Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “I can’t,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “But could you…” Lillian tried again, but the man turned around quickly, shaking his head.

  “I can’t,” he repeated and left the same way he had come.

  Lillian pulled the tray of food towards her. She was surprised to see two eggs, a piece of fresh bread, and a large slice of cheese. Why would he have brought her a nicer breakfast today? He seemed genuinely concerned for a moment. Or was I just imagining it? Perhaps I can use that to my advantage? Lillian ate her breakfast, her mind racing.

  * * *

  Curse! Michael was mentally slapping himself. How had he not noticed this before? This was so typically his father, leaving secret notes and clues, never trusting anyone. This had made Michael’s father an excellent Sheriff but sometimes a terrible father. He never spoke in plain words, always leaving Michael to discover everything himself. He said that trust had to be earned, even in families.

  How many times had he mentioned betrayals and disputes he encountered in his line of work? He wanted Michael to think critically and never to trust blindly. There is no greater curse that can incomber people than blind trust, he had said. Michael had never paid much attention to this side of his father. As his mother had died when he was young, he knew nothing else than his father’s strange ways. But in his later years, Michael had stopped noticing this at all, it seemed.

  Did I abandon my father in search of my inner truth, my true purpose? Michael thought, bitterly. Doctor Littlefield had left around half an hour ago, and Michael still sat in the same chair, but in front of him were all of his father’s letters splayed in a big pile. He was organizing them in chronological order and had an empty notebook where he wrote down when his father first started mentioning something that could point to his suspicion.

  His first letters to Michael were rather ordinary. His father asked how the trip had been, mentioned what was happening in Rust Canyon, and wished Michael luck in his travels. However, in the third letter, Michael noticed that his father began talking about the fire at the Wesley house, about this tragedy. Even that seemed strange now that Michael looked back at it.

  The phrasing was odd, his father had certainly not been a sentimental man, and calling a fire a tragedy was not like him. Tragedies were human, caused by one person harming another. A tragedy was more like a curse.

  At first, Michael’s father wrote about a warning. Then, he mentioned that the fire at the Wesleys’ had been a tragedy. He told Dr. Littlefield that all clues pointed to a curse was over Rust Canyon. Michael was certain that his father had believed these incidents that had happened were no coincidences and that they were connected somehow.

  I wonder if Mrs. Wesley will be willing to speak with me? She tried to tell me something the other day. I should speak to her again.

  Michael picked up his father’s letters again, folding them neatly and putting them back into his rucksack.

  * * *

  Lillian had come up with an idea, which was most likely a mad one, but it was all she had at the moment. She needed to figure out more about where they were keeping her, and she was counting on the sympathy she thought she had seen in the eyes of one of her captors. She waited patiently for her opportunity. She had surmised that the two men took turns guarding her.

  That must be why she would hear hooves approaching and then retreating a little while later. She had not heard anything for a long while, and she prayed silently to God that the man be alone, and that the taller man would not be the one coming. She took a calming breath before she stood up, bracing herself in an awkward position by the nearest wall, and gave a prolonged piercing scream.

  Very soon, the short man came running inside, clutching his rifle, and his chest rose up and down as he breathed heavily.

  “What is going on?” he asked out of breath.

  Lillian did not answer yet, standing still for a moment and shivering—convincingly.

  “Why did you scream?” the man reiterated.

  “R-r-r-rat,” Lilian stammered, still facing the wall.

  “Rat?” the man repeated, lowering his weapon. Lillian nodded her head, turning around slowly. To her relief, the man looked a little bit amused. She looked at him, trying her very best to appear vulnerable, which, to be honest, was not difficult.

  “There,” Lillian whimpered, gesturing to a place where the imaginary rat was.

  “I don’t see anything,” the man said, looking where she had pointed.

  “It was there,” Lillian continued, adding a little sob.

  “Now sit down,” the man said, “I don’t see any rat here.”

  “NO!” Lillian yelped, “I can’t stay here… I, I.. Oh, no, please don’t let me stay where there are rats. I beg you, please…” She sobbed and covered her eyes with her bandaged hands, crying most convincingly.

  “Ah,” the man said uncomfortably, “Oh, don’t cry. I can’t take you anywhere,” he said.

  “Please, I will behave, I just cannot be here, just anywhere else,” Lillian pleaded.

  “Wait here,” the man said after a long pause. He left the room she was in, and as he left, Lillian did not dare to try and look at where he went, so she stood frozen like a statue. After a little while, he returned, looked uncertain.

  “All right,” he began, “I will move you to another place, but you have to follow me and not make a sound.”

  “I promise,” Lillian replied.

  “I’m going to tie this around your eyes,” he said, producing another silk cloth from his pocket, like the one that held her hands.

  “Please don’t,” Lillian whispered, truthfully now, “Please no more,” she added, showing him her sore, tied together hands.

  “I have to,” he grumbled, approaching her. Lillian sobbed as he tied the cloth over her eyes.

  “I am going to hold your arm,” he said softly. As soon as he touched her, Lillian flinched. He sighed and walked her out of the room. They walked a very short distance, and Lillian focused on her surroundings.

  Three… Four… Ten… Eleven steps, I feel a slight breeze. Fifteen… Twenty-five.

  They had stopped, and Lillian thought the number of steps over and over in her head. She must not forget them.

  “Wait here,” the man said, pushing her towards a wall. This room felt much colder than the other one, and Lillian began wondering if this had perhaps been a mistake. Soon she heard a dragging sound and a loud thump.

  “Here, let me,” the man said as he took off the silk cloth covering her eyes. She looked around at her new surroundings. It was very similar to the other room, except this one was smaller, colder, and smelled like burnt wood.

  “No more talks about rats,” he added. He was about to turn around when he seemed to have a second thought. He walked towards her and took her hands in his. For a moment, Lillian froze in her tracks. But she relaxed once she realized that the man had loosened the silk around her wrists. And without a word, he turned around and left, closing the door behind him.

  Fourteen steps from here, and a turn to the right. There lies my freedom.

  * * *

  Lillian had waited patiently until the dusk settled over their surroundings. Every minute felt dragged because she surely could not have waited for merely a day! Being in this new room gave her a tiny glimpse of the sky through a hole in the ceiling. As a result, the room was colder than the other one.

  She remembered that around this time the night before, she had heard the hooves of horses, approaching this God-forsaken building. But she had a plan. She would try to run away; she could not stay here any longer—she had to try.

  Lillian watched the sky turn darker and darker, but there was no sound of hooves. She was not sure if that was a good sign or not. She thought about Michael as if she could feel him thinking about her. She stood up gingerly. She had to watch her every step, as all sounds were magnified in the quiet of the night.

  She had managed to loosen the cloth around her wrists even more,
but not completely. Lillian took a step further and froze as the floorboard below her feet creaked loudly.

  Her heart was beating so fast she was sure that it would give her away. But as no one came, she took a deep breath without making a sound. She took another step and gently pushed the door that kept her locked up forward. To her surprise, the door moved easily but revealed nothing but darkness. Her feet trembled in every step as she tried to walk in a straight line.

  One… Two… Three. She heard a noise outside and nearly fell over. It was just a bird flapping its wings. She held out her bandaged hands to try to make out if there was anything in front of her. But there seemed to be nothing. It was if the building she was in was a barn or possibly a warehouse.

  Seven… Eight… Nine. Each step she took felt like it took away a tiny piece of her strength. Ten… Eleven… Twelve

  I cannot do this. My heart is racing too fast. This was a stupid idea; I should just return to the room, Lillian thought in a panic. She heard the far away sound of a wolf howl, and stood as if she was rooted to the spot. She was breathing rapidly, and she felt weaker.

  But then she was transported back to that blissful moment with Michael on the horse. The panic she had felt when he first handed her the reins, but the security in knowing he was there for her. She clenched her hands, holding on to the silk cloth, imagining it was the reins. Her heart slowed down, and slowly, very slowly, she took another step. Thirteen… Fourteen.

  Lillian turned to her right and peered ahead. Everything was so dark she could not make out anything, but after staring into the darkness for a long while, she thought she could make out the outlines of doors. Tiptoeing forward, with her hands outstretched, she walked. Finally, her hands touched a wall. She was at the end of the building.

  * * *

  Michael was riding on a back road near the town again. He would have to speak with Mrs. Wesley, and he had an idea of how he could do it without drawing attention to him. Before he had left the Everett farm, yet again, Michael had searched through all the cabinets in the house. He had found a brown, weathered-looking hat and a tattered and dirty looking jacket, which he supposed had been used to work around the farm, judging by the smell alone.

  Wearing that, and with his handkerchief partially covering his face, Michael imagined he would be able to pose as a worker, or at least that was what he was hoping. He would need to speak with Benjamin first, to get some news. A terrible thought popped into his head as he saw the row of houses getting bigger the closer he came.

  What if Lillian has been returned, and her captors see me? She could be in even more danger than before. He kept his head low as he passed two men on horses riding in the opposite direction. One of them nodded in his direction, and the other one muttered, “Afternoon,” and looked away from Michael disinterested.

  His disguise had worked, or at least he hoped so. Or now, it would be truly tested. Michael noticed Mrs. Williams, the pastor’s wife, walking with her daughter across the road. Michael slowed down to let them pass.

  “Thank you, young man,” Mrs. Williams smiled kindly and looked at Michael. For a moment, she paused as she looked at him, but then she walked on, chatting with her daughter.

