“Sure, has not,” Cleveland had replied, “Perhaps you ought to hang a few of these here.” He gave Benjamin a few more of the posters, each and every one of them with the large letters: WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE.
Benjamin looked at the poster again. He should not get distracted from everything that was going on, but there was something that bothered him about this Old Ghost. He had begun trying to sketch the man he had spoken to at the shed, that fateful night when Lillian was taken. Benjamin was a decent drawer, and he was trying to remember more details of the stranger.
He looked up from his work, observed the busy street, and noticed a young boy running towards the office. The boy ran inside and looked around.
Benjamin exhaled tiredly, guessing that someone had sent their son to check on the whereabouts of the missing Sheriff, but was surprised when the boy asked: “Are you Office Hopper, mister?”
“I am,” Benjamin replied, standing up.
“Someone asked me to give this to you,” the boy said, handing him a folded piece of paper.
“Who asked you to give this to me?” Benjamin asked, taking the note.
“I dunno,” the boy shrugged. He had already turned around as Benjamin opened the piece of paper and read the few lines written there. At once, he ran after the boy, clutching the note in his palm.
“Hey, kid!” Benjamin called, but the boy was already gone. He looked around, trying to see where the boy ran to, but the town was full of people today, and it was impossible to see where he might have gone. Benjamin opened the note and reread it.
We need to talk. I will be at the shed when the church service begins. - M.
Michael was back!
* * *
Once people began walking toward the church for this day’s service, Benjamin rode the way to his home. He rode passed his house, an uncomfortable feeling washing over him as he re-lived his conversation with the man, trying to stop his mind from spiraling down the waterfall of ‘what if’s.’ He dismounted his horse and approached the shed, looking around surreptitiously.
“Afternoon,” a familiar voice said to Benjamin, causing him to startle.
“Michael?” Benjamin said, looking inside the shed, finally noticing the crouching man inside there.
“We must talk,” Michael said urgently.
“Yes, I have to tell you…” Benjamin said, but Michael cut him off.
“Not here, it is not safe,” Michael said.
“We will go to my house,” Benjamin said, “Fanny and the boys are at church.”
“All right then,” Michael said, walking out of the shed.
“I barely recognized you,” Benjamin said, looking at Michael’s appearance.
“That’s at least something. I will leave my horse here; we never know who might be watching.”
“You should go in through the kitchen,” Benjamin said, “You can take the path that leads from behind here; no one will see you.”
“Good, I will do that,” Michael said, turning away. Benjamin rode the short distance to his home and tied his horse securely in the stable. Once he entered, Michael was waiting for him in the kitchen.
“Has there been any contact from Lillian’s captors,” Michael asked.
“No,” Benjamin replied sadly, “You must return here, Michael, just because they said that you had to leave doesn’t mean…”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Michael interrupted him, “But this is bigger than I could have imagined, perhaps even bigger than I realize even now. So, I cannot return until I know who is behind all of this. Until I know that, I will lead them into a false sense of security.”
“Well, your absence is being noticed,” Benjamin said after a short pause. He stood up and approached the pantry in the back, bringing back a pitcher of beer, pouring them both a glass.
“I need to speak with Mrs. Wesley again,” Michael said, “And I will need to get to my father’s notebooks that are still at the Sheriff’s office.”
“But I am sure that whoever is behind this will have someone watching the office. I will have to find a way to go there.”
“There is no need,” Benjamin said, “I brought it all here.”
“And,” he added, standing up to a small desk in the sitting room, and pulling out the top drawing, first opening it with a key he had in his pocket. He picked up a stack of papers and notebooks. “I know who sent you the letter that Dennis found at the Post Office ruins.”
“Who sent it?” Michael asked, surprised.
“Rex Rodgers, bounty hunter,” Benjamin stated.
“He was sending me a warning,” Michael said after reading the note that Benjamin had handed him. He stood up and paced around the kitchen floor, “This bounty hunter warned me of casualties and fires, and I am certain that someone must have known he was about to send me a letter.”
“Someone knew?” Benjamin said, confused.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that the Post Office was burned in bright daylight, unlike all the other fires,” Michael said, “And it just happened to be on the day when the post was arriving. If someone knew that I was expecting a letter and wanted to make sure that I would not receive it, a fire is a convenient way to dispose of a letter—and to make a threat.”
“Wait,” Benjamin said, “Do you think that Hickley is involved in this?”
“I cannot help think that if John Hickley is as honorable as he seems that it would be difficult to steal a letter from him, or to bribe him to dispose of one,” Michael continued, “These fires have been used as a tool to control people, and I found Philip Walter’s journal that corroborates that. He knew that something was going on, as did my father.”
