“How do you know that?”
“I know many things, Ian.”
Ian stopped again. “And how do you know my name.”
“I told you. Charlie told me.”
“But how did you know it was me?”
The man sighed. “Are you always this difficult?”
Ian ignored the question. “So, you know my name. I don’t know yours.”
“You may call me Mr. Pennyworth.”
Ian nodded and strode past Mr. Pennyworth towards the path where he said the farmhouse was located. The rain had ceased, but it was dark as the sun started to set.
“You need to hurry,” Mr. Pennyworth called to him. Ian doubled his pace and soon he saw a post with carvings in it.
He stopped and knelt in front of the post. Someone had taken a knife and carved the hobo script into the post. He traced his fingers along several of the carvings.
“What do they mean?” Mr. Pennyworth leaned over Ian’s shoulder.
“This one here is a cat.” Ian pointed to the small drawing. “It means that there is a kind lady further ahead.” Mr. Pennyworth nodded his agreement. “And this one…” Ian pointed to an X with two circles on either side with a squiggly line above it. “This means that there is safe camping and fresh water.”
“Fascinating.” Mr. Pennyworth moved past the pole. “We need to keep moving.”
“What’s the rush?”
“The creek is rising and flooding the road. We need to get on the other side.”
Ian looked at the running water. It was rather intimidating. He followed Mr. Pennyworth further down the road. Water was collecting on the side of the road and rushing down the hill.
Suddenly the ground on the side of the road gave way and Ian fell into the ditch. It carried him several feet before he felt the impact of his head against a solid object. He felt himself drifting before everything went black.
Chapter 2
Spring 1894, Creede, Colorado
Sarah Abrahams looked at the papers Mr. Mathews handed to her. The words blurred on the page between her tears. One fat tear fell from her eye and onto the paper, smearing the ink. She waited for Mr. Mathews to speak.
“It is all outlined, Miss Abrahams.”
Sarah nodded and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Could it become any more real?
She stiffened her spine and sat straight in her chair. She knew it wasn’t a social call when she received word that Mr. Mathews wanted to see her. She just didn’t realize he wanted to see her so the bank could take her home.
“Is there anything I can do?” Sarah asked. She saw the way he looked at her. He held a pen in his hand, pointing it towards her. One signature and life as she knew it would be over.
Her hand hovered as if accepting her fate. She took the pen from Mr. Mathews and placed both it and the papers down on the table in front of her. “I need some time.”
“There is no more time, Miss Abrahams. Your father was late on the taxes…”
“How much do I owe?”
“Miss Abrahams, I realize…”
“I’ll ask again, Mr. Mathews. How much do I owe?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Sarah wanted to sink to the floor. Only the arms of the Windsor chair held her in place. “Fifty dollars?” she repeated, hoping she misheard him.
“Yes ma’am.” Mr. Mathews leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the table.
If Momma could see this, Sarah thought. She would take a wooden spoon to Mr. Mathews! Momma didn’t allow anyone to put their elbows on the table. Sarah cleared her throat.
“And there is nothing left in my father’s account?”
Mr. Mathews shook his head. “Jacob pulled his money out of the bank long before I arrived.”
“So, I have nothing.”
“You can sell this farm, pay the back taxes and have a nice sum to live for the rest of your days.”
“Because I’m not married.” Mr. Mathews looked away. He was a nice man. He had been very kind to her so far. “How did the tax assessor come up with this figure? Is it just for this year, or is it owed for years prior?”
“Just last year. Taxes are two-percent of the land value, plus crops.”
“Father should have paid it when the crops came through last fall.”
“I can check into that for you, but I doubt that I would have gotten this notice if they had a record of payment.”
“What about this year’s crops?”
“The state isn’t concerned about that. They need payment for last year.” Mr. Mathews took a deep breath. “I know this isn’t easy on you, Miss Abrahams. And I’m not doing this personally, I’m just a representative of the tax collector for Colorado.”
“My parents just died, Mr. Mathews.”
“I’m aware of that, Miss Abrahams. I’m extremely sorry about your loss. And that of your sister, too.”
Sarah bit her lip. “I wouldn’t be able to pay until the harvest this year.” She looked out the window at the rain pelting the glass. Even the sky reflected her somber mood. Snow was still covering parts of the ground even though it was early April. “I can’t afford to keep on any help, so I don’t have any idea how I would even harvest them.” Sarah said. It was true. The wheat was just starting to peek through the cold ground. She returned her gaze to Mr. Mathews. “What happens if I can’t harvest the crop this year?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. But, I can tell you this: if you can’t make payment, then the farm will go to a tax sale and the first person to make payment will own the land.”
“Would I be able to buy the land back?”
“Not if it is sold. There is someone that is already waiting to purchase this property as soon as it is considered defaulted.”
Sarah’s eyes flew up. “Who?” Sadness and desperation were replaced by anger. She knew exactly who, but she wanted to hear the words from the banker’s own lips.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Mr. Mathews looked as though he wanted to help her, but he was caught between his duties for the state and providing unsolicited financial advice to a resident.
