Hannah Grace

by MacLaren Sharlene

  "What have you done?" she hissed at the man, daring to eye him with the menacing gaze of a livid lioness. Her flesh prickled with dread. "If you have so much as laid a hand to this boy, I'll-"

  "Hush up and leave him be," ordered the stranger, his tone an authoritative, husky whisper. "It's not what you think."

  "I'll-I'll report you to the local authorities," she finished, pulling back her proud shoulders.

  His mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile as one blond eyebrow quirked. "Is that so?"

  "Yes, that's so, and you can wipe that smug look off your face this instant,"

  She could handle most any kind of injustice by chalking it up as sin and reasoning that God would deal with the sinner, but the maltreatment of children? She simply couldn't abide it.

  "Well, you go right ahead and report me, lady. In fact, word has it the new sheriffjust arrived in town last night-he opened his office this very morning."

  "Fine!"

  "Fine!"

  His cockiness bore a hole through her side, and the notion he didn't seem to take her seriously galled her even more. She'd heard about the new sheriff's arrival, and if this man thought she was kidding about reporting the senseless abuse of this tiny little slip of a boy, well, he could just-just-put forks up his nose.

  Forcing out a calming breath, she leaned forward to make eye contact with the boy. "Are you all right?"

  The impertinent man blocked her with his palm, and her resentment rose higher than a spring kite. "You can talk to me," she said to the child, trying her best to ignore the gargantuan hand that looked ready to seize a fistful of her hair if she so much as moved an inch closer. "Are you...?"

  Quick as a hiccup, the boy made a mad dash for the door. An oil lamp was in the way, and it crashed to the floor, erupting into a million pieces. Shocked, Hannah straightened and merely watched the action, the young soul throwing wide the screen door, pursued closely by the man.

  "You come back here, you little...!" At the door, he paused just long enough to glare back at Hannah. "I told you to leave him be!"

  When she would have offered a retort, he plopped his hat on his sandy head and vanished from view, the screen door bouncing shut with a loud whack.

  "Hannah Grace, what is all the racket?" Maggie came rushing down the stairs, skirts flowing. Mr. Fisher forded down after her, moving faster than she'd ever witnessed, albeit breathless once he reached the bottom.

  "I've just been visited by a tyrant."

  Maggie frowned. "What are you talking about, a tyrant?"

  "An awful man who beats his son. I'm sure of it. When I tried to talk to the child, he sped out of here faster than butter melts on a hot griddle. I'm going straight to the sheriff's office."

  "Now, just-wait-a minute," Mr. Fisher huffed. "You must have proof-before you make such an accusation, my dear."

  "Oh, I have proof!" she blurted.

  "What sort of proof? Did you-actually witness himmanhandling this-child?"

  "Well, not exactly, but..."

  "You need to sit down, Mr. Fisher," Maggie ordered, running to retrieve a folding chair by the door and hurrying back to prop it under him.

  With assistance, he sat down with a thump, snagged hold of the curved handle of his cane with both hands, and leaned forward on it, looking up at Hannah. "Now then, who was this man?"

  His tall, rawboned physique materialized in her headand then that handsome, square face, giving her a chill despite the warm, August air filtering through the door and open windows. "Quite frankly, I don't know. I've never seen him before. That doesn't mean anything, though. We get tourists through here all summer long."

  "True," Mr, Fisher said with a thoughtful nod. "Can you describe his looks?"

  "His looks?" Frustrated that the man might now skip town before she even had a chance to file a complaint against him, she shrugged impatiently. "I don't know. It's hard to describe him. Big. Yes, big and-tall. That's about all I can say. But the little boy-oh, he couldn't have been more than seven or eight, with bruises running up and down his arm and smattered on his forehead. Not only that, but I saw a mess of scratches on his hand,"

  "Oh, dear," Maggie murmured.

  "I'm going to see that new sheriff."

  "But are you positive he's even there yet?" Maggie asked. "I thought he wasn't to start work till next week."

  Mr. Fisher shrugged, indicating he hadn't a clue.

