Undercover Sheriff

by Barbara Phinney

  Rachel set her basket down on the driveway. From a small pocket, she tugged free her black handkerchief, the only tangible reminder that she was still in mourning. She dabbed her eyes, in part because of the sadness of losing a father and in part because of the sadness of the whole evil affair.

  To add to the stress, an hour ago her mother had bemoaned again that Rachel would depart for the evening. It was too soon, she’d complained, but Rachel had told her mother flat out that she had souls to win and that mourning shouldn’t stop the work. When Louise had reminded her of her health, compromised by Abernathy’s attempt at poisoning her, Rachel had assured her mother that she felt fine. Work was the best remedy for her, Rachel believed.

  Tonight, though, there would be no escort. Five years ago, when Pastor Wyseman had given her his blessing for this ministry to reach out to the local soiled doves, he’d also insisted she never go out alone at night in the vicinity of the saloon. Tonight, her escort was supposed to have been Jake Turcot, a local ranch hand who worked for Mitch MacLeod. Jake couldn’t make it this evening, having caught an early-winter flu.

  There was no time to find another escort. It didn’t matter. What could possibly go wrong on a cold, quiet evening like this? The men in the saloon knew her and would assume she had brought someone with her as she always did. So one night without one wouldn’t even be noticed.

  Taking up her basket again, Rachel struck off, her feet crunching the gravel underfoot with even more dogged determination. She had to go. What if Rosa turned up tonight? What if tonight was the night others finally found the courage to leave their profession?

  The sounds of harsh piano music rolled down the street toward her as she drew closer to its source. The saloon’s entertainer struggled through the song, the sour notes and shaky tempo enough to make even Rachel cringe.

  She was only a few yards from the source when something made the hairs at her nape rise. And it wasn’t from that one difficult chord.

  Stalling her march for a moment, she glanced around the dark and deserted street, but saw no one. With a swallow, Rachel began again, only to stop after a yard and spin back. A dried leaf danced past her, its soft scrape obviously not responsible for the feeling that she was being followed. Perhaps it was just the errant breeze that had caused her hair to rise?

  No. She could hear a person’s feet crunch the dry ground between the haberdashery and the barbershop. Errant breeze or not, someone was following her.

  “Jake? Is that you? Come out at once. Stop this foolishness or I shall report your behavior to Mitch and to Pastor Wyseman.”

  No answer. Heart thumping in her chest like a giant drum, Rachel hesitated. Should she continue on? Or dash back home and hide?

  Fear chilled her core, attempting to nail her feet to the wooden sidewalk. To force her to become a victim once again.

  Forget it. She’d come too far with her ministry to run away in fear. She’d seen God’s protection time and again, especially with all the terrible things that had happened to her.

  Through all of them, God had protected her, and she refused to dismiss His protection now. If the night she’d been poisoned by Abernathy had taught her anything, it was to seize the moment, for time was short. She had to return to her ministry, and no one hiding in the shadows would force her out.

  Shoving away her fear, Rachel turned and took a few short, forceful steps, more stationary stomping on the faded wooden planks of the sidewalk with her fur-lined boots than marching forward.

  Then, stopping, she spun and waited, her back stiff and her jaw so tight it ached.

  A man stepped out of the shadows. And though he froze when he realized his error, she had already seen his face.

  Chapter Four

  Zane Robinson. Rachel sagged in relief.

  He’d shaved his beard since she’d left him in his brother’s rented room yesterday morning. The light from the saloon behind her, plus the waning moonlight above his left shoulder, cast their soft glows onto his strong frame and the pale skin where facial hair had been. Although the vertical line between his brows that had defined him yesterday was now erased by his surprise, Rachel knew exactly which twin stood before her.

  On the heels of relief came anger. Who did he think he was, scaring her like that? She stalked up to him, giving him a hard poke in the chest. “Is there a reason you’re skulking around like a thief in the night?”

  Zane pushed away her gloved hand. “Is there a reason why you’re trotting around town late at night?”

  “I’m not trotting.”

  “I’m not skulking.”

  Refusing to be entangled in a war of words, Rachel spun and continued her march down the sidewalk, only to have Zane catch her by the arm. “Are you insane?” He flicked out a nod toward the seedy saloon, the only business open at this time of night. “You’re not headed there, are you?” He tapped her basket, now filled with supplies. “What are you planning? A late-night picnic?”

  She should explain her intentions here and now. But she still felt the sting from reading that telegram, and she wouldn’t waste time on a man she knew to be a criminal.

  After yanking back her arm, Rachel tugged the lower hem of her jacket and continued walking.

  * * *

  Zane couldn’t believe that Rachel would waltz into a saloon at any hour, let alone this one. The men who had not yet found the shallow comfort that could be purchased would no doubt turn their attentions to her.

  Being a sheriff had allowed Zane to see greater people fall. This woman might be unusual, but the ills of liquor and laudanum had caused ruination in many, no matter their social status.

  He gritted his teeth. He hadn’t come all the way to Proud Bend to babysit a grown woman, except that right now Rachel was his only lead in Alex’s disappearance. Zane caught her arm once more, this time hauling her to the bench that sat outside the now-closed haberdashery, plunking her down as if she was a slab of meat hitting a hot fry pan.

  He straightened and pulled down on the sleeves of Alex’s long, dark coat. Zane had hopped aboard the train to Proud Bend with only a small bag of essentials and his less-warm overcoat, and was glad he now had access to Alex’s wardrobe. The weather last week must have been warmer for Alex not to have chosen this coat to wear on the day he’d disappeared.

  He rubbed his cold cheeks. Alex, where are you? Are you warm enough?

