The Feisty Bride's Unexpected Match: A Western Historical Romance Book

by Lydia Olson

  I’ve spent time trying to figure out what is going on. I cannot stand for the fact that this wonderful township is being corrupted. But I fear that my nosing around has sparked suspicion, and as of two nights ago, I was paid a visit by Michael Crane and warned to “keep to myself.” I am not the only one that Crane has threatened for stumbling across his exploits, and I know of two men in Clarendon who died prematurely because they knew things they shouldn’t have. Needless to say, I am fearful that my life is about to reach its end—and I am writing this letter to you in order to try and bring a stop to all of this madness.

  Nephew, if you are reading this letter, if I have died by Michael Crane’s hand, then I have sent for you to bring a stop to this man. I cannot trust anyone but you and Jacobs. I cannot even trust my lawyer. There are too few people left in Clarendon to confide in. I have left you my ranch, and in turn, I have left you with the responsibility of confronting Michael Crane, discovering the truth, and exposing him to the world. I have known you your entire life, and you are a fighter. Be it a gift from God, your upbringing, or a combination of both, I believe that you are the only one who can bring an end to the corruption in Clarendon. Believe me when I tell you that I have tried everything I can to bring an end to this situation, but I am an old man, and every avenue I have explored to remedy this has been exhausted.

  David ceased reading for a moment. His world felt like it was spinning out of control. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said to Jacobs. “Why the secrecy? Why would my uncle not tell my family this in the original letter?”

  “Because,” Jacobs said, “it’s like he said—he couldn’t trust anyone, save for you and me. He was worried that if he made mention of what was transpiring to his lawyer or through a mailed letter, Crane and his cohorts would catch on. They were looking through all of the mail being sent out of Clarendon. They pay the postal worker on duty to flag down any letters.”

  “Why didn’t my uncle try sending word to higher authorities, like the U.S. Marshals or what have you?”

  Jacobs sighed. “He tried,” he said, “two days before he was killed. He arranged a meeting with a man from the marshal service, but he was killed by someone working for Michael Crane.”

  Anger welled up inside of David. “How?” he said through gritted teeth. “I was told he died of a heart attack.”

  “I think he was poisoned. Either way, your uncle wrote that letter before he attempted to contact the marshal service. And then, well, he was murdered.”

  David took a moment to soak all of the information in. He then crooked a finger in Jacobs’ direction. “And what about you?” he asked. “How have you survived? Why haven’t you tried to contact someone to inform them about Michael Crane?”

  Jacobs shrugged. “I was as fearful as your uncle was about repercussions. I’m an old man as well, and it appears this corruption that’s running through Clarendon is, well, a young man’s game.”

  “You could have left town,” David said. “You could have gone and fetched someone.”

  “Son, I tried. I tried twice to go and find help. Do you know what happened? Crane’s deputies stopped me. They knew I was friends with your uncle. In fact, they have anyone who’s a potential threat on a list! I kid you not. After the second time, I went to my nephew’s farm about two miles from here and kept my distance from Clarendon until your arrival. I told Carl the bartender to inform you of who I was once you arrived. For a while, I was concerned you might never show. But you have, and now, you must do whatever you can to try and stop Michael Crane. It’s a messy situation, my friend, and that just is what it is.”

  “Someone else could have stood up to Crane,” David said. “I am not the only young man in this town.”

  “Everyone fears Crane. Those who stood up to him have died.”

  “And what makes me any different?”

  Jacobs shrugged. “Because your uncle believed that you were the only man who wouldn’t back down.”

  David stared at Jacobs for a long moment before looking down at the last part of the letter:

  Nephew, it read, I have faith that you will succeed. I am sorry that I had to inform you of all of this in such a manner as I have. But you have a rabbit’s foot charm like no other. You are the key to fixing this situation. Please, end this reign of madness in Clarendon. Restore order. Make Michael Crane face the music and bring peace to this town.

  With fond appreciation,

  Uncle Fletcher

  David folded up the note and moved back to the rocking chair on the porch. He sat down, slowly, still glancing at the note and feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. Michael has Sarah, he thought, and a stranglehold on this town. How? How can I stop him? He is the law. He has so many people in his pockets. But something has to be done. My uncle was right—this all has to end.

  And I have to get back my love before she possibly endures a fate similar to that of Uncle Fletcher.

  “Jacobs,” David said, “how in God’s name do I bring down Michael Crane?”

  Jacobs jutted his chin toward the house. “Come with me,” he said.

  ***

  David followed Jacobs as they moved into the area next to the kitchen.

