Hannah Grace

by MacLaren Sharlene

  He'd also discovered that someone had busted out the window in Minnie Durham's Dressmaker Shop last winter, Hansen's Shoe Repair was missing several pairs of shoes, and the bad meat that Thom Gerritt had sold from his market last summer had made a slew of people deathly ill. If that wasn't enough, someone had broken into the Third Street Church four weeks ago and rung the bell at four in the morning. A prank, of course, Lucy clarified.

  "You plannin' to talk to me today?" Gabe asked the boy as the two turned the corner onto Water Street. His night shift deputy, Randall Cling, would be happy to see him, but first he intended to make some purchases at Kane's Whatnot. Hannah had promised to open the store early just for them.

  "You sleep good last night? You could share the bed with me, you know. I don't bite, and it's a big bed." He gave him a sideways glance. "Or the chair is fine, too. Entirely up to you.

  They passed shops he'd not yet had the chance to explore, all with "CLOSED" signs on the doors. The boy stared straight ahead, but kept his pace, apparently feeling secure enough for the moment. A full stomach sometimes did that.

  "You like horses? I need to stop at Sprock's Livery later to check on Slate and Zeke. I imagine Enoch's got a slew of animals in there who wouldn't mind a rub on the nose. Zeke's my mule, but he thinks of himself as a horse. Slate's my dapple gelding. He's a beaut. Fast as lightning, too. Don't be settin' any fires under Zeke, though." He chuckled just to see if he'd get a rise out of the lad. Fat chance. "Hey, why am I telling you all this? You've already met my horse and mule, right?"

  The boy tilted his gaze upward, his freshly parted, longish black hair still wet from the dousing it had taken before breakfast, when Gabe had forced him into a tub of hot water.

  "We're going to see that lady you met yesterday-Hannah. It's time we put you in some decent clothes, and she appears to have plenty in that store she runs. You don't plan to take off this time, do you? There's no need for it. No one's going to hurt you."

  Nothing.

  Several riders passed, each pursuing his own destination. A couple of rigs carrying lumber and other supplies rumbled up the street, their drivers tipping a hat or giving a nod to the new sheriff One stranger smiled as he drove by and called out a greeting. "Fine morning, Sheriff Devlin," Although Gabe had met a mere handful of people, it appeared that the news of his arrival had spread quickly. Of course, his newly pressed police uniform, a recent requirement in departments across Michigan, announced his identity.

  "At some point, I have to figure out what to do with you. You thought about that?" he mumbled.

  A gull swept down in front of them and snatched up what looked like a dry piece of bread. The two walked side by side, arms swinging, every so often making slight contact, until the boy moved to the other side of the boarded walk.

  "It'd be real helpful if you'd talk to me, partner."

  Hannah lifted the window shade on the front door of Kane's Whatnot in time to see the sheriff and his shadow advance across the street in her direction, pausing for a second to allow a man to pass on horseback. The boy looked spiffed up, even though sporting the same torn shirt, holey overalls, and worn boots that he was wearing the day before. He bathed. That's what made the d ft' erence. And his hair is combed, parted on the side. What a fine-looking little man, Hannah thought.

  And what a fine-looking new sheriff-all swank and stylish in his pressed police uniform, something he'd failed to wear yesterday, perhaps because he hadn't considered it his official starting day. Whatever the case, she gave her head a little scolding shake and put a hand to her throat where the brooch she'd pinned on that very morning suddenly felt tight enough for strangling-the brooch Ralston had presented to her on her twenty-first birthday this past June.

  "Think of it as a promise," he'd whispered close to her ear, so close she'd feared he intended to kiss her neck. This was a needless worry, in the end, for Ralston was nothing if he wasn't stick-straight proper. Why, a peck on the cheek was the most he had given her since they began courting a number of months ago-that, and a bit of hand-holding.

  "The kissing part must come after the betrothal," Abbie Ann had said just weeks ago, after pestering Hannah for a full hour to determine what-if anything-had transpired between her and Ralston. "I shall never let a man with a beard kiss my lips. Papa's beard I don't mind, but only because he's old and his kisses are quick and only on the forehead. I can't imagine Huffy kissing me. Ick."