  After Rachel and the mayor had left him, Zane had set about shaving his beard and changing into Alex’s clothes. Thirty minutes after that, Zane had successfully convinced his brother’s deputy he was Alex. Then, thankfully, he’d found his brother’s room key tucked in his desk drawer at the sheriff’s office and furtively slipped it into his pocket. Now he could lock his brother’s room.

  When Rachel tried to rise, he pushed her back down. “Don’t move,” he barked. “If you do, I’ll arrest you.”

  She was suitably outraged. “On what charge?”

  “I’ll think of something. I’m the sheriff here, thanks to your crafty scheming. Perhaps I’ll arrest you for vagrancy?”

  “I’m hardly a vagrant.”

  “Then why would you possibly want to go to the saloon this late at night? And who is Jake?”

  She’d called out Jake’s name a moment ago. “Jake Turcot was to be my escort tonight, but he’s sick.”

  “So why are you out here by yourself?”

  “That’s none of your business.” She rose, as if refusing to be delayed.

  He moved to block her way. Would she back down? He doubted it. She wasn’t the type to give in easily, as he knew from the hours he’d spent going through the files connected to her in the sheriff’s office. He’d spent the day getting caught up on the various investigations, both opened and closed, including the one into her father’s death, and Clyde Abernathy’s attack on her and her mothe
r. He’d even read the slim file that had been compiled on Alex’s disappearance. Then he’d read about Rosa and her son, the case that had probably precipitated Alex’s vanishing act, for he’d been searching for them at the time he went missing.

  Curiously, added to the same file was an unsolved crime from five years ago, the murder of Rosa’s mother, another prostitute. A note, handwritten by a previous sheriff, told how the mother, Liza, had been beaten to death while working, but she had claimed to know who’d stolen some money the women had given Rachel to invest. Her killer had never been found.

  Questions about that had led to yet another investigation. Rachel had been assaulted and robbed not long before Liza’s murder. According to the women who worked behind the saloon, Liza had felt responsible for that theft because she had encouraged the other women to hand over their money. She had visited Rachel the day after the assault, vowing that she was going to pay back the money stolen.

  Even now, this late in the evening, Zane frowned at the curious events. The robbery connected Liza to Rachel. Liza was connected to Rosa, who was missing. Alex had disappeared searching for Rosa and her son. Did that tie Alex to those old cases? How did Rachel fit into the disappearances?

  And just what reason did Rachel have for frequenting saloons late at night?

  Zane rubbed his clean-shaven jaw, still unused to it and the chill on his face. The investigations’ files read like the plot of a bad Western novel. A murdered woman, another missing, still one, Rachel, tying all of them together.

  Walter Smith and Clyde Abernathy, the two men who’d owned Proud Bend’s only bank, had both been as crooked as a scenic railway. According to the old adage, the apple did not fall far from the tree. Could he assume Rachel was as crooked as her father?

  He needed to find out. “What do you plan to do this late at night?”

  She sighed, blowing out her breath in an undignified manner. “I help the women who work at the Two Winks Cribs. The late evening is the best time to meet them because they are often in need then. And there’s always the hope that I’ll find that Rosa has returned.”

  “Returned home, or returned to her profession?”

  “I hope she has returned home, I fear she has returned to her profession.” Her shoulders slumped. “Rosa is a new Christian. I’m afraid she’ll get scared and return to the only thing she knows. But if it means that she’ll be back here, unharmed, I will accept it. Right now, I’ll take anything!”

  “Who’s discounting the Holy Spirit this time?”

  She stiffened. “That’s not fair. I’m only trying to save these women!”

  Zane felt his jaw clench. Something drove Rachel to help these women, and he was pretty certain that it wasn’t good Christian charity.

  “Is that why you were so adamant about me assuming Alex’s identity?”

  “In a way. Having a good sheriff keeps Proud Bend happy. When they’re happy, they keep Mayor Wilson elected. He supports my ministry. The last thing these women need is to be run out of town. There’s no way to know what dangers they’d face in a new community, and I’d never be able to reach them for God. So, having you filling your brother’s shoes helps my cause.”

  She made it sound so innocent. But was there more to it? He still believed he’d caught signs of guilt in her behavior. He wanted to know why.

  “You care a lot about these women,” he observed. “Is there a reason for that?”

  “Does a Christian need a reason to care about other people?” she countered.

  It was a fair point, but that didn’t explain why Rachel’s cheeks were so bright red as she spoke.

  * * *

  Humiliation burned Rachel’s cheeks. Zane was eyeing her as if he suspected she was guilty of something...and in a way, he was right. Liza, Rosa’s mother, had gone to an early grave when she’d attempted to pay back the money that Rachel had convinced the women in the cribs to give her in order to invest. Money that had been stolen from her. She blinked back the memory of that horrible night.

  She had been shoved to the ground and had been kicked so brutally the effects had lingered for months. Her escort had tried to fight back, but he had been knocked unconscious, his wounds even more cruel. Both of them had been left for dead. The sheriff back then had not caught the man, and her escort, feeling the strain of the attack, had moved away shortly after recuperating. Even Rachel had almost despaired for some time.

  “I just want to help them,” Rachel muttered to herself. “I nearly gave up after I was attacked.”

  The day after she’d been assaulted and left for dead, Liza had visited her to announce that she was going to pay back the stolen money. She’d even believed she knew who’d assaulted Rachel and planned to seek him out.

  From her sickbed, Rachel had protested such a dangerous move, trying to insist that Liza go to the sheriff, but like so many in her profession, Liza mistrusted the law. Too many arