Wistful in Wisconsin (Yours Truly: The Lovelorn Book 10)

by Marisa Masterson

  Her stepmother disappeared. The monster from last summer was back. Lilah twisted in her blankets as she relived the moment. She screamed at the man and cursed his future. In desperation, her mind escaped from what was being done to her. It searched and found a scene she’d read in one of the novels she regularly devoured.

  Wilhelmina, the heroine, faced a fate worse than death. When the villain ripped at her clothes, she had cursed him. Of course, after that in the novel, the hero rushed in and saved her.

  Irrationally, Lilah’s mind argued that if she laid a curse on this man then her hero would arrive. She’d try anything at this moment as she struggled to knee the man who held her prisoner.

  “May you never father children. May you shrivel and waste away. If there’s any justice, your family line is done.”

  Even now, in a nightmare, she felt the pain. His hand slapped her face, bringing a gush of blood from both sides of her lips. Amazingly, she hadn’t lost any teeth. Also, surprisingly, the women holding her down didn’t release her. One whimpered, but they held onto her.

  “You’ll give in now. When I’m done with ya, I’m expectin’ ya to take back yer curse.” She blocked out the foul names he’d called her. Those taunting words were harder to forget. Maybe because of what happened next.

  With a scream, Lilah jerked awake. The silent emptiness comforted her after the vivid dream. No one had heard her cry out. The soundless room meant she was alone and safe.

  Taking in a deep breath, she held it. Then, slowly, Lilah allowed the air to seep past her lips. A tremor went through her, and she repeated the breathing exercise. This time she focused on her hands, feeling warmth rush into them, the way the doctor taught her.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, the girl let her legs dangle as she ran a shaky hand over her brown hair. Odd, but touching her hair had always been a comfort to her.

  Months had passed since the experience. She grumbled out loud to chastise herself.

  “Nine months, Lilah! Why are you torturing yourself with something that happened nine months ago?”

  Wanting to rationalize her fear she continued talking aloud. “It will take time. A woman doesn’t just forget being kidnapped and taken to a brothel.”

  A tremble went through her. She breathed deeply and waited for warmth to rush to her hands. “Focus on something else,” kind Doctor Weber told her. Maybe this night she would do something to change her life.

  “If only.” Two simple words. They left her mouth with all the anguish she felt trapped inside.

  If only what? If only she’d never come to Idyll Wood, Wisconsin? If only Fred Sittig would see they needed each other?

  Dreams were odd. Why did she never dream about Fred rescuing her?

  She hugged shaky arms around her middle and remembered. In her mind, she saw the man reach for a rope. He looped one end around her foot and tied it to the bedpost. As he reached for another, a tremendous crack thundered in the room. The beast froze and all heads turned toward the ruined door.

  A blonde giant shoved aside the wooden remnants. That same gorgeous man who had invited her out for lunch only the day before, when she’d arrived in Idyll Wood. He stepped into the room, gun drawn and took command of the situation.

  “Lay down on the floor. Now!”

  The brothel customer immediately flopped to the floor. In an irony that she happily remembered, her rescuer used the rope the scoundrel had meant for her. He’d bound the man tightly, bringing a cry of pain from him.

  “Be glad I’m a sheriff so I can’t bust you in the mouth. Appears to me that’s what you did to that girl there.”

  Sheriff Fred Sittig. That night, as he whipped off his long duster and covered her with it, their eyes met and a connection was established. She knew, deep in her soul, that nothing would be right unless she was with this man.

  Lilah had fallen deeply in love with him. Her hero. She had no future without him.

  Sighing, she remembered that moment. Seeing the kindness in his ice blue eyes, she’d burst into tears. He’d produced a blue bandana from his back pocket and handed it to her.

  Morrison, the Pinkerton agent, escorted her home to Chicago by train the next day. Her father had hired him when he realized Lilah had disappeared. After searching her room, he found the advertisement calling for singers in a Northern Wisconsin theater.