  “Your uncle,” Jacobs said, “prepared for your arrival in advance. After he passed, Crane sent a couple of deputies to check the place out, to see if there was anything that he might have left behind indicating that he was trying to get word to someone about what Crane was up to. That’s why he left me that letter you have in your hand. It was the only thing he had that told the truth of what was happening in Clarendon. He didn’t want to risk anyone, including your parents, being exposed to the truth. It would have put their lives in danger, just as it did his.” Jacobs came to a stop on the floorboards and tapped his foot. “He also left a few other things behind.”

  David watched as Jacobs removed a knife from his pocket, kneeled, and wedged the blade in between the floorboards. He scraped and pulled and removed four of the floorboards. Underneath them was a canvas bag, thick and jutting out at all angles. With David’s assistance, he took out the bag and laid it on the ground.

  “Take a look,” Jacobs said as he stood.

  David opened the canvas bag. Inside was small arsenal comprised of two rifles, two six- shooters, and enough ammunition to reload them dozens of times over. David closed his eyes as he examined the weapons. The burden is on me, he thought. It’s up to me to take on Michael Crane.

  “Your uncle,” Jacobs said, “knew that this situation with Crane was only going to end one way.”

  David nodded. “War,” he said as he ran his fingers through his beard.

  “You’ll have to confront Crane. You’ll have to tell him what you know. You need to force him to make the first move. If you’re the one that starts the shooting, Crane can make you look like nothing more than a deranged ranch hand who was picking a fight. But if you go to him, if you tell him what you know, if you threaten him with going to a higher authority—that will force his hand.”

  “I should send word to the marshals,” David said.

  “Crane will know,” Jacobs replied. “I told you—the postal man is on his payroll. Telegrams, letters, everything. Trust me, the last man that tried, as well as your uncle, were both killed when they tried to send word out. They also have his deputies standing guard at all the roads leading out of town. I’m on this list I spoke of. If I try to run, he’ll shoot me where I stand. No, this is the only way, my friend. It’s up to you to confront Michael Crane.”

  David looked at Jacobs. “I can’t do this alone. Once the shooting starts, I won’t be able to defend myself.”

  Jacobs nodded. “You have my gun,” he said. “I’ll stand by your side, as will my son. I’ve informed him of the situation. I’ll fetch him immediately while you confront Crane. We have to assume that Crane and whoever else he has with him will come here to try and shut the situation down.”

  Sarah, David thought. Crane knows that she is the perfect deter
rent. “What about Sarah Harris?”

  Jacobs furrowed his brow. “Who?”

  “She is my—” David began, “well, the love of my life, and Crane has her. He knows we share a bond, and he’ll try to use that against me.”

  Jacobs rested a hand on David’s shoulder. “It’s a messy situation, David,” he said, “and we’re working with what we have. But the time has come to try to bring this to an end. The time is now.”

  David knew there was no time to waste. Jacobs was right—the time to take a stand was right now. No more stalling. No more waiting. I have to end this now. I have to avenge my uncle. I have to bring an end to Crane, once and for all. He grabbed one of the rifles, looked it over, and then handed it to Jacobs.

  “Fetch your son,” David said. “And get this place fortified.” He stood up. “Michael Crane has a reckoning coming his way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Crane was at the sheriff’s desk. Stevens had stepped out for the day, and Crane decided to take the time to go about arranging the elements of his upcoming wedding in the meantime. Clarendon’s tailor, Warburton, was taking Crane’s measurements inside the sheriff’s office and detailing all of the high-priced fabrics that Crane had to choose from.

  “I feel that a silk tie would work best,” Warburton said as he measured Crane’s inseam. “A powder blue tie would look quite regal.”

  Crane smirked and shot his cuffs, imagining how the suit would look and feel once he acquired it. “Price is of no consequence,” he said. “Just make sure everything is pristine and flawless.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Crane breathed in deeply. All was going according to plan. Sure, the sheriff was disappointed that Tucker’s body had never been discovered, but Crane had abided by his promise to keep a low profile after their chat two months prior. He was to be married, he sat on a small fortune, and all was well in the entirety of Clarendon. In many ways, Crane felt as if he owned the entire town.

  Two knocks sounded on the front door. Crane turned his head and said, “Come in,” as the tailor continued taking his measurements.

  David Bryant entered. He looked serious, staring at Crane like he had just robbed him out on the street.

  Why in God’s name is he here?

  “Well, Mister Bryant,” Crane greeted him pleasantly. “Nice of you to drop by.”

  David closed the door. He stood beside it with his hands clasped in front of him.

  “How can I help you today?” Crane asked.

  “I’d like a moment of your time,” David said before looking at Warburton. “Alone.”

  Well, well, Crane thought. I have a feeling I won’t enjoy this particular conversation.

  “Warburton,” Crane said, “could you excuse us a moment, please?”

  Warburton moved toward the door. “Certainly, sir,” he said as he exited the room.

  Crane stood at attention. He looked David in the eyes. David did the same.

  “You look quite serious,” Crane said. “Is something wrong?”

  David nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is.” He held up a letter with his name on it. “You are the problem.” He slapped the letter down on the sheriff’s desk.

  Crane knew what was coming next before David had a chance to say it. “You got something you want to say to me, Bryant—then say it.”

  David inched forward. “I know all about you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The corruption, your arrangement with Tucker Willis.” David shook his head. “All of it. Crane, you’ve been involved in so many bad deals across three states that it’s finally come back to bite you in your rear. You see, I know that you had my uncle killed. He wrote a letter to me explaining the whole thing. I know that you’ve silenced the men in this town that tried to go against you, but now, here and today—it all ends.”

  Crane laughed. “You really are just as much of a fool as your uncle,” he said. “And you’ve made a huge mistake coming here telling me all of this.”

  “You left me no choice,” David said. “There’s only one of two ways this whole thing plays out: you turn yourself in, or we have a shootout in the street.”

  Crane’s eyes went wide. “Oh, is that a fact?”

  David nodded. “Yes, it’s a fact. And you’re going to cut Sarah loose. I know you’re holding her against her will. Don’t try and explain it as anything other than that.” A fiery glint came into David’s eyes. “And you killed my uncle, you rotten scoundrel—and there’s no way that I’m going to let that pass.”

  Inching his way closer to David, Crane glared defiantly. “You’re right,” he said, “I did kill your uncle. I was in cahoots with Tucker Willis. And yes, I did rid this town of anyone who tried to go against me. But you can’t prove it, neither did your uncle, and again, anyone who came close was dealt with in a timely fashion. Oh, what? You think that you’re different? You think that you coming here is going to sway me into turning myself in? My God, man. I was wrong—you’re even more stupid than your uncle was.”

  David’s fingers slowly curled into a fist. “I had a feeling you’d say that. And I knew what coming here would end up looking like in the long run. You’re right, I don’t have proof, and if I tried to run and tell some other lawmen about what’s gone down here in Clarendon, I’d be in a grave right next to my uncle.”

  Crane rolled his eyes. “So, why in the heck did you bother even coming here, you fool?”

  David took two more steps forward. He was now nose-to-nose with Crane. “I came here to let you know that I’m ready. I came here to let you know that I’m not afraid of you. You know where I reside, Deputy Crane. And now you know that I know the truth. Consider this me letting you know that I’ll be waiting at my residence. Send your best men—we’ll see who ends up being the last man standing.” Saying nothing more, David turned to leave. He slammed the door shut behind him, brushing past Warburton outside before making his way back to his ranch.

  Crane, the vein in his forehead jutting out, knew that there was only one option left to deal with David Bryant. There was now only one thing on his itinerary for the rest of the day: killing him and putting him in the ground.

  ***

  The solution for Crane was simple: hire Miller and Childs to take out David Bryant. He’d pay them a hefty fee to do it, and the whole matter would be dealt with before the night was out. Crane would then doctor the situation to make it look, well, however he wanted it to look.

  After the confrontation at his house, Crane immediately departed for the Stedman residence. He knew that Miller and Childs had been holed up there for the past two months, Crane having told them both of them to stick around to “clean up any messes” that came his way. As of today, David Bryant was now one of those messes.

  Crane rushed up to Stedman’s door and knocked twice. He waited for a full minute to find that no one was answering.

  “Stedman!” he shouted out. “Answer the door, will you?”

  He knocked again. Waited. Still, no one answered.

  Crane, taking the liberty of entering the house, threw open the door and moved inside. He headed toward the back, shouting out Miller’s and Childs’s names as he looked around for signs of their presence. But the house was empty. No one was there—and Crane could smell the lingering scent of death hanging in the air.

  Crane moved into the area where he had seen Tucker Willis loading up the weapons for the train heist just a couple of months before. Everything was pitch black.

  “Son of a—where are they?”

  The snap of a match being struck startled Crane. He turned around, the source of the sound coming from behind him. He saw a small flame dancing on the edge of the matchstick, the glow illuminating the hand of the person who struck the match. The outline of the figure in the corner lighting a cigar was visible, but not much else.

  “Dang it, Stedman,” Crane said. “What the heck are you doing sneaking around like that for?”

  A smoke-choked laughed
filled the air. Crane’s face went pale when he recognized the laugh. It didn’t belong to Stedman—it belonged to Tucker Willis.

  Emerging from the corner, Tucker stood in the light. He was gaunt, looking much worse for wear. He looked like more like a demon than a man. His skin was paler, almost the same shade as snow. His eyes were sunk in their sockets, and his hair was stringy and coated with grease. Crane had no doubt that he was looking at Tucker, but Tucker appeared more as a shell of his former self, like a reanimated corpse.

  “Long time,” Tucker said as he puffed his cigar, “no see.”