  "Oh, he's there all right. I heard he showed up first thing this morning."

  "Really?" Maggie looked slightly interested. "Who told you that?"

  "I don't..." She paused to think for a moment. "He did!"

  "He, who?" Mr. Fisher asked. "The fellow making all the racket?"

  The pair wore equal looks of confusion, which Hannah had no way of easing, for her own head reeled with uncertainties.

  She moved to the door. "I'm sorry that I don't have more time to explain. Maggie, will you please mind the store for me?" she asked. "I shouldn't be long."

  "But what about this huge mess of glass? We can't have customers coming in here until we clean it up. You have to stay."

  Hannah's eyes traced a path to the pile of shattered glass, which had, no doubt, scattered several feet in every direction. Annoyance rushed like water through her veins.

  She sucked in a monstrous breath of air and let it out slowly. "Oh, all right. I'll clean it up. But then you'll have to watch the store till I get back,"

  "Oh, fine,"

  "Fine, indeed,"

  Gabe sipped on a cup of coffee that was set kindly on his desk by Kitty Oakes, the one accounts clerk in the City Hall building who appeared to be offering him the most assistance.

  "Here. Drink," she said. "And try to relax. He's sleeping now." Standing on the other side of his desk, she cast him a sympathetic eye.

  "Thanks. Go ahead and unlock the cell, but keep your eye out for the rascal. He'll likely try to run again as soon as he wakes up. The boy's easily spooked. As far as I can tell, he doesn't want anyone coming too close." An overwhelming sense of responsibility gripped him from the inside. "I need to get to the bottom of this thing, figure out who he is."

  Kitty winced. "I wouldn't unlock that cell just yet. He'll shoot out of here like a cannonball, I'm afraid, and he's just too little to be out on his own."

  Gabe considered her words, too tired to think. He'd thought he had the kid all settled down until he'd taken him to that store for some supplies-and then she stepped in. It vexed him anew to remember it.

  "Whatever you say. I can't keep him locked up forever, though." They'd had no choice but to put him in a cell like a caged bird until he quit kicking, biting, and flailing. "How old do you think he is?"

  Kitty shrugged. "Seven, perhaps."

  Gabe nodded. "I thought he was closer to nine."

  Her brow crinkled. She folded her hands and put them to her plump waistline. "If he is, he's underweight and sickly. You should probably take him to see Dr. Van Huff. He might need to check him over real good. There has to be some reason he won't talk. Maybe he's got no tongue."

  Gabe shot her a look that could only portray his disdain for her remark.

  "Well, a lack of a tongue would surely keep one from talking," she insisted.

  "He's got a tongue."

  "How do you know?"

  "He stuck it out at me last night in the hotel room,"

  "Oh."

  He groaned and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger at the first feelings of a headache. This was too much. He'd accepted the job as sheriff, not guardian to some homeless brat.

  Lord, forgive me for this attitude, he prayed silently. Tell me what to do.

  "I need to get him some clothes and boots, and he needs a bath. Who's that woman who works at Kane's Whatnot?" What he'd meant as mere thoughts came out of his mouth.

  "Depends on which one you're referring to. There are three of them."

  Three? He couldn't imagine three of that particular woman.
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  He must have thrown her a questioning look. "Jacob Kane has three daughters. They all take turns working the store, but I'd say Hannah's there most often. Was Mr. Kane in the store?"

  "I didn't see any man about, just a tall, slender girl with red, wild curls on her head and a-"

  "Oh, that's Hannah Grace, all right. She's such a sweet thing. So pretty, too. 'Course, all those girls are lovely. I imagine Mr. Kane was over at his office. Besides running the store, he runs a little insurance business with Leo Perkins. You might have seen the placard across the road from the Whatnot-Kane and Perkins."

  "No," Gabe responded absently. He was still digesting the part about Hannah being sweet and pretty. Are we talking about the same woman? Oh, she was pretty, for sure, but sweet? Maybe if you poured a pint of maple syrup down her throat.

