“Someone there captured and turned in a man they believe to be Thomas Trent,” the sheriff explained. “The man they have matches your drawing, though naturally he denies that’s who he is… In any event, the sheriff and one of his deputies will be bringing Trent here for you to positively identify, and they’ll take the reward you promised into their holding and deliver it to the man who found him.”
Sally felt a great sense of relief at this news. But her heart still ached, and the bigger, more important issue still hung over her head. She wondered if Herb had read her story yet and, if so, what he’d thought of it. Did I manage to make things right with him? she asked herself repeatedly.
Sally continued to question herself for two more weeks, until the sheriff showed up at her door again. This time, he was there to tell her that the sheriff and deputy from California had arrived in Carson City earlier that morning… with Thomas.
“I need you to come down to the station to identify him,” the sheriff said.
The mere thought of looking face-to-face at Thomas Trent again made Sally’s skin crawl. But she knew it was something she had to do, and that it was something only she could do at this point. So she shrugged off whatever disgust or fear she was feeling and nodded at the sheriff. “All right,” she said. “Just let me get my bag.”
“I should warn you,” the sheriff added, taking off his hat and holding it over his chest, “there’s already a bit of commotion down at the station, and I expect that there’ll be even more when we get back there. You started a manhunt for Thomas Trent across this great country and offered a large sum for his capture. Somehow, word got out that a man believed to be him was being brought here from California, and at least a dozen people have come here to see the spectacle, including several reporters. So be advised that there’s likely to be a crowd there, and that they might come at you with questions—maybe even cameras.”
“I understand,” Sally sighed. “Let them come at me. I want the story of what Thomas Trent did to me in the news and on the tips of everyone’s tongue for as long as possible, until it can help me get back what he has taken from me.”
“Alrighty, miss,” the sheriff nodded. He assumed she was talking about her writings. But of course, she wasn’t.
TEN
“Step aside, everyone!” the sheriff shouted.
Sure enough, there were about two dozen people crowded around the sheriff’s station in Carson City, and they were blocking their path of entry.
“Step aside!” the sheriff repeated.
The crowd parted a bit. But then, just as the sheriff had predicted, there was a great flash. It blurred Sally’s eyes so much that she barely saw the face of the man who stepped out and asked if it was true that Thomas Trent had been captured.
Sally ignored his question, as well as the few that followed from other reporters, and she bowed her head and cupped her hands at her forehead, to keep her face hidden for any other cameras and protect her eyes from any other flashes.
Once the sheriff and Sally got inside the station, they found that there were people assembled inside as well. None of them had cameras, but they all came at Sally with questions.
“Quick, take her to my office,” the sheriff told one of his deputies. “Shut the door, and don’t let anyone but me in.”
The deputy did as he’d been told, and the sheriff went on to take control of the situation. He clapped his hands together loudly, calling everyone in the room to his attention.
“All of you, get out of here now!” he said in a firm, yet controlled voice. “You have no legitimate purpose here, and you are causing chaos, which is making our job more difficult. So unless you want to find yourself locked in one of my cells on charges of interfering with a lawman’s pursuit of justice, I repeat myself, you best get out of here… now!”
The sheriff brought his hands together for one more thunderous clap, and with nothing more the crowd filed out of the station, mumbling critical things, and a few profanities, underneath their breath.
Once the station was clear of all but the men who had a reason to be there, the sheriff ordered two of his men to stand guard by the door, then went off to get Sally from his office. Meanwhile, there was a bit of commotion at the station door. Someone was trying to get in, and one of the deputies cracked the door open, to try and talk him out of the very stupid thing he was doing.
The sheriff and his deputy escorted Sally from his office to the cell where the man, believed to be Thomas Trent, was being held, which required them to walk through the front part of the station again. When they walked through, the sheriff saw his deputy talking to someone through the door, and he was unnerved by it.
“What’s that you’re doing there, Jones?” the sheriff called out to his man. “Whom are you talking to? I said no one is to be let in here… So shut that door!”
The deputy—Jones—turned around. “But, sir,” he hawed, “the man on the other side of this door demands to be let in. He said… he said he’s family. He said he’s this woman’s husband.”
Sally felt weak in the knees, as if she was about to collapse. Could it be? she asked herself. But she didn’t take any time to ponder the answer.
“Let him in,” she said firmly. The sheriff looked at her. “But I don’t think that’s a good—”
“Let him in,” Sally repeated. The sheriff nodded to Jones, and Jones opened the door just wide enough to allow one man to squeeze through.
“Looks like I got here just in time,” Herb said, locking eyes with Sally.
“Yes,” Sally chuckled. “I’d say that.” She started crying, but they were tears of joy.
“Come along now,” the sheriff interjected. There was no way he could understand the true meaning of this reunion, and no way that either Sally or Herb were going to take the time to explain it to him. “Come along,” the sheriff added, turning to Herb. “You can join your wife for the identification if you’d like. But you can only go as a support. Don’t say or do anything to influence what she says about the man we have in custody.”