“Oh boy. Who would have thought that something like this could have happened here in Rust Canyon.”
“Hey,” he added, grabbing the poster that Cleveland ‘the blind’ had given him, “The bounty hunter that came to pick up Vincent gave this to me.”
Michael looked at it, and his mind was racing. Was this the man that Rex Rodgers warned me about? Is this the bastard who took my sweet Lillian?
After a long pause, Benjamin said quietly, “I had actually thought that I might put up flyers here, for the man that I saw by the shed.”
“Did you make this?” Michael asked, taking the drawing that Benjamin was half finished with.
“Yes,” he replied, “I was trying to remember how he looked like.”
Michael read out loud, “Description: Height around 5ft. 9in.; eyes grey; straight nose, light-brown hair; pale face and high broad forehead.”
“Yeah,” Benjamin said quietly.
“This is good work,” Michael said.
“Thank you,” Benjamin answered, “You said you wanted to speak with Mrs. Wesley?”
“Yes. I am sure she knows more than she told us, and I think she might be the missing piece,” Michael added, “She must have known something about the reason for the fire that killed her husband, or she suspects someone.”
“Will you go see her?” Benjamin asked.
“We will go,” Michael replied.
* * *
Lillian’s head was pulsing painfully. She tried to move, but her body didn’t respond like it ought to. She tried to open her eyes but only managed to push her eyelids up a fraction. The last thing she remembered was running towards freedom and then nothing—a flash of pain and arguing voices… Her head angrily throbbed as she tried to think.
What has happened? I cannot move, and I feel terrible. Come now, Lillian! Open your eyes, she willed herself on and forced her eyes open. The first thing she noticed was the filthy mattress, and a little in front of her, she saw black boots. A dull sense of dread coursed through her, although her weakened state made her unable to panic fully.
“She’s up,” a voice said in the distance. For a moment, Lillian thought it sounded familiar, but she heard a loud ringing inside her head and trying to find out whose voice it was, proved too much. She closed her eyes again and heard approaching footsteps.
“Stay!” the voice said, and then Lillian heard retreating footsteps.
For a long while, Lillian lay motionless, listening to the heavy breathing of the other person in the room. As she breathed in and out, the pain in her head lessened slightly, and her curiosity finally grew stronger than her fear.
Lillian opened her eyes again, and this time it was easier. She tried to sit up slightly, but that’s when she noticed that her hands and feet were tied together tightly. This explained why she couldn’t move; it wasn’t her lack of strength but these tight ropes holding her. Gone were the silk cloths, and the coarse rope chafed her delicate wrists.
“Water,” she mumbled, her voice cracking. The man who had helped her yesterday looked up startled as she spoke. Lilian was shocked to see that he was clutching his hand, which was bleeding.
“What…” Lillian began, but her voice broke. She paused for a while before continuing, “What happened?”
The man looked at his hand and shook his head, “I can’t talk to you,” he whispered, and Lillian noticed that he sounded scared.
“I understand,” Lillian said quietly.
Lillian wondered what could have happened to him. She thought it must have been that other brute. She had a strange memory of seeing her father and hearing the hammer of a gun pulled back. Is it possible this brute shot him?
“I need water,” Lillian said after they had stared ahead in silence for a long while. The man looked at her and to the closed door. He seemed to be battling with himself as he closed his eyes before he stood up and grabbed a water canteen from one of the corners of the room.
“Here you go,” he said, holding the canteen out so Lillian could drink from it.
“Thank you,” she whispered after taking a long sip. The man was close to her now, and Lillian thought he looked like a child.
“What’s your name?” she asked gently.
“I can’t tell you that,” he replied nervously.
“All right,” she said, resting her head back on the mattress. He stood up and walked back to where he had been standing before, gently sitting down, resting his head on the wall.
It is strange, but my heart aches for him. It does not make sense; he is my captor… But he looks miserable and has treated me fairly. I wish I had not tried to escape—I don’t know what I was thinking.
“Samuel,” the man suddenly said, very softly.
“My name is Samuel.”
* * *
Michael and Benjamin rode on a narrow back road toward Mrs. Wesley’s home. Even though most of the townfolks were at church, Michael had to be careful. They stopped and dismounted a fair distance away from Mrs. Wesley’s home. Michael made sure to cover his face with his handkerchief, looking around to see if anybody was watching them.