  "Well, I'll let you know if that tyke wakes up." Kitty started to turn, then paused. "I'm going out for some lunch soon, if you don't mind. I shouldn't be gone long. Is there anything I can get for you, Sheriff?"

  "No, I'll be fine, thanks. I'm just wading through some paperwork SheriffTate-uh, God rest his soul-left behind," He took another deep swig of the black brew in his mug and settled back in the leather chair with the squeaky roller, surveying the office that had belonged to Watson Tate just two weeks ago.

  Kitty's round, weathered face took on a faraway look. "Truth be told, that man should've retired long ago. If he had, he'd probably be out fishin' right now. He had a weak ticker, and word has it he had a couple other heart spells before this last one took him. He just wasn't one to give up or give in," She shook her head and walked to the door, then quickly turned and buoyed up her shoulders. `At least we got a young, spry one this time," She grinned, and Gabe thought he detected a dimple amidst the creases of her cheeks. "You should outlast us all,"

  "Well, we'll see about that. You have yourself a nice lunch now, Mrs. Oakes,"

  "Oh, merciful heavens! Call me Kitty, please."

  He nodded. "Fine, but only if you call me Gabe,"

  Her hand spread over her ample chest. "Oh, well, I guess I could do that," Pushing a lock of silver hair off her forehead, she held the door. "It'll seem odd, though. I never called Sheriff Tate by his first name.'Course, he was my elder. You're more like ...well, you could be my son, I s'pose."

  "Never. You don't look a day over thirty."

  Now, Kitty clamped a hand over her blushing face. "Oh, my soul and body! I can tell already you're just going to be the berries,"

  She was still giggling to herself when she closed the door behind her.

  Gabe folded his hands in his lap and leaned back, crossing his legs and propping his feet up on the marred desktop. Staring at the ceiling, he watched a spider weave its web in the corner above the door, A jagged breath blew past his mouth, Fine way to start my first day on the new job, he thought, bringing a rapscallion along with me to the office because I don't know a single soul in town on which to pawn him. Who would want to take care of a mute child who refuses to stay put, anyway?

  "Lord," he muttered into the quiet office, "I need a big batch of wisdom,"

  Hannah lifted her skirts, and, with quiet determination, climbed each step leading to the double doors of the entrance to City Hall. She reviewed the morning's events in her mind so that she might give the new sheriff an accurate account. When questioned, she would say the stranger was tall and dangerous.. .no-in fairness, she couldn't say "dangerous." The sheriff would call it-what? Supposition? Stick to the facts, he'd say. I want details.

  Details. In her head, she began to imagine again. The man stood tall and broad shouldered, with a commanding presence. His blond hair tapered at the neck, a nice style, you might say, the sort that ...facts. He had a square-set jaw and fine nose, and, well, symmetrical face. And those blue eyes of his, why, one might call them shimmery and iridescent.

  The sheriff would be leaning forward now, pencil in hand, perhaps even tapping one end of it on his imposing desk, impatient for the particulars.

  She would finally concede that she had no way to adequately describe his physical features, but if he would kindly produce one of those books that featured all the criminals' faces, she would most certainly spot him straightaway.

  The solid door swung open when she used all her strength.

  "Kitty?" she called. `Are you about?" On the desk at the front of the office stood piles of papers, thick volumes of information, a Mason jar containing pens and pencils, a wilted flower in a vase gone dry, and a couple of ashtrays. At present, Kitty's little desk in the middle of the room, also piled nearly to the ceiling with paperwork, appeared unoccupied. Several plaques framed in dark cherry wood hung from the walls, as did a large painting of President George Washington. A United States flag graced one corner, its six-foot pole jutting out from the wall so that it hung at a nice angle.

  She knew that the sheriff's office was down the hall, first door on the right, but to get there, she needed someone on the other side of the counter to unlock the gate and let her through. She couldn't imagine why the sheriff's office, or the other rooms down the hall, for that matter, had to be so inaccessible to the public.