  If I can make it passed Mrs. Williams, I should be safe for now, Michael thought and rode purposefully towards the sheriff’s office. But here it became trickier. Many folks were walking around, people gathered in small-knit groups, talking with their heads together. It was too big of a chance for him to try to walk to the office. He rode a little further on and found a spot nearby the train station.

  Here no one paid him the slightest attention. He dismounted and grabbed the journal he had been writing in earlier that day and wrote down a few lines, then tore the paper from the book. Michael looked around until he saw two young boys running around.

  “Hey, kid,” Michael said to one of the boys, making sure to speak in a deep, raspy voice.

  “Yeah?” One of the boys said, taking a step further to him. The other boy stayed where they had been playing.

  “Want to earn a little?” Michael said, reaching into his pocket and grabbing a silver coin.

  “Sure do!” the boy said gleefully.

  “Run to the sheriff’s office and hand this to Officer Hopper,” Michael said urgently.

  “All right, mister,” the boy said, looking at the coin, reaching out to grab it.

  “Ah, ah,” Michael said, “Not until I can see you have delivered the note.”

  “Fine,” the boy said, disappointed. He took the note from Michael and ran towards the office. In no time at all, the boy had returned with a smug look on his face.

  “Hand it over,” he said with his palm outstretched.

  “Here ya’ go, kid,” Michael chuckled and handed the boy the coin.

  Now I just have to wait, he thought and mounted his horse again.

  * * *

  Lillian ran her hands over the wall, trying to find the door, taking in every sound she heard. She walked along the wall until finally, she touched something icy-cold made of metal; it was a latch. Excitedly she tried to find how the door would open. Slowly she pushed it but noticed she would have to pull it towards her. She found the end of the door, and as quietly as she could muster, she pulled the door a fraction.

  Outside was just as dark it seemed; however, she could see the outlines of the moon in the distance, but not much else. She looked around, trying to see where her captors were situated.

  I will have to open this a little more. Dear Lord in Heaven, give me strength. She did not breathe as she pulled the door a little bit more open. Now she could see better outside, and there he was. Sitting on a log, in a pile of debris, not far from the entrance where Lillian stood. She observed him, sitting there, with his head slouched down and his chest rising and falling slowly.

  He’s asleep! Lillian realized. This is my chance. Gently she pulled the door even further open, just enough so she could slide through the opening. As the cold night air touched her skin, she realized just how bad the smell had been inside this horrible building. She looked around and took a step away from her sleeping captor.

  She walked towards the end of the building, looking behind her in every step, lest he wakes up. But he snored gently, and Lillian felt relief start to calm her down. Making absolutely sure that he did not move, she turned the corner of the building, ready to run. But as soon as she took another step, she walked into something, or more accurately, someone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Well, well,” said the man Lillian had walked into. Blind panic took over her, and she screamed with all her might. She tried to run away but felt strong arms grabbing her and holding her tightly. She recoiled as the man holding her sniffed her hair, and she fought with all her strength to try and get free from him.

  In the struggle, the back of her head hit his face, and she heard him curse loudly, and at that moment, he let go of her. At once, Lillian ran away as fast as her feet would carry her, not knowing where she was going. The pitch-black darkness obscured her way, and suddenly, she felt a sharp blow to the back of her head, and then everything went black.

  A moment later, she felt someone pick her up and carry her back. She thought she heard voices arguing, something about a mattress, and she was sure she heard the hammer of a gun being dragged backward. But at the same time, she saw something different. It was her father standing by her, with his kind and warm smile. Lillian groaned and then closed her eyes, safe in her father’s embrace. She did not have any strength left anymore; all she wanted was to sleep.

  * * *

  Benjamin was by nature a calm man, but these past few days had him on edge, and the pressure of Michael being away weighed heavily on him. The townsfolk had begun to notice Michael’s absence. Since the bounty hunter came and picked up Vincent, there had been a steady stream of people walking passed the office, some casually looking inside, others walking inside and demanding to see the Sheriff. Although he had not been idle. Cleveland ‘the b
lind’ had given him a good idea once Benjamin saw inside the carriage Cleveland had. It was filled with Wanted posters, with a drawn picture of the wanted criminals.

  Benjamin had asked him if he could keep one of them for his reference. Cleveland ‘the blind’ had given him a toothy grin and rummaged for a wanted poster in the side pocket of his long coat. “Here ya go,” Cleveland had said to Benjamin, “I have plenty of those.”

  “Who was the man?” Benjamin had asked, looking at the Unclear drawing of a man with a large Stetson hat and a great big mustache.

  “They call him Old Ghost,” Cleveland had said, “Because no one has been able to find him.”

  “Or give a clear description of him.”

  “So, he has still not been captured?” Benjamin had asked.