The street was quiet, and Michael gently knocked on the front door but was startled when the door pushed back at his touch. Something wasn’t right. “Mrs. Wesley?” Michael called, taking a step inside; Benjamin followed.
“Where is she?” Benjamin asked. Michael looked around; the house was a complete mess. One of the kitchen chairs had fallen over, and there were drawers open, and they were half empty. Michael looked into the bedrooms, and there, the beds were unmade, with cabinets open and empty.
“She’s gone,” Michael said.
“Do you think someone took her?” Benjamin contemplated, “And the children as well?”
“I don’t think so,” Michael said, “Look here,” he pointed to the cabinet, “Their clothes are gone.”
“Do you think she ran away?” Benjamin said.
“I am certain she knew something,” Michael continued, walking back into the kitchen, “She tried to warn me; I am sure she was about to tell me something.”
“Where could she have gone?” Benjamin said thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure,” Michael said, “But something must have happened that frightened her.”
“She must have noticed that you were gone,” Benjamin said.
“Why do you say that?” Michael replied.
“Well, there was a big crowd around the sheriff’s office when the bounty hunters came to pick up Vincent, and your absence was noticed,” Benjamin explained.
“If she thought I was gone, she must have thought that whoever’s behind this would come for her,” Michael said.
“What made you think she was about to confess something to you?” Benjamin asked.
“There was something about her, I just had an inkling,” Michael said, “And the last thing she said to me was that I was on the side of angels,” he tried to remember what she had said exactly, “He will command His angels concerning you to guard you carefully.”
“Luke, 4:10,” Benjamin replied at once.
“What did you say?” Michael said, looking at him.
“The passage,” Benjamin said, “It’s from Luke, 4:10. The Lord sent His angels to protect those who have committed themselves to His loving care, not those who want to put Him to the test.”
“From what passage did you say it was from?” Michael said urgently.
“What?” Benjamin said, confused, “Luke, 4…” but Michael cut him off.
“4:10,” he had marched towards a shelf in the sitting room, which had papers all around, and turned over books. One book was still upright; the Bible. Michael grabbed it and began paging through it.
“Come on,” he mumbled as he searched through the holy book.
“Here it is!” Michael said. In the margin of the passage, there had been written two words: Little Ivywood.
Chapter Nineteen
“You should stay behind,” Michael said to Benjamin as they hurried out of Mrs. Wesley’s house. Little Ivywood was Mrs. Wesley’s home town, which must have meant that she has returned to her parents. Michael wondered if she had planned on leaving him this clue for a long time.
“All right,” Benjamin said, “Be careful!”
“I will,” Michael replied. They quickly mounted their horses and rode in opposite directions. Michael pulled hard on the reins, and the horse shot forward. He had to get to Mrs. Wesley very soon because time was running out.
He had been riding for over an hour. The sun was high in the sky but would set soon. He could see a cluster of buildings in the distance and knew he would be there soon. He noticed an impressive looking farm, which was situated a little away from the town itself. What was it that she had said? My parents live just by the borders of the county. Michael pulled the reins and turned towards the large farm.
It was eerily quiet on the road that led to the farmhouse. The window shutters were closed, and the curtain drawn shut. This was very strange. Michael dismounted his horse and tied the reins to the large fence that surrounded the house.
I wonder if there is anyone home? The house looks almost abandoned. Could Mrs. Wesley’s parents have gone as well? He walked up the path to the front door and knocked. The sound echoed, and for a while, nothing happened. Michael was about to walk back when the door opened slowly.
“Afternoon,” he said, “My name is Michael Flemming, and I’m the sheriff from Rust Canyon.”
“How do you do,” the man at the door said. He was a stocky man, with red suspenders over his white shirt, and had a neatly combed white beard. He had smile wrinkles around his eyes, but his face was stern and serious now.
“I am looking for Isabella Wesley,” Michael continued, “Are you her father?”
“I am,” the man replied curtly.
“Marvin Hammond,” he added.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Michael said, “I do apologize for disturbing you on a Sunday, but this is urgent.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Hammond said skeptically.
“It is,” Michael replied simply.
“My daughter is not here,” Mr. Hammond said, biting his jaw as he spoke. Michael noticed how he clenched his fist and stepped to the sides, making sure to cover the opening inside his house.
“Mr. Hammond,” Michael said, �
��When did you last see your daughter?”
“When we buried her husband,” Mr. Hammond said, his knuckles turning white with the force he was clenching them.
“I understand that you are protective over your daughter,” Michael continued, “but if she is here, I must speak with her.”
“I already told you,” Mr. Hammond began, but Michael cut him off.
Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance) Page 19
