Not a Sparrow Falls (Wyldhaven Book 1)

by Lynnette Bonner

  Footsteps in the adjoining room jolted him, and he pressed his back against the row of lockboxes at one side of the vault. His skin prickled, and he reached inside his jacket and wrapped his palm around the handle of his Colt, holding his breath. But whoever had come into the back room kept on going out the back door.

  Patrick eased out a sigh. They were likely going for the sheriff. That meant he only had a couple more minutes of distraction from Horace.

  With a snap, he shook open one of the gunnysacks and started stuffing cash inside. Thirty seconds and the first bag was half filled. Another thirty put the rest of the cash into the other bag.

  He darted a longing glance at the lockboxes. If only he had a little more time, he could pick a few locks, but getting greedy might cost him his life. Besides, deposit-box locks were a mite trickier than a door’s. It might take him longer than was prudent to get the boxes open. So with a fortifying breath he poked his head out to give the back room a quick glance.

  Empty.

  Good. He hurried to the back door and repeated the scan.

  The back of the building was also empty.

  Here again was a critical moment where the plan might skew off course. The blasted train couldn’t seem to stick to a set schedule. It might be coming through at any minute. Or it might be thirty minutes from now.

  First he had to get rid of Tommy.

  As fast as his age-hampered joints would let him, he scuttled across the road to the laurel where Tommy had been instructed to hide. When he pushed behind it, the boy was sitting on the ground with his arms curled around his head, rocking himself in that peculiar way he had.

  Patrick’s heart clenched. This lad, of all of them, didn’t deserve his double cross. Rolling his eyes at his own sentimentality, he reached into one of the sacks and withdrew two twenty-dollar bills.

  He bent and touched Tommy on one shoulder. “Hey, Tom. You done good. Real good, you hear?”

  Tommy’s face split into a wide grin. “I done good?”

  “You sure did. And because you did so well…” He held up the two bills for the boy to see.

  Tommy’s eyes lit up, and his mouth dropped open.

  “You like those chocolate bars that Magnusson sells in his shop, don’t you, Tommy?”

  A vigorous nod preceded “I sure do!”

  Patrick tugged the boy to his feet and tucked the two bills into his front shirt pocket. “Well, you’ve earned yourself some chocolate. Why don’t you go down to Magnusson’s and buy a couple bars, but then you take the change and go back to the camp, hear?”

  “Take the change and go back to the camp.” Tommy nodded.

  “Good lad.” Patrick glanced through the leaves of the bush. All clear. He pushed Tommy out into the open. “Go on now. I’m gonna meet you all back at the camp too.”

  Tommy took several steps and then turned to face the bush with a huge grin. “I’m gonna buy you some choc’late too, Mr. Waddell.”

  “That’s fine, Tommy. I’ll like that real well. Go on now.” He held his breath. Sometimes the boy got stubborn about cutting off conversation.

  “Go on now.” Tommy nodded and then darted down the alley on the other side of the mercantile.

  Patrick eased out a breath and clambered up the berm of the railroad tracks just behind him. Once on the other side of the tracks, he crouched down and set to running. He needed to hightail his old hide to the top of the hill before the train arrived. The crest was the only place the train would slow enough for him to jump aboard.

  As he ran, he grinned between puffs for air. He wanted to leap and whoop, but only allowed the grin. Blast but the boys were going to be furious when they figured out he wasn’t going to arrive back at camp after all.

  One week later

  Wyldhaven, Washington

  Sheriff Reagan Callahan sat, feet propped on the corner of his desk, paper open in his hands. He whistled low.

  Someone had made off with nearly three hundred thousand dollars from Pacific National Bank in Seattle. And they’d pulled the job off in broad daylight.

  Seattle was less than fifty miles away. He lowered the paper and glanced out the front window of his office. Thankfully, Wyldhaven didn’t have a bank for him to worry about. But they did get payroll for Zeb’s loggers that came through once a month. He’d need to have a word with Ben King about varying up their routines with the cash.

  Speaking of Ben. The postman-cum-accountant for Zeb’s logging crews was coming this way now.

