A Time to Love

by Al Lacy

  “Good! What did he say?”

  “Perkins says the information I gave him has him convinced that Warner stole the twelve thousand dollars from the safe-deposit box and planted it at Blake Barrett’s house to frame him. Perkins says Warner was in the position to do so and has benefited exactly as Barrett’s father had stated in the will should Blake become unable to properly run the bank. A man sure can’t run a bank from behind prison walls. Those are Perkins’s words.”

  “I’m glad he sees it like you and I do. So what now?”

  “Well, Sheriff Perkins pointed out in his wire that since Warner purchased the Great Plains Bank under false pretenses, using Blake Barrett’s name, he committed a felony. Even if he wasn’t guilty of the theft and the frame, he would face a long prison term.”

  “That’s where he belongs … behind bars.”

  Coffield nodded, his face grim. “And for what he did to you—marrying you under false pretenses—he deserves more than a long prison term. He oughtta be horsewhipped, and I’d love to be the guy to do it.”

  “And I’d like to help you,” Linda said, letting a slight grin curve her lips. “But I guess that would be against the law, wouldn’t it, Sheriff?”

  “I s’pose so, ’cause I’d cripple him while I was at it. I guess we’ll just have to let it be the prison term. Anyway, Sheriff Perkins told me to arrest Warner on suspicion of grand theft and impersonating another man, to purchase the bank under false pretenses. Perkins is having a deputy U.S. Marshal sent here from Denver to extradite Warner back to Sacramento. His actions are enough to reopen the grand theft case involving Blake Barrett.”

  Linda nodded, feeling a measure of satisfaction.

  The sheriff rose from his chair and said, “I’ll take a couple of my deputies with me and arrest Warner right now. I heard my men come in a moment ago.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s two-thirty. The bank closes at three. I’d rather arrest him with no customers in the bank, but this thing can’t wait. You’re welcome to stay here till we have him in a cell. Then it’ll be safe to go home.”

  Linda stood up, her graceful jaw set in a stern line. “If it’s all right with you, Sheriff, I’d like to go with you and maybe have a little part in the arrest.”

  Coffield raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain it on the way to the bank.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Well, okay.”

  Coffield waited for Linda to pass through the door ahead of him, then walked toward Deputy McGivens, who was talking to two other men wearing badges. “Deputies Ted Larkin and Jay Bounds, I’d like for you to meet Mrs. Barrett. Well, actually Mrs.—Oh, that’s good enough for now. Mrs. Barrett.”

  All three deputies looked at their boss skeptically.

  “Let me explain it,” he said with a sigh. “You have to know anyway.”

  At the Great Plains Bank, Haman Warner was seated at his desk behind a railing much like the one at the Pacific Bank and Trust in Sacramento. A beefy man in a business suit sat before him.

  While Haman looked at the financial statement that lay before him, he said, “I’ll have to meet with my officers, Mr. Trumbull, but I can tell you right now, this statement looks plenty good to warrant a thirty-thousand-dollar loan. We like to help new merchants establish themselves in Cheyenne City.”

  Trumbull smiled. “Good, Mr. Barrett. How soon will you have an answer for me?”

  Haman’s attention was drawn to the front door of the bank as Linda came in. Apparently Sheriff Bob Coffield had preceded her, for he was holding the door open for her to enter.

  Haman returned his gaze to Trumbull, trying to recall what he had just said, then glanced at Linda again, who was walking his direction beside Coffield.

  Haman always felt a little jumpy when he saw an officer of the law, but he assured himself there was nothing wrong. After all, the sheriff and his wife were customers of the bank. As Linda drew nearer, Haman expected to see Coffield veer off toward the tellers’ cages, but he didn’t.

  “… have an answer for me?” said Albert Trumbull.

  Haman blinked and set his gaze on the beefy man. “What was that, sir?”

  Trumbull chuckled hollowly. “Well, for the third time, how soon will you have an answer for me about the loan?”

  Linda and Sheriff Coffield stopped at the small gate in the railing, waiting for him to finish his business.

  Haman shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Trumbull,” he said. “My beautiful wife just came in, and she always takes my breath away.”

  Trumbull twisted his portly frame around, glanced at the lady who stood beside the sheriff, and turned back, smiling. “This lady right here, Mr. Barrett?”

  “Uh … yes.”

  “She is indeed very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” said Haman, feeling a little tense. Neither Linda nor Coffield was smiling.

  Trumbull hoisted his huge body out of the chair and extended his hand. Haman stood up and gripped it.

  “You haven’t told me yet when I’ll have an answer about the loan, Mr. Barrett,” said Trumbull.

  “Well, let’s see … how about tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. We have our loan meetings before opening time every morning.”

  “Fine,” Trumbull said, letting go of Haman’s hand. “I’ll be in at ten in the morning.”

  Sheriff Coffield opened the gate for the big man and gave him a tight smile. Trumbull thanked him, nodded to Linda, and headed toward the front door.

  “Hello, darling,” Haman said. Then he nodded to Coffield. “Good afternoon, Sheriff.” He didn’t like the strange look in Linda’s eyes, nor the grim lines on Coffield’s face.

  Haman’s pulse quickened as he noticed Deputies Ted Larkin and Jay Bounds standing just inside the front door. When they saw him glance their way, they started moving toward him.

  As two secretaries and Haman’s vice president—who sat at the desk next to Haman’s—looked on, Linda squared herself across the desk from her husband and firmly set her jaw. Haman let his eyes flick to Coffield, then the approaching deputies, then back at Linda.

  The scorn in her eyes was something he had never seen there. His palms went moist and a cold ball settled in his stomach as she said, “The ruse is over, Haman.”

  17

  HAMAN WARNER FELT LIKE HE’D BEEN HIT by a thunderbolt, and all strength drained from his body.

  How did she find out?

  The moment seemed to go on forever, as if time had stopped.

  Finally the spell was broken when Linda brought the large brown envelope into view, opened it, and placed the stack of clippings on the desk before him. On top was the page from the Sacramento Gazette with the headlines:

  BANKER BLAKE BARRETT CONVICTED OF GRAND THEFT

  Two faces stared at him from the page—his own and that of the real Blake Barrett.

  Suddenly Haman’s blood went hot. Through clenched teeth he said, “How dare you break into my trunk and paw through my private property!”

  Linda’s voice was crisp and emotionless as she said, “You’ll be exchanging places with Blake at the Ukiah State Prison, Haman Warner.”

  For a brief moment it looked like Haman might try to make a break for it as he stiffened and shoved back his chair. Deputies Larkin and Bounds had come through the gate and were flanking the sheriff. When their guns came out of their holsters in the blink of an eye and the deadly black muzzles lined on him, Haman eased back in the chair, licking his lips.

  Sheriff Coffield took a step closer and said, “Haman Warner, you are under arrest for suspicion of grand theft in Sacramento, California, and for purchasing this bank under false pretenses, using the name of Blake Barrett. You’re going to be extradited to Sacramento by a deputy U.S. Marshal, and there will be a new investigation of the twelve-thousand-dollar theft from a safe-deposit box.”

  The cold ball in Haman’s stomach grew even colder.

  “Cuff him,” the sheriff said to Ted Larkin.


  Haman’s employees and customers were aghast as Deputy Larkin holstered his gun and took a pair of handcuffs from his belt. He jerked Haman to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Haman’s legs felt weak as Larkin gripped his arm and said, “Okay, Warner, let’s go.”

  Linda picked up the clippings and stuffed them back into the envelope. Her scornful gaze met Haman’s for an instant. He started to say something, but Larkin yanked him away and ushered him unceremoniously through the gate. Deputy Jay Bounds returned his gun to its holster and hurried ahead of them to open the door.

  When the deputies and their prisoner were gone, Sheriff Coffield looked around at the bank employees and customers and said, “As you folks no doubt picked up, the man you thought was Blake Barrett is actually Haman Warner, who apparently framed the real Blake Barrett of Sacramento, California, for a crime he committed.”

  Their shock was complete, and no one said a word.

  Coffield turned to the banks vice president and said, “Mr. Stillman, take over here until further notice from me. Business will go on as usual. Understand?”

  Stillman nodded. “Yes, Sheriff. I’ll handle it.”

  The sheriff then turned to Linda, who was suddenly feeling empty and shaken. “Would you like me to escort you home, ma’am?” he asked.

  She drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Sheriff, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  “You look a little peaked. Are you sure?”

  “I … I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

  Under the wide-eyed gaze of the bank employees and customers, the sheriff and the auburn-haired woman crossed the lobby and moved outside.

  When they were on the street, Coffield said, “As things develop, I’ll be in touch with you, ma’am.”

  Linda nodded and turned toward home. Coffield headed the opposite direction to his office.

  As Linda walked slowly along the street, she found all anger drained from her. In its place was a strange sense of peace, even though she felt a hollowness in her heart. “Thank You, Lord,” she whispered. “At least this part is over.”

  Her legs were shaky as she climbed the steps of her porch and entered the front door. She removed her coat, draping it on a chair in the vestibule, moved past the parlor, and headed for the kitchen where she could hear Sadie humming a tune.

  Sadie looked up from the bread she was kneading as Linda entered the kitchen. She threw up her flour-covered hands and rushed to the young woman’s side.

  “Oh, honey!” she exclaimed. “You look like you’ve been through the Civil War! What’s going on? Will you tell me now?”

  Linda nodded. “Yes. I want to sit down though.”

  Sadie quickly wiped off her hands and pulled out a chair for Linda, who sat down and laid the brown envelope on the tabletop. Now that she was safely home and with her dear friend, she let go, bursting into sobs.

  The portly woman folded Linda in her arms, pressing her head against her ample bosom. “Go ahead, honey,” she said. “Cry it out. Then we’ll talk about it.”

  Linda wept for several minutes, just letting out her pent-up emotions. When she grew quiet, Sadie sat down across the table from her and said, “Honey, you’ve become like my own daughter. I love you, and I want to help you any way I can.”

  The touch of Sadie’s hand, the soothing words, and the sweet concern in her voice stemmed the flow of Linda’s tears. She took a shuddering breath and reached into her dress pocket for a hanky, then looked into her friend’s kind, troubled eyes and said, “I love you, Sadie Brown.”

  Sadie’s face brightened. “Want to tell me about it now?”

  Linda nodded and opened the envelope. “I found these newspaper clippings in my husband’s trunk up in the attic. They tell their own story.”

  Sadie read the newspaper articles and looked at the photographs of Haman Warner and the real Blake Barrett. It was her turn to feel numb all over, and she finally said, “So your important errand was to take these clippings to Sheriff Coffield, I presume.”

  “Yes. He wired Sheriff Claude Perkins in Sacramento, and Perkins wired back for Sheriff Coffield to arrest Bla—I mean, Haman, immediately. You should have seen Haman’s face when we walked into the bank. He looked like he was going to faint when I moved up to his desk, called him Haman, and laid these clippings in front of him. The bank employees and the customers were in total shock to see the man they thought was Blake Barrett arrested and put in handcuffs.”

  “Must’ve been a sight to see,” commented Sadie.

  “Yes. Haman is in jail now and will be extradited to Sacramento to face charges of grand theft. He will also be charged with purchasing the bank here illegally.”

  Linda put her hands to her face and sighed. Relief flooded her entire being as the dreadful secret was shared with someone who cared.

  Sadie left her chair and patted Linda’s shoulder. “I’ll make some tea, honey.”

  While Sadie put the teakettle on and took cups and saucers from the cupboard, she revealed to Linda her own thoughts about the impostor and told her some of the cruel things he had done and said to her before Linda arrived from Boston. She had refrained from saying anything before now because Haman Warner was paying her a salary, and she felt she could not speak against him to anyone.

  Linda expressed her sorrow that Sadie had been subjected to Haman’s cruelty.

  Sadie passed it off and said, “So now what?”

  “In the morning I’ll go see Pastor and Carla and tell them all about it. They need to hear it from me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I must stay here until I know the real Blake Barrett is out of prison. Once I know he’s free, I’ll return to Boston. But don’t you worry. I’ll see that you’re taken care of financially until you can find other employment.”

  The teakettle began to whistle, and Sadie poured tea into a pot to let it steep for a bit before pouring cups for both of them. They sat quietly for some time, sipping the hot, soothing liquid, each lost in her own thoughts.

  That evening, Linda and Sadie were sitting in front of the fireplace in the parlor when there was a knock at the front door. Linda started to get up, but Sadie beat her to it. “You just stay there and rest, honey. You’ve been through a lot today. I’ll see who it is.”

  Moments later, Sadie returned and said, “Pastor and Carla are here to see you. They learned of the incident at the bank from the town’s grapevine.”

  Linda rose from her chair. “Of course. Bring them in.”

  When the Fryes entered the room, Carla rushed to Linda and embraced her, saying, “I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”

  “Me, too,” said the preacher, standing close by.

  Linda nodded. “I was planning to come and see you in the morning. Right now I still feel numb. But since you’re here,” she said softly, “if you’d like to sit down, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  The Fryes listened intently as Linda told them of how she was jilted by Lewis Carter, who ran off with her sister on the very day of her wedding. She then told of her mail contact with Blake Barrett, and the subsequent trip to Cheyenne City to possibly become Blake’s bride. She filled them in on the newspaper clippings and Haman’s arrest.

  “The rest of the story you already know,” said Linda.

  Carla moved to her and put her arms around her. “You poor dear. You’ve been through more heartache and mental anguish than the average person suffers in a lifetime. I’m so glad you haven’t let it embitter you toward life, and even more, toward the Lord.”

  When Carla had returned to sit beside her husband, Linda said, “I won’t say that I understand why the Lord allowed all of this to fall on me, but I can’t be bitter toward Him. The Lord Jesus went to the cross for me and saved me. He’s never failed me, and I know He never will.”

  “You’ve stayed close to the Lord through all of this, Linda, and kept your faith in Him,” the pastor said. “He’s going to reward you for it. Well, we need to be go
ing, but first we’d like to pray with you, Linda.”

  “Of course,” she said, giving him a weary smile.

  After the prayer, the Fryes offered to help Linda in any way they could. She thanked them, saying she would let them know if there was anything they could do.

  That night, Linda chose to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms. She couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in the bed she’d shared with Haman.

  Sleep escaped her, and as she lay awake in the darkness, her thoughts turned to Blake Barrett and the sweet relationship that had developed between them through their letters. What a kind and loving Christian gentleman! So vastly different than Haman!

  “Linda,” she whispered, “you have to admit it. Now that you’ve seen the real Blake’s photographs and you know he looks almost exactly like you pictured him, there’s a flame in your heart for him. You never met him in person, and in spite of the scarred heart Lewis left you, you had actually fallen in love with the man whose letters drew you westward.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and her lower lip trembled as she said, “Linda, you’ve been soiled by Haman Warner, and you’re his wife, no matter how much you hate it. What might have been with Blake is gone forever. But somehow, you’ve got to work up the courage to go to that prison and meet him face to face. He deserves to hear the whole story from you.”

  How long will Blake be kept there? she wondered. Certainly he wouldn’t be released until Haman was convicted of the crime for which Blake had gone to prison. That could take weeks, maybe months. She must go as soon as possible!

  While Linda lay awake, making plans to go to California, Haman wrestled with his conscience in a jail cell. The only light came from the partially open door leading to the sheriff’s office where Deputy Ted Larkin was doing some paperwork for the sheriff.

  Haman was the only prisoner in the cell block that night. The silence surrounding him was suffocating. Or was it guilt pressing down on him like a shroud?