  Thank the Lord she’d left the advertisement. It directed the detective to this town. Fred, she learned later, had already noticed her sudden absence. If only she’d mentioned the reason she’d come north when they sat together in the small café. He’d smiled and, as she remembered it, flirted with her. Nothing in their conversation became as personal as her reason for being there.

  The quiet that comforted her when she jerked awake seemed to press heavily against her. It was all wrong. She followed The Lovelorn’s advice. Why was she still alone every night, an unmarried, frightened woman?

  No matter that darkness told her it was too early to get up, Lilah reached for her house shoes and her heavy blue velvet wrapper. As she donned it, Lilah thought idly that it was much too nice to wear as she baked. She’d go to the mercantile that day to see if they had a plain one, maybe wool.

  Since she started the day this early, she could make a Danish ring. She’d need to let it rise and then fold it during the next few hours. That work would absorb her mind. That and the pie she’d planned to make. Well, she’d change that, too. Instead, she would make peach hand pies.

  Maybe Carl Sittig would be able to sell the extras for her. If not, she’d try the café.

  Not that she needed the money. With the large legacy from her grandmother, she had funds aplenty. She hated seeing the food go to waste so she would sell it for that reason. At least, she would offer those places what Fred couldn’t eat.

  Fatigue must have made her forget. She had agreed to visit Myra Sittig that day. With four children and a husband, certainly the woman would welcome a gift of pies and the remainder of the Danish ring.

  As her hands worked the dough, she remembered Helga teaching her to make this recipe. One of the beneficial things her father had done for her was to let her spend all the time she wanted with the Norwegian woman. Even though Helga worked as a cook in the house next to theirs, her father and stepmother ignored the friendship.

  She and the cook met over the short rock wall that separated the back lawns. Lilah had been young enough that she was still playing with her hoop, trying to get it to roll over the uneven, grassy yard. The woman stepped out to cut herbs from her small kitchen garden and noticed the young girl, almost a young woman really.

  Noticing that she had an adult’s attention, Lilah threw down the hoop and stick to run to the wall. She waved her arm and happily cried, “Hello! I’m Lilah.”

  A relationship was born with that action. The cook needed her so she could learn English. She really hadn’t been that much older than Lilah—only ten years or so—and was lonely in this new country. She enjoyed having someone to pass the time with. Lilah craved adult attention and a friend in whom she could confide. They both benefitted.

  Until Helga left to be a mail-order bride in Minnesota.

  Long days passed after that. Lilah had grasped the possibility of life as a singer as a lifeline, rescuing her from the doldrums. She’d sent Helga a letter, describing the possibility and asking for advice. When, a month later, no response came, Lilah bought a train ticket and left home.

  A knock pulled her from her reverie. When she didn’t immediately go to the back door, it came again hard and insistent. With the kind of purpose only trauma could create in a woman, she grabbed the large butcher knife from the block near her on the counter. Holding it in her right hand, ready to strike, she eased the door open an inch or two with her left and whispered a prayer for strength.

  “Morning, Miss Levitt. Everything okay with you?”

  Fear raced through her. Facing her was the new deputy, Erik Hansen. Burly and tall, she could see why Fred hired the man. Some
thing about Hansen put her off. Lilah hadn’t known exactly what it was until this morning. Seeing him so soon after her nightmare, she saw it.

  The man closely resembled the horrible lumberjack from her dream, her would-be rapist. She couldn’t hold that coincidence against the man, her rational side urged. The primitive, protective part of her brain refused to let her dismiss the similarity so she refused to open the door wider. There was no way she would let this man into her home, not when she was alone.

  When she stared overly long, the deputy cleared his throat. “I saw your light. It bein’ early, I got to wondering if you needed a doctor or such.”

  Lilah’s grip on the knife tightened. The reflexive movement didn’t make sense. No matter, she felt danger radiating from the man.

  He put a hand on the door. When he’d pushed it open a few more inches, the deputy glimpsed the knife and froze. “You don’t need that with me.”

  Hansen’s voice seemed warm. Underneath any niceties, Lilah sensed a hardness that chilled her. Refusing to ever play the fool or victim again, she held tight to the knife.

  “Leave me alone. If you’re that concerned about me, go get the sheriff.”

  “You’d like that, the way you chase after him.”

  He stopped and grinned, a nasty expression that caused the color to race from her face. “Like a dog in heat. You know what that makes you then, don’t you?”

  Her screech of outrage startled the man. Or, maybe, his surprised expression came from the sudden movement of the knife, now held dangerously close to his midsection.

  “I’ll say it again,” Lilah forced her voice to stay low and cold. “Leave me alone. Now, out!”

  Rage reddened the man’s face. Just like moments before, Lilah saw another man’s face in her mind and thought how very alike he and this deputy were. She forced herself to remember the man’s rage when she cursed him. The glint in his ice-blue eyes had been the same as what she now saw in the glare she faced on the other side of her knife.

  Mumbling something like, “Time’s not right,” the man backed up three steps. Once he was on the other side of the door jamb, Lilah slammed the door and threw the bolt into place.

  Trembling, she returned to the table. Struggling to capture a feeling of normalcy, she folded the dough for the Danish ring. It went through multiple folds to produce the flaky layers. At that moment, she mentally cautioned gentleness. It wouldn’t do to take her fear and anger out on the delicate pastry.

  Fred needed to know what kind of man he’d hired. She hadn’t imagined the threat from him. Or what he’d all but called her.

  Finally, Lilah’s rational mind took hold again. It argued that telling him was impossible. Remember the advice column, it prompted.

  The Lovelorn had advised not taking her burdens to the man she loved, that is if she wanted to win him. No, Lilah could not tell Fred about the scene in the kitchen.

  A favorite verse came to mind and she said it out loud. “Cast all your cares upon Him.”

  She’d tell the Lord and let Him sort through the problem.

  The posters appeared that morning. On his way to the jail, Fred noticed five of them nailed to posts and even into the wood walls of a few stores.

  When he approached the jailhouse, he spotted Murphy with a hammer. The man had finished nailing a campaign poster to the outside of the sheriff’s office and now stood grinning at it.

  At Fred’s growl of “What ya up to, Murph?” the man jumped and hid the hammer behind his back. He looked guiltily from the poster to the blonde giant in front of him.

  “Not doing a thing that ain’t wrong, Sittig.” Then he pulled the hammer from behind his back. Something caused him to puff up his chest. A glint of challenge entered his eye. “Just putting up an announcement on a publicly owned building.”

  Slowly taking one long step forward and then another, Fred stood in front of the short man. He stared down at him, willing him to feel the power of Fred’s position. “True, the town owns the building. But they trusted me to make decisions about it.”

  In one coordinated movement, Fred reached a long arm beyond Murphy and pulled the poster from its nail. He hadn’t stopped to read the others. Holding this one now, he looked down at it.

  When his head lifted, he arched a brow at the small man. “You working for the banker.”

  Murphy nodded. Fred studied him for a moment before asking, “Really think he’d make a good sheriff?”

  This time, the little man hunched his shoulders before shrugging. “I don’t much care. He’s payin’ me. That’s all.”

  With his sheriff look fixed on his face, Fred coldly told the man, “Don’t go nailing those to anymore buildings without the owners’ say so. You hear me?”

  The other man bobbed his head. “I hear ya.” With those words, he edged his way around Fred. He more raced than ambled toward the bank.

  Probably headed to report to his boss. Fred shook his head at that thought. Lately, Murph had been nothing more than a drunk, always in a jail cell when it was Fred’s turn to oversee any prisoners for the night. Why would Strong, the banker who wanted to be sheriff, hire a man like Murphy?

  A strong thought stiffened his shoulders. Murphy only got himself arrested on the nights when Fred would be present in the jail. Was that a coincidence or did it connect to his job for the banker?

  Mulling over that question, he stepped into the office. His newest deputy, Hansen, sat behind the sheriff’s desk with his dirty boots propped on it. This wasn’t the first sign of rudeness by the man. It just added to Fred’s regret at hiring him.

  “Get those boots off my desk!”

  Hansen gave out a harrumph and slowly pulled first one foot and then the other down from their perch. Like a child, he moved haltingly with a belligerent expression on his face. When the deputy finally stood, Fred made his way across the room and stopped only inches from his face.

  “Got a problem with me, Hansen?”

  “Nah,” the other man slowly drawled, not backing down from his boss. “Your tone rubbed me the wrong way is all.”

  “Firing’s as easy as hiring, man. Maybe you’ll make it easy on me and just quit.”

  Fred spied a vein pulsing in Hansen’s temple and noticed that the man’s hands were fisted. Even so, the deputy met his gaze and grinned, a dimple appearing by his mouth. “Why would I quit a great job like this? Nothin’ much happens in this town. I just gotta walk around nights and check the locks on a few businesses.”

  He broke off to shake his head. “Nope. I’d be a fool to quit. And, anyhow,” Here his upper lip curled. “I just need to wait it out for a change in bosses, seems to me.”

  Fred grunted. “Don’t hold your breath. I can’t see the old banker being voted in. Not with the crimes we’ve had in the last year.”

  Hansen only shrugged and smiled. The sheriff studied him before gesturing toward the door. “Go on. Your shift’s over.”

  The belligerent deputy swaggered out of the office, whistling a tune Fred didn’t recognize. Sending up a silent prayer, Fred pleaded with the Lord to move a decent man into town. A man to replace Hansen as his second deputy.

  His mind was seeing conspiracy in everyone today. Did what Hansen said about waiting for a change of sheriffs mean he was also working for Strong and couldn’t be trusted?

  He rubbed weary hands down his face as he groaned. A conspiracy, an election, and a female stalker! It was more than one man should have to deal with on any given day.

  Fred did a quick check to see if any prisoners had arrived in the night. Assured that the jail was empty, he left it. He’d see what Mayor Amos Ledbetter had to say about this sudden election—an election no one had bothered to tell Fred about, curiously. Being a lawyer, Amos would have some slippery explanation, and Fred couldn’t wait to hear it.

  The lawyer’s storefront office sat near to the mercantile and kitty corner to the sheriff’s office. Fred stomped through the slushy street and arrived at its door quickly. He stopped w
ith his hand on the door knob. Breathing in deeply, he calmed his anger.

  No, that was too harsh a word. His annoyance. Fred tucked his annoyance deep inside and entered the small one-story building.

  The clerk, Phineas Peters, rose to welcome the sheriff. At the other man’s cold expression, he blanched. Fred had noticed this reaction before. Innocent people who seemed to look guilty in the presence of the law.

  “Calm down, Peters. I’m not here to arrest you. I just want a word with your boss.”

  After an audible gulp, the law clerk held up his hand with the palm facing Fred. “You can’t go in there. He’s speaking with the banker.”

  Fred grinned and watched Peters grow even paler, something Fred didn’t think was possible. His happy chuckle made Phineas cringe.

  Why, it was like the man could read Fred’s mind. Phineas let his hand drop. He let his body drop, too, back into his chair.

  With a resigned shake of his head, he wearily gave into Fred’s will. “I suppose you’ll do what you want.”

  “That’s ‘bout the size of it, Peters.” Fred clucked his tongue at the man’s grimace. “I’ll be sure to tell your boss that you tried to stop me. Yell something like, ‘You can’t go in there,’ when I open the door.”

  Like he was a marionette and Fred pulled his strings, the clerk rose boneless and headed to the door. When Fred opened it, Peters yelled, “I told you he was busy. Now, leave.”

  Before speaking to the older men in this inner office, he stopped to give Peters a look. He didn’t know the man had that much gumption in him, even if it was playacting. Maybe here was a possible deputy.

  A sputtered complaint from Ledbetter pulled Fred’s attention from his maybe future deputy to the two conspirators. Fred stepped into the room, closing the door on the clerk who already turned to head back to his desk.

  “Well, this is convenient. I planned to see Strong next. Makes me happy to find you here, banker.” Pleasant enough words, but the sheriff’s grim set to his mouth showed them for the lies that they were.