  Reagan dropped his feet to the floor, crossed to the stove, and poured a second cup of coffee. He handed it to Ben when he walked through the door, and Reagan motioned to the seat across from his desk.

  “Thanks.” Ben sank into the offered chair. He set a telegram on the desktop and slid it toward Reagan’s chair.

  Reagan lifted a brow and resumed his seat, pulling the yellow paper closer to him.

  “You know my father is sheriff over in Cedar Falls. He sent this our way just a few minutes ago.”

  Reagan felt his stomach roll into a knot at the words of the message. “So, it was Patrick Waddell who robbed the bank? And then he double-crossed his gang and absconded with the cash all on his own?”

  Ben nodded grimly. “Seems that way.”

  “How did your pa come on this information?”

  Ben shrugged. “Aw, you know Pa. He always seems to know someone who knows someone. This time it was his friend Sheriff Blanchet from Seattle. Seems there was a young simpleton who ended up with forty dollars. Two twenty-dollar bills whose serial numbers matched two from the cash that was stolen. Story the boy tells is that Waddell gave them to him and told him to buy chocolate bars. He also slipped up and mentioned that his brother, Horace Crispin, had been helping Waddell plan the robbery. They were all supposed to meet back at their camp, but Waddell never showed up.” Ben folded his arms. “Pa says the boy’s being taken care of by an elderly widow in Seattle. But even though he’s been questioned several times, that was all he seemed to know.”

  “And did Sheriff Blanchet go to this camp?”

  Ben nodded. “But of course the gang had hightailed it before he arrived. No one was there.”

  Reagan lifted the newspaper in a deliberately exaggerated motion and then dropped it into the trash receptacle by his desk. “Why do I read the paper when I have you, Ben?”

  Ben chuckled. “After all our years of friendship, you’d think you would have learned by now. I’m always the one with the good scoop.”

  Reagan chuckled. He and Ben had been fast friends for a good seventeen of Reagan’s twenty-five years. “Tall tales is generally more like it.”

  Ben winced and thrust a hand over his heart. “Hey, my tall tales saved your sorry blond hide from getting tanned a time or two. Remember that time you dipped Betty Lou Harrick’s ribbons in your inkpot? Who took the blame for you that time?”

  Reagan laughed. “I don’t know if my pa ever did believe that you were somehow able to cross the room, dip her ribbons, and make it back to your desk without Miss Flaherty seeing you.”

  Ben stood. Rubbed his backside. “I can still feel the licking I took for you that day. Pa knew how to whip but good.”

  Reagan angled him a look. “You owed me that one. There was that little incident before that where you prevaricated about me erasing your homework from your slate. I had to sit in the corner with the dunce cap on all day.”

  Ben laughed. “I’d almost forgotten about that one.” He stretched his back into an arch, his face turning serious as his focus dropped to the telegram once more. “I best return to work. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  Reagan nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Ben.”

  Pondering the news Ben had brought, Reagan stared out the window as Ben returned across the street.

  A thought jolted through him. Hadn’t he heard Lenny Smith mention the name Horace Crispin once? He scrubbed his fingers over his jaw. Yes. He was certain he had. Lenny was a regular over at McGinty’s Alehouse.
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br />   This could mean nothing good for his town in the months to come. Nothing good.

  But if he could catch the gang… And if he could get more proof than just the word of a simpleton, well, that would go a long way to getting this gang locked up for a good long time.

  He stood and lifted his hat from the hook by the door. Maybe it was time to mosey on down to McGinty’s and hang out for a while.

  Chapter Two

  All week long, each time the front bell rang, each time the postman arrived with the day’s mail, each time she saw a flutter of movement on the front walk, Charlotte felt her stomach clench. She was doing a terrible job at trusting the Lord to steer, she knew, but what would she do if she didn’t sense any sort of direction after some time? It was rather unnerving not knowing what method Mr. Heath, the man she’d written to about the job, would use in responding to her letter.

  Surely the Lord wouldn’t ask her to remain with an unfaithful man? No. He wouldn’t. So that would mean leaving Boston. It would take time, but she would figure out what to do next.

  On the two occasions that Kent had come to call, she had pleaded ill—which was rather close to the truth when she’d contemplated having to speak to him—and remained in her room.

  Charlotte had just about given up on hearing back from Mr. Heath.

  But a week later at dinner, Mother had just rung the bell to indicate the staff could clear away the china, when James stepped into the room. Always formal, James clapped his hands to his sides and stared at the far wall as he spoke. “There is a gentleman at the door to see Miss Brindle. Shall I show him in?”

  Charlotte suddenly wished she hadn’t indulged in the gravy for her potatoes. Her hands trembled, but she forced her excitement into the fingers she wove into her serviette below the table, keeping her face stoic.

  Mother blinked and pinned Charlotte with a curious look. “Who is it, James?”

  “A Mr. Zebulon Heath, madam.”

  “Zebulon Heath? We don’t know—”

  “I’ll see him,” Charlotte blurted out, her eagerness momentarily getting the best of her.

  James remained where he stood until Mother finally waved a hand of permission for him to see the man at the door to the parlor.

  Charlotte’s lips twitched with humor. The butler clearly understood just exactly which Brindle buttered his bread.

  When James left the room, both Mother and Father stared at Charlotte. Father’s eyes narrowed in that specific way he had of ferreting out truth from even the most reluctant of subjects.

  The longer they all looked at one another, the more Mother’s face reddened. “You haven’t gone and done something rash to avoid poor Mr. Covington, have you?”

  Charlotte sighed and dropped her serviette by her plate. There was nothing for it, she supposed, except to out and tell them the truth. “Indeed. I’ve applied for a teaching position out west.”

  “Teaching out west!? Oh dear Lord have mercy!” Mother leaned against the back of her chair, tipped her face to the ceiling, and flapped her serviette before her face.

  Charlotte resisted a roll of her eyes. Mother should have been a thespian. “Mr. Zebulon Heath was the man I wrote to about the position. The address was right here in Boston.”

  Father’s face remained passive, jaw hardened. The only sign that some emotion coursed through him was that he kept flipping his silver table knife end over end, a gesture unlike him. “Is this really wise, do you think, Charlie?”

  “Oh, Burt!” Mother was out of her chair and pacing the room now, but still flapping her serviette like a windmill in full storm. “How many times do I have to tell you she’s a lady now. You really must stop calling her Charlie! And Charlotte, he’s right!” Mother threw up her hands. “This is most unwise. Most. Unwise!” She paused and plopped her hands onto her hips. “You are going to throw away a perfectly good match, and with not even a sniff of a good reason lingering in the air! Just like you did with poor Senator Sherman.”

  “Come, Etta. We all know that Charlotte declined Senator Sherman’s suit only after I found him with my secretary in his…private quarters.”

  Charlotte felt her face blanch at the reminder and quite literally bit her tongue to keep from blurting the truth about Kent. Perhaps because she wasn’t quite ready to hear it herself, and she’d been the one to see him! She gritted her teeth. She had more than a sniff of a good reason. She’d gotten an eyeful. An eyeful that wouldn’t soon be banished from her memory.

  Mother spun away and resumed her pacing. “Nevertheless, he would have made a fine match. Just as Mr. Covington would. Oh for the day when children were good, and obedient, and listened to the wise counsel of their elders!” Mother pinned her with a glower. “As ever, you are acting on impulse. What’s happened? You are running from something!”

  Willing away the quaking at her center, Charlotte ignored Mother and answered Father’s question. “You’ve always told me I’m only young once. And talking to the man won’t create a sealed contract. Can’t I at least hear what this Mr. Heath has to say? According to his advertisement, he’s the town’s founder.” She tipped her head and gave Father the look that was half-pout, half-pleading—the same look that had gotten her just about everything she’d ever wanted from him since she was six years old.

  Father sighed and set down his knife. “You may speak to him, but only if I’m present.”

  “Bertrand Brindle! You can’t seriously be thinking of letting our only child run off to the West where she might—” Mother’s face, which had until that moment been quite rosy, turned a shade of white that could have rivaled the bone china on the table. “Oh Lord have mercy! She could be killed by wild Indians!”

  Father’s lips thinned, and he leveled Mother with a glower. “This is 1891, Etta. We’re almost to the twentieth century. I hardly think wild savages are still roaming about.”

  “And when they were acting savage, it was mostly because we were taking their land and impinging on their way of life,” Charlotte added and then wished she hadn’t, because that brought Father’s ire into focus on her.

  “Well, what about her lung condition?” Mother’s voice might have been mistaken for a squeaking hinge.

  Charlotte dare not let Father think too long on that question. “I only have trouble with my lungs on the rarest of occasions, Mother. I’ll be fine.” She transformed her features into her pout-plead and waited for him to confirm his answer.

  With a sigh, he stood and ran one hand over his thinning gray hair. “As I said…you may speak to this man, but not without me present.”

  “Oh, Bertrand!” Mother collapsed into her chair, looking rather like a damp dustrag someone had forgotten to take to the laundry.

  But Charlotte had lived with her long enough to know that by tomorrow Mother would be planning some women’s luncheon or plotting over which latest dress pattern to have her dressmaker try, so Charlotte bounced out of her seat and threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Thank you!” It was the first good news she’d had all week.

  Father patted her shoulders and smiled thinly. “Let’s not get too excited until we hear what he has to say. Etta, ring for tea to be sent to the parlor.”

  Mother grumbled and whimpered under her breath, but she did lift the bell and ring it.

  Father was doing his best to hide his humor when he turned back to Charlotte. “Shall we?” He motioned for her to precede him from the dining room.

  The man waiting for them in the parlor was not like she had expected him to be at all. She had imagined a town founder to be a robust man, likely in his late thirties or early forties, and since he was from the West, maybe a touch unkempt. But the man seated on the settee was sixty-five if he was a day. His beard was long and pure white but neatly trimmed. And he was so frail it seemed a good stiff Boston breeze would knock him right off his feet. A silver-headed walking cane rested against the settee beside his leg, and a top hat with a pair of black gloves lay on the side table next to him.


  Father strode over and extended his hand. “Bertrand Brindle.”

  The man stood briskly. “Heath. Zebulon Heath. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pumped Father’s hand with gusto, and Charlotte’s image of him being able to be blown over by a breeze dissipated. He actually seemed quite spry.

  Father swept a hand toward Charlotte. “This is my daughter, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte curtsied and dipped her head. “Mr. Heath.”

  Mr. Heath bowed. “So you are interested in the teaching position I advertised?”

  Charlotte blinked at the rapidity of his get-down-to-business approach. But she supposed it wasn’t a bad thing to cut right to the chase. “I am. But I have a few questions first.” Suddenly nervous, she pressed her hands together and resisted the urge to fiddle with her skirt, for Miss Gidden, her finishing-school mistress, would surely chastise her for such a display of nerves.

  Mr. Heath smiled and, when Charlotte sank into the wingback chair across from him, resumed his seat. “Please, ask me anything.”

  Charlotte twisted her fingers together in her lap.

  Before she could form any words, Father injected, “I presume you know that this will be Charlotte’s first teaching position?”

  A kind smile lit the man’s rheumy blue eyes. He didn’t look at Father but instead addressed his answer directly to Charlotte. “Everyone has to start somewhere, Miss Brindle.”

  Charlotte nodded her thanks for his thoughtfulness and rushed ahead before Father could jump in again. “How many students will I have?”

  Mr. Heath steepled his fingers together and leaned forward. “I only just founded Wyldhaven this spring, and we haven’t had our first year of school yet, but a rough estimate is fifteen children.”

  “Will there be more than one teacher?”

  Mr. Heath shook his head. “The schoolhouse will be one room. We’ll assess the need for change before each school year.”

  A thrill of excitement zipped through Charlotte. A school all her own, where she would be in charge of all the lessons! What could be better? Maybe the Lord had indeed directed her to Mr. Heath’s advertisement. She nearly forgot what her other questions were, but remembered another in the nick of time. “Will there be supplies? Or will I be in charge of procuring those?”