  "Papa is only forty-three, and don't call Ralston `Huffy.' It's unfitting. He should be Doctor Van Huff to you. Furthermore, I find his beard makes him look quite distinguished." She dried her hands at the sink after washing the final supper dish, anxious to finish the foolish conversation and retreat to her room.

  `And ten years older," Abbie mused, staring at her reflection in the shiny plate she held at arm's length. As usual, she took her sweet time drying the dishes.

  "Perhaps he wants to look older," Hannah contended, despising herself for arguing the finer points of Ralston's facial hair.

  `And what do you want, Hannah Grace? Do you want a man who looks more like he could be your-your uncle?" The question rankled her, but she held her tongue. `And something else. He's as serious and grave as a tombstone. Does that man ever laugh? I've scarcely seen him smile. I told him a joke once, while you were upstairs dawdling, just to see what he would say, and he actually sneered at me. Can you imagine? I thought my joke was quite humorous. What do you call ten rabbits walking backwards?"

  "Oh, for goodness' sake, Abbie Ann, this is silly!" Hannah stopped her with a scolding look. She folded the dishcloth into a perfect square and laid it on the counter. Seconds passed. "Oh, all right. What do you call-er-ten rabbitswhat are they doing, again?"

  "Walking backwards, silly. What do you call them?"

  She drew in a deep breath, shook her head, and scowled. "I don't know. What?"

  "A receding hair line,"

  Hannah had quickly covered her smile and pushed past her sister. "You better finish your drying chore."

  As she'd headed for the stairs, Abbie had called after her, "I don't think he appreciated it, because, if you'll notice, he's thinning a bit on top."

  As the sheriff and the boy drew closer, the lawman lifted his gaze toward Kane's Whatnot and guided his charge onto the planked sidewalk. Hannah quickly moved away from the door and busied herself with one of the displays at the front of the store, arranging several pairs of men's wool socks that had arrived yesterday, along with a shipment of other fall items.

  No need for him to know that she had been waiting for him.

  he bell above the door chimed when Gabe and his quiet companion entered. Gabe glanced around, hoping his second visit to the place would be a tad more pleasant than his first. She looked up from whatever she was doing and walked quickly to the boy, smile as bright as a harvest moon. Of course, to him, she merely nodded. Good morning to you, too, he greeted her silently. Lord, what is it about this woman that tries my patience?

  "Well, as I live and breathe, would you look here, you're all bathed and handsome-looking!" She touched a finger to the boy's chin and tilted it upward. Gabe waited for the boy to pull back, but, if anything, he stood a little taller, almost welcoming her scrutiny. "I've laid aside a few clothes for you. Want to have a look? I think I have your size all figured out, but we'll have to try them on, just to make sure. How would that be?" With that balmy, dove-like voice, she could quiet a roomful of tyrants, Gabe thought. Where was that voice when she addressed him?

  When the mute boy did nothing but survey the store, Hannah reached down and took his hand. "Come on, I'll show you." Skirt swishing and heels clicking, she led him across the worn, wood floor, bobbing her head of red curls as she walked. Gabe followed like an obedient pup.

  To say she'd laid aside a few clothes for the boy was an understatement. A wagonload better described it. He wanted to argue that outfitting the child for the next year seemed extravagant, mainly because he planned to unload him on the folks responsible f
or his care just as soon as he could locate them.

  But he kept his thoughts tucked away, thinking now wasn't the best time for bursting her bubble.

  "Let's try on a couple of these shirts," she suggested, maintaining her gentle tone while showing him a long-sleeved, plaid cotton shirt. She reached for his top button, but he quickly wretched away and took a giant step backward, his brown eyes untrusting.

  Standing at the ready, Gabe said, "No one's going to hurt you. Remember the talk we had on the way over here?"