  From one of the back rooms emerged Nathanial Brayton, Sandy Shores' community treasurer. In his fifties and of medium height, he wore a perpetual smile. Round-faced and bulbous-nosed, he also sported a bushy gray moustache. Hannah remembered standing beside her father as he talked with Mr. Brayton in the churchyard after the Sunday service when she was a child, feigning interest in their conversation while staring intently at Mr. Brayton's bobbing moustache.

  "Wull, hello there, Miss Hannah. Kitty's out t' lunch, I'm sorry to say. What can I do for you?" With hooked thumbs, he held his brown suspenders-an accessory that didn't seem to serve its purpose, if one compared where the waist of his pants was supposed to fall and where it actually wound up: below his protruding belly.

  "Oh," She stretched to her full five feet and seven inches and stepped forward. Why did she suddenly feel like shrinking? She'd hoped to find Kitty at the counter. Kitty would have bolstered her reasons for coming.

  Beads of sweat pooled on her neck and trickled down her back. She removed her hat, a foolish thing to wear on a day pushing ninety degrees, and laid it on the counter. Its absence left her russet-colored curls to fall in complete disarray. "I've come to pay the new sheriff a visit,"

  Something happened to Mr. Brayton's perpetual smile. "Um, now might not be the best time, miss,"

  "But I insist on seeing him,"

  "He's had a bad morning."

  `Already? It's his first day on the job."

  "That it is-but, well, let's say better first days have gone down in history."

  Hannah lifted her chin ever so subtly, her stubborn persistence mounting.

  "That may be, but I've an important crime to report."

  This got his interest. His eyebrows twitched and flickered. `A crime, miss? What sort of crime are we talking about? Was the Whatnot robbed?"

  She shook her head. "I think it would be best if I dispensed with matters of the crime in the sheriff's private quarters, Mr. Brayton."

  His chin dropped and he prepared to argue, but he clamped his mouth shut at the first sounds of a door creaking open.

  Both heads turned to face the source. One mouth remained closed; the other gaped in disbelief.

  ou!" Hannah's breathing seemed to come in short spurts, her otherwise pretty face assuming a sour expression. "What are you...? What, exactly, is the meaning of this?"

  Gabe smiled, enjoying this other-side-of-the-fence feeling. "Was there a problem?" he asked.

  She made a grumpy, disdainful noise-not at all of the ladylike variety, as it wound up coming out both her mouth and nose. Steely eyes shot him a look that was piercing-no, murderous. "Problem? Of course, there's a problem." With every word, her voice rose in minute decibels. "And you know exactly what I'm talking about, Mr.-Mr. Deluder, Mr. Deceiver, Mr. De-"

  "-lightful?" he supplied.

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sp; "Aargh!" Another unbecoming growl came from somewhere deep within her skinny frame. He stepped forward to lift the gate, then proceeded into the lobby area, where he hoped to be able to calm the waters of misunderstanding.

  "No need to scream."

  "I am not screaming," she screamed. Mr. Brayton, appearing completely bewildered, had not yet made one move to speak.

  "First of all, my name is not any of those `D' words you mentioned; it's Gabriel Devlin, Gabe to my friends." His eyes made a quick pass over her mop of rust-hued hair, then moved on down to her dusty shoes peeking out from the hem of her full-skirted yellow calico. Clearly, she didn't intend to shake the hand he held out, so he dropped it. "And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he asked, knowing full well, thanks to Kitty, that her name was Hannah Grace Kane.

  "You are a beast. An abusive beast."

  A good deal of throat clearing came from Mr. Brayton. "Miss Hannah, you are speaking to our new sheriff."

  "Hannah. I like that name. I'm Gabe," he repeated.

  Her face looked near the popping stage, red and silky with perspiration. "If you are who I think, you have no business holding the sheriff's title."

  He smiled. "More likely than not, I'm not who you think, then."

  She nearly sucked the air out of the room, then slowly gave it back. "Where is that child?"

  "He's sleepin' in the cell," offered Nathanial, suddenly all eager about jumping into the conversation. "Little whippersnapper, he is. Don't mind saying I'll take my leave when he wakes up. No telling what'll happen."

  "In a cell, did you say? You're holding that poor, innocent child in a jail cell?"