“Of course,” Herb smiled. His eyes were still locked with Sally’s. She had scores of questions she wanted to ask him, and so many things she wanted to tell him. But in that moment, she wasn’t concerned with them, for she knew that, in time, they would all be addressed and answered. He had come back, that was all that mattered for the time being.
Herb joined Sally for the identification. No sooner than the door to the holding cell opened, she positively identified the man in there as Thomas Trent—and if there was any shadow of a doubt as to whether it was really him, the sneer he gave her confirmed it beyond any suspicion.
The sheriff had Sally sign a few papers and make a statement for his report. Then he saw to it that she and her husband were let out the back door of the station. There were two reporters waiting out there, but one deputy managed to hold them off as another took the couple to a waiting carriage.
Once the carriage was on its way, Herb reached out and put his hand on top of Sally’s. “I’m sorry I misinterpreted your association with Thomas Trent,” he said softly. “I just wish you’d told me about what he’d done to you earlier.”
“I wish I had too,” Sally admitted. “But I was too embarrassed, and I wanted to pretend that it never happened.”
“I can understand that,” Herb said, squeezing Sally’s hand ever so gently. “But there’s no need to pretend or be embarrassed about anything anymore. I love you, and I’ll see you through whatever else life brings us, be it sunshine or rain, light or darkness. When we smile, may we smile together, and when we cry, may we have each other’s shoulders for comfort.”
“Oh my,” Sally giggled. “Those sound a bit like wedding vows.”
“Hmmm,” Herb smiled, tightening his grip on Sally’s hand.
Sally and Herb Evans were already married. So all things considered, they couldn’t very well get married again. But some three months later, after a period of courtship, they decided it was time for th
em to properly, fully recognize each other as husband and wife. In lieu of a wedding, they threw a large party at Mr. Henry’s entertainment hall in Carson City.
To the couple, and to Mrs. Sugar, the celebration marked the start of their life together. But to the public, who’d been unaware of the sham they’d previously been pulling, it was considered an Arts Festival. The Evanses paid for food and drink for whomsoever of the townspeople chose to join them, and they held the hall open to anyone who wanted to perform or display their various art skills.
The hall came to be filled with various paintings, drawings, crafts, and other pieces of art, as well as with the sounds of music, singing, storytelling, and poetry. It was a jolly, illuminating experience for all involved, and in the months that followed, it was decided that the Arts Festival would become an annual event at the entertainment hall. Only instead of having the Evanses continue to pay for the food and drink, as they’d done this time, the food and drink would be provided by contribution of the townsfolk.
It tickled both Sally and Herb that all of Carson City would henceforth celebrate their “secret anniversary,” and it pleased them that they’d helped so many different artists come out of the woodwork to share their art with the public.
As for Thomas Trent, in the months that followed his capture, he was charged with more than a dozen different crimes and was later sentenced to spend more years in jail than his lifetime would ever afford him. For a short while after they started living their life together as husband and wife, Sally and Herb occasionally prayed for God to forgive Thomas for what he had done. But in time, they thought less and less of the man and more about the storybook life they were now living.
Sally and Herb were very much in love, and they were very successful as business partners. And shortly after the next Arts Festival, they became very proud parents to their first child, a boy they named Edgar, after Sally’s father.
THE END
20. THE Decieved Bride
Copyright © Hope Sinclair 2018
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For queries, comments or feedback please use the following contact details:
hopesinclair.cleanandwholesomeromance.com
[email protected]
Facebook: @HopeSinclairAuthor
Mailing List: Sign Up
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ONE
The fire in the oven burned hot, warming the small cellar kitchen below the bakery and casting a flickering orange glow over the stone walls. Haley Douglas felt the heat in her cheeks, spreading in the form of a scarlet flush and a delicate sweat that wasn’t entirely ladylike, and she was quite relieved that there was no one around besides her Aunt Margie to see her in such a compromised state.
She was stood over a wooden table beside the oven, expertly kneading a stiff ball of dough and using her palms to form the shape of a long loaf. When she was happy with the shape of the loaf, she lifted the dough from the flour-sprinkled tabletop and transferred it gently onto the wooden peel. Then she carefully hoisted the peel into the mouth of the brick oven and pushed the loaf inside to bake.
This last step was the most difficult, and often Haley found herself tempted to grunt at the effort of lifting the heavy peel. She never did, though; to do so would be most unladylike, and regardless of the midnight hour and the limited company that would bear witness in the kitchen, she wasn’t the sort to break decorum.
“That’ll be the last batch ‘til morning,” Aunt Margie barked gruffly, surveying the bread in the oven. Haley knew those words were the closest her aunt would get to an expression of gratitude or appreciation, and she had long gotten accustomed to that.