  The boy's dark eyebrows slanted downward as he looked from Gabe to Hannah. Then, dropping his chin, he looked at his big toe protruding from the hole in his right boot and started to unbutton his shirt of his own accord. He took it off and handed it to Hannah. His shoulder blades were peppered with bruises-bruises Gabe had seen that morning when he'd forced the boy into the tub. He gave Hannah credit for not mentioning them now, even though her mouth temporarily slacked open at the sight. Hannah tossed the old shirt aside and handed him the new one. At first, he eyed it with incredulity; then he rubbed his hand over the fabric, as if he'd never seen or felt anything quite like it.

  Slipping both arms through the sleeves, he stood a little straighter as he fastened the buttons. He looks half-pleased, Gabe thought. When he was done, Hannah led him to a cracked mirror propped against a wall, where he gave himself a silent inspection, his lip twitching in one corner and looking ready to break into a smile. Gabe remained in the shadows, almost afraid to breathe for fear of ruining the moment.

  Hannah's own smile bounced off the mirror as she stood there, hands folded at her skimpy waistline, moss-colored eyes never straying from the boy. One red lock fell forward on her face. "He looks very dapper, don't you think, Sheriff?"

  Unexpected tenderness came welling up. Were they looking at a child who'd never owned a new shirt? "He looks mighty fine."

  For the next fifteen minutes, Hannah assisted the boy in trying on everything from bib overalls to trousers to knickers, from denim shirts to woolen socks to dark, ankle-high, lace-up shoes. She even plopped a blue cap on his head, which she said would be handy for keeping out the sun. When they were finished, three piles of clothes resulted: the "too big," the "too small," and the "just right." Naturally, the "just right" rose higher than the rest.

  The dark-haired urchin examined himself from head to toe, taking in his new cap, his white button-down shirt under his bib overalls, and his new socks and shoes. A long interlude seemed to pass while he stood there staring at himself, hands shoved into his pockets, outwardly awed by his own reflection.

  Hannah and Gabe exchanged a fleeting glance, along with a glimmer of a smile. "You want to wear those?" she asked the boy.

  His reply was a simple nod.

  "How about we split down the middle-the cost, I mean?" Hannah said later as she gathered up the clothes that fit, folding each piece with care. The boy had wandered off to a table to look at an assortment of toy wagons and miniature farm equipment, all handmade from fine wood.

  "Does he need all these?" Gabe kept his voice to a low murmur. "It's not like he's going to be here forever."

  He watched her hands perform the folding task and noted her neatly trimmed fingernails, buffed to a glossy finish. He tried to recall what Carolina's fingers even looked like, berating himself for having forgotten so quickly.

  Without glancing up, she said, "Whether he's here five days or five weeks, he'll still need clothes, Mr. Devlin."

  "Well, that's true, but he's not exactly our charge."

  "No, he's not ours; he's yours." She made a point to emphasize the last two words. "But because you've brought him to my father's store, I would like to share in the expense of outfitting him, if you don't mind. It's the least I can do. Naturally, we'll purchase them at cost, so the final total shouldn't be too extravagant."

  "I'm not worried about the cost."

  "Good." She moved to the "too big" pile and started folding, not missing a beat.

  `And for your information, he's not my charge," he added, coming up beside her.

  "Of course, he is,"

  He swallowed down a knot of anger. "The boy jumped on my rig and hid, miss. I had nothing to do with that. I don't even have a clue where he belongs, or to whom. I'm not a foster parent; I'm the sheriff. "

  She made a curt, snapping sound with her tongue. "Precisely. And, as such, you will see, I'm sure, that the boy is your responsibility. Now, you can arrange for his care, I'll grant you that, but he is ultimately your liability until you figure out where he belongs."

  He cocked his left eyebrow down at her, but she failed to look up. "You're a bristly thing, you know that?"

  No words of retort shot out of her mouth as he would have expected. Instead, she lifted her face and made an abrupt turn, advancing to the table where the boy's old clothes lay in a heap. "I'll just toss these in the waste barrel," she stated.

  "Fine, you do that."

  She picked up the pants with two fingers, as if they carried some kind of deadly disease. Next, she went for the shirt, but when she tossed it over an arm and bent to pick up the boots, the shirt slipped to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, she let out a little gasp.

  "What?"

