length. "You think this'll fit you?" No response. He looked frustrated, if not distracted.

  Hitching her skirt past her heels, Hannah made her way across the room. "He can try them on in that back room, if he likes."

  At the sound of her voice, the man whirled and gave her the first hint of a smile. To say he had a pleasant face would be insufficient. Abbie Ann would call him infinitely divine, heavenly, a marvelous creation... she was wordy with her descriptions. Maggie Rose would concede his good looks but remain more subtle in her word choice. And she, Hannah Grace, would keep her thoughts entirely to herself. After all, what woman, nearly betrothed to the town doctor, for mercy's sake, would give another man's looks the slightest thought?

  "We might do that, although these appear fine, don't you think? A little on the big side, maybe."

  Hannah stood back to study the lad with the overalls tugged up under his chin. It was then she discovered several bruises along his arm and another on his forehead. Closer inspection showed that the hand most visible bore several scratch marks. Her stomach roiled in horror. What was this? She leaned forward to get a better look, but the boy jumped out of view faster than a monkey and skittered behind the man's thick thighs, sticking out his head so that all she saw were his big-as-the-moon brown eyes.