Sarah just looked at him. She felt her lips flatten and she bit the inside of her cheek as to not say something she couldn’t take back. Finally, she nodded. “I understand.”
Mr. Mathews looked at his watch. “I need to be back to the bank.” He tapped the papers on the table. “I suggest that you check with your attorney and review your father’s will.”
“My father didn’t leave a will that we know of. If I can’t afford to pay this, what makes you think I can afford to pay a lawyer?”
Mr. Mathews tapped the papers again. “Have him pay specific attention to section nine point four of the terms.”
“W-w-what?”
Mr. Mathews stood and picked up his hat that was on the chair next to him. “Nine point four, Miss Abrahams. I can hold them off for fourteen days.” He gave her a quick nod. “I’ll show myself out.”
Sarah sat the table. How had it come to this?
This farm was all she had. It was the last link to her parents. Jacob Abrahams came to Colorado from Ohio. Even though the farm was on the side of the mountain, it was one of the larger flat pieces in Creede. It was perfect for grazing cattle and growing vegetables. Her father said that was because it was closer to the sun and God could kiss the land.
The land was highly desired by many farmers and ranchers, not only because of the rich soil but it also had a stream running through the far end of the property. But there was one man who had been trying for years to get her father to sell the farm. Arlan Snyder.
The Snyder ranch backed against the Abrahams’ property. There was only a small portion of the stream that cut through the Snyder’s ranch. Then the water curved back into the Abrahams’ property and further down the mountain towards Creede.
Arlan wanted to get his hands on the water rights. Sarah’s father allowed Arlan and his cattle to use the water freely, but then something happened
to change that. Sarah didn’t know what. She only knew her father was adamant about not allowing Arlan’s cattle to graze the lower quadrant and have free access to the land. After that, Arlan did everything he could to get Jacob to sell.
The harassment had gotten so bad, that her father was considering it. Then the unthinkable happened. The wagon carrying her father, mother and younger sister went off the side of the mountain. Everyone perished, including the horse.
She wasn’t allowed to see her parents prior to the burial. They were placed immediately in plain pine caskets and laid to rest underneath the trees that shaded one side of the farm.
Reverend Bing insisted that she should remember them as they were. Alive and vibrant. That her family was no longer in their earthly bodies, but instead they had been transformed and were now residing in Heaven.
Sarah realized she could never sell the farm. She needed to be close to her family that was buried in that back plot. Having it stolen from her, never entered her mind.
That was how she viewed it … stolen. A matter of fifty dollars stood between her and owning it. Sarah huffed and stuffed the papers in the sideboard drawer.
What she told Mr. Mathews was true. Her father hadn’t left a will. Or at least one that that Mr. Rodgers, the lawyer knew about. But Mr. Rodgers did say that if she found one, he would look at it.
“Ma’am?” a voice called from the door.
Sarah spied Dell at the door. The older gentleman had been working for her father for as long as she remembered. He was more of an uncle than an employee. He had lost his wife and spent his days drinking his memories away.
Her father found him shortly after they moved to Creede and brought him home to sober him up. Dell never left. Instead he became Jacob’s business partner and would oversee the seasonal workers that helped on the ranch.
“All the boys are gone except Dusty and Jesse. They asked if they could stay until the end of the month. They didn’t have anywhere to go.”
The rest of the hands were given notice and many of them immediately left. She imagined that most of them were working for Arlan now.
Sarah nodded. “Of course, they can stay.” Her father wouldn’t want her turning anyone away. “They can stay as long as they need to. Or for however long we can keep the farm.”
“Miss?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’m just fussing over something that I can’t do anything about.”
“Alright, miss.” Dell turned to leave. She could hear his boots thud against the wooden floors of the house. Suddenly, she heard them getting closer and he reappeared in the doorway.
“Miss? I know it ain’t none of my business, but your father was my friend. My best friend. Treated me more like a brother, than my own brother.”
“I know, Dell. You are family, no doubt about that.”
“You father didn’t trust banks, no how.”
“What do you mean?”
“His money? He buried it.” Dell scratched his head. “The way I reckon it, that money now belongs to you.”
“Buried it? Where?”
“Well, that’s the funny part,” Dell said, crushing his felt hat between his gnarled hands. “He didn’t say where. I know that he would get enough and then bury it.” Dell looked up at the ceiling like he was trying to recall a memory that was buried deep inside. “Always on a night with no moon.”
“No moon?”
“That’s when he would bury the jars. The darkest night of the month.”
“Thank you for that information, Dell,” Sarah said. “You are a good friend.”
“T’ain’t nothing, miss.” The footsteps sounded down the hall until they disappeared, followed by a door catching on the spring.
Buried. She needed to go back through her father’s items and see if she could find any truth in what Dell said.
She never recalled her father or mother saying anything about burying money, but then again, they were closed lipped when it came to financial matters. Since Mr. Mathews said that her father had closed his account at the bank… well he had to keep his money somewhere.
She would need to go back into his office and see what she could find. In order to do that she would need something for courage. Since she didn’t drink, she made herself a cup of tea and then headed into her father’s office.
The office was just as he left it. It was a large room with windows that overlooked the road and the barns. Her father wanted to see what was going on in both places at once.
There was minimal clutter in the room. Just a few pieces of furniture, a stone fireplace, and a painting on the wall. A large desk sat in the middle of it. Sarah remembered practicing her letters at the desk as her father reconciled the accounts. There was a sideboard with a hutch. Behind those glass doors were books that she and her father would read together.
There was nothing that she enjoyed more than curling up on her father’s lap and putting her head on his shoulder while he read to her about far away worlds and tales of bravery. She wiped her tears on the back of her sleeve.
Putting her cup down she went to the fireplace and arranged the logs just the way her father taught her. Stuffing a few pieces of tinder between the logs, she then struck a match and watched the small twigs curl up. It only took a moment for the fire to chase away the chill in the air.
Sarah looked around the room and decided she should start at the sideboard. Opening the doors to the hutch she ran her finger along the spines of the books, allowing the memories to wash over her.
There was a stack of papers on one of the shelves, so she pulled those out and put them on the desk. The rest were books. Closing the doors, she started looking through the drawers for any clues she might find.
She found a few leather journals that she put aside. She would take those upstairs and read through them this evening. Adding a few more papers to the stack on the desk, she moved her search to the desk itself.
Inside the desk was a ledger and a pencil and a lithograph. Sarah flipped it over. It was a picture of her and Lacey. She remembered the day it was taken – a man had come to town to take photos of Creede. He also offered his services to anyone who would pay five cents for a lithograph. Momma insisted on paying for a picture of her two children riding a rocking horse. It was one of the many props the man had. Sarah would have preferred one with the monkey that traveled with the man, but her mother was insistent that they sit on the wooden horse.
Sarah cracked a smile—the lithograph captured five-year-old Lacey exquisitely. From her curly blonde hair to her twinkling eyes, everything about Lacey radiated happiness. She was especially happy before she died, as Lacey had found love at a mere seventeen years of age. And it was no surprise. Lacey Abrahams was extremely beautiful. There was rumor that her beau was going to propose when she turned eighteen. That would be in just a few weeks.
Sarah looked at the photograph again. Yes, Lacey was beautiful, and sweet and kind, and all those things that Sarah wasn’t.
She tried to pretend that the comments she heard in town didn’t hurt her, but they did. “Poor Jacob. Blessed with two daughters, but only one is attractive enough to tempt a man.” Her momma referred to her as a late bloomer. Now, at twenty-two, she resigned herself to be a spinster.
She slid the picture in her pocket and pulled out the journal. It was a list of figures and symbols. It made absolutely no sense, but what she could determine was that the figures were dollar amounts.
Perhaps there would be something to explain it in the journals. She placed the ledger on top of that pile. There was nothing else in the desk, so she sat down and started going through the papers she pulled from the cabinet.
Her father kept meticulous records. There were receipts for every purchase since they owned the farm. There were bills of sale for every crop harvested and sold. But there was nothing that told her where he hid his money.
Sarah put her head in her hands. She had been through every drawer, every scrap piece of paper and nothing she found mentioned
anything about buried money. Think! Think! Think! she chided herself.
It was no use. Nothing was coming to her. She might as well clear her head. She stared at the painting of children being tossed about in a small boat. That was how she felt. Her eyes traveled across the painting and she spied the artist’s name in the lower corner.
“Mr. Homer, you have probably seen everything in this room. I wonder where my father put his notes?” The painting didn’t respond. Sarah gave a sharp laugh. She better not let anyone know she was talking to a painting or they would have her institutionalized. That would make the tax sale obsolete.
The rain was starting to come down heavier now and the room was turning darker. Sarah lit the oil lamp by the window and looked out at the barn. She could see Dell and Dusty leading in the horses. She looked out the window facing the road to town and she was surprised to see a dark figure walking down the gravel road.
They were too far outside of town for random people to be walking by. The person must be lost. She watched the figure come closer to the house. As it approached the window, Sarah gave a little gasp. It was an elderly woman!
Sarah knew exactly what she needed to do. She needed to offer the woman shelter from the storm.
Chapter 3
There was no reason that someone should be out walking in the rain alone, least of all someone of that age! Her father taught her to help anyone in need. She ran out of the office and into the foyer. Grabbing a shawl off a peg by the door, Sarah draped it over her head to protect herself from the weather. She opened the door and dashed out of the house, down the path towards the road.
Water was starting to collect in the road, causing the dirt to run off to the sides. Sarah lifted her skirt and jumped over several large puddles.
The woman had already passed the gate that went around her mother’s flower garden. Sarah lifted her skirt and made haste after the old woman.
“Miss! Miss!” she yelled. Thunder clapped in the sky causing Sarah to jump, releasing the hold she had on her skirt. Several inches of the fabric fell into the muddy water.
Married by Midnight Page 2