  She plopped down on her bottom, extended her legs straight out, pants tossed aside, and stared at the inside of the boy's shirt. "What are you looking at?" he asked, coming up behind her to peer over her shoulder, making every effort to dismiss her lemony scent. "What is that?"

  "It's a tag-sewn into the back of his shirt-with a name and number on it."

  "Tag? I never saw a tag." But then he hadn't looked, either. The boy had undressed himself that morning.

  He hunkered down beside her, arms resting on his thighs, and tried to see around her mass of curls, but all he got in return was a glimpse of the small square cloth stitched neatly under the dirty, torn collar and that blasted feminine scent wafting through the air.

  "What's it say?"

  "It says Jesse Gant, #47," she whispered. A full ten seconds passed before she lifted her head to gaze full into his face, a smile tripping across her lips. "Jesse Gant."

  He bobbed his head in a slow nod, mouth pressed together as he let the name sink in. Jesse Gant.

  Reaching out, he snatched up the shirt to see for himself. There it was, clear as anything. Jesse Gant, #47. Quickly, he searched the garment for more clues. But nothing surfaced, so he handed it back.

  They stared evenly into each other's eyes, their faces only inches apart, as if to draw out some piece of wisdom from the other's gaze.

  "Let's see what happens when I call his name," Gabe whispered. Hannah swept her tongue across her upper lip and nodded in agreement.

  He pushed himself up and spotted the boy on the other side of the store, where he was surveying a fishing pole suspended from two hooks on the wall.

  Gabe cleared his throat and gave a little sniff. "Hey, Jesse, come here a minute."

  The boy glanced at him, beheld the fishing pole with one last wistful look, stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, and walked across the room.

  Hannah kept Jesse with her the rest of the day, putting him to work with Maggie Rose in the library for the first two hours. He helped stack books in their proper places and listened to Maggie's prattle. Then, in the stockroom at the back of the store, he unpacked cartons and arranged the merchandise on the shelves. Between customers, Hannah checked on him, finding him busy most times, except for when he found a box of toy soldiers and lined them up all around him on the floor. It occurred to her then how little he'd probably played recently, and she decided to give him the soldier set later.

  After some discussion, she and the sheriff had worked out an agreement of sorts. She would manage Jesse's care during the day, at least until Gabe could figure out where the boy belonged, and he would pick him up, either at her house or at the store, at the end of his workday. He balked, at first, but she convinced him that he needed help, a point he could hardly argue. They measured e
ach other a while with narrowed gazes. "Didn't you just say he wasn't our responsibility?" he asked with quirked brow.

  "If you'll recall, I said he is ultimately your responsibility, but you can certainly make other arrangements for his care. I'm merely offering my services."

  He nodded. "Well, then, since he's my responsibility, I'll pay you.

  "You'll do no such thing, and if you try, I won't accept it,"

  An amused glint splashed through his eyes. "You are a bristly woman, slightly bullheaded, to boot,"

  She'd been called a lot of things, but never bristly and bullheaded. Determined and dedicated, perhaps, but not bristly. Bristly meant headstrong, but with Ralston, she was happy to settle back and let him make all the decisions. She couldn't imagine Ralston ever calling her bristly.

  It struck her that Gabriel Devlin had a way of bringing out a side she wasn't accustomed to seeing, and it rankled her, particularly since she'd only just met the man.

  "Mr. Devlin, I don't consider myself a difficult person." She forced a smile so as to appear unflappable. "But I suppose certain people can bring out the worst in folks."

  At that, he laughed outright. His was a most contagious laugh-one that forced her to purse her lips tightly to dodge a smile. "Now, look there, you're putting words in my mouth. Did I say you were difficult?" He leaned forward, caught her gaze, and folded his arms. "You are a handful, though, I'll grant you that. I would imagine you present quite a challenge for that doctor friend of yours."

  Now, how had he heard about her association with Ralston? "You are a meddlesome man, sir."

  His laughter slowed. "Why, Miss Kane, don't you know a sheriff's got to get his nose in where it doesn't belong sometimes?"

  She sniffed. "Well, not in my case, you don't."

  `And speaking of that doctor-Van Huff, is it?-I'm told I should take Jesse to see him for a checkup."