Breadmaking was an artform that she had perfected many years earlier, after her parents had died tragically in the same fire that had claimed their peach farm in Delaware. Her Aunt Margie had, rather reluctantly, agreed to take the orphaned Haley in, on the condition that she would earn her keep by working in her aunt’s bakery.
She had been a mere child at the time, and it had all seemed so breathtakingly impressive: the cobblestone streets of Georgetown, Maryland, her Aunt Margie’s bakery, the giant brick oven...
It hadn’t taken her long at all to learn the business. Aunt Margie had a good many traits, but warmth and gentleness were not among them. Beyond the initial courtesy of providing her niece with room and board, Aunt Margie showed the girl little kindness or compassion. Instead, she was critical and harsh.
Haley learned her way around the kitchen through slaps on her wrist and sharp-tongued insults. Even after earning the privilege of working alone, she often found herself recoiling instinctively when she made a mistake, her body tensing in anticipation of her aunt’s strike.
“You finish up,” Aunt Margie instructed now, adjusting a shawl over her shoulders as she began climbing the stairs leading up to the bakery storefront. “I’ve got matters to attend to upstairs.”
She hobbled up the creaky wooden stairs, leaving Haley alone.
The small kitchen began to fill with the fragrant aroma of baking bread, and in her aunt’s absence, she allowed herself to relax, dropping onto the floor against a burlap sack of flour that provided a minimal amount of comfort while she waited for the bread to bake.
Despite the late hour of night, she wasn’t tired yet; in fact, she wasn’t sure whether she’d find sleep at all that night. There was little point. Hours at the bakery left little time for luxuries like sleep or relaxation, and she had long become accustomed to laboring late into the night and early in the morning. Sometimes she could go days at a time without seeing sunlight, but such was life of a baker’s apprentice.
It wasn’t the day’s work looming ahead that kept her awake and unconcerned with sleep, though; rather, it was the secret excitement that had been tickling in her stomach all evening.
She glanced at the stair to assure that her aunt had disappeared into the bakery overhead, then she carefully extracted a small book that she had wedged beneath the flour satchel and pulled it into her lap: a slightly charred Bible that had once belonged to her mother. The Bible, along with a few other small tokens, were the few mementos she had left of her childhood and her parents; her life, however brief, before the bakery.
For years she had cherished that Bible as a reminder of her past, but recently, the tattered old book with a loose binding had come to represent more than that: now, it was a symbol of hope for the future.
She let the book fall open in her lap, the pages opening easily to the place where she had hidden a small envelope: a letter from her good friend, Claire Jordan.
She had met Claire shortly after arriving in Georgetown, and the young girls had enjoyed many years of friendship. Their bond had been compromised when, a few years ago, Claire had announced that she was moving West to marry a man she had never met before. Haley had been devastated by the loss of her one true friend, but they had stayed in touch, corresponding through frequent letters, like the one Haley now held in her hand.
The letter had arrived earlier that afternoon, and Haley had been so occupied with her day’s work that she hadn’t yet gotten the chance to read it. Now, while the bread cooked in the oven and she found her first moment of rest, she finally had time to open the letter.
Of course the letters weren’t what she kept secret from her Aunt Margie; though Aunt Margie often ridiculed her for wasting her time on literary pursuits, she had no reason to forbid Haley from writing letters to her
friend. No, it wasn’t the letters themselves that she wished to remain private; rather, it was the content of those letters.
Using a kitchen knife she carefully pried the wax seal on the envelope, letting it pop open gently in her hands. Then she slid out the folded sheets of paper inside. When she unfolded the letter, a stack or railroad tickets and a clipping of newsprint fell into her lap, and she felt her heart flutter in her chest.
She knew exactly what the items meant, but she avoided the temptation of picking them up at once. Instead, she took a measured breath and, with great restraint, forced herself to read her friend’s letter first:
Dear Haley,
The end of summer has come early for us in Montana, and has brought with it the same sadness that accompanies dusk at the end of a special day. I can hear the winds of autumn bustling just on other side of the mountains, and soon they’ll blow into Livingston. I know how you love the snow, but my dear friend, you may reconsider once you’ve seen winter in Montana!
The good news, Haley, is that you won’t have to take my word for it. You’ll be joining me soon, and you’ll see the snow pass over the mountains for yourself. Yes, I’m writing to share the good news: I’ve found him at last! I’ve found the man that will bring you to Montana and make you his wife, and that’s enough to keep my spirits high regardless of the change in seasons.
His name is Hunter Oakley and he’s more than any woman dare wish for in a husband. He’s intelligent and charitable and a man of the Lord, and that’s not to mention his work ethic and handsome charms. My only regret, my dear Haley, is that I didn’t know he was seeking a wife earlier: to think, I could have made arrangements sooner to have you travel to Montana!
New Beginnings Spring 20 Book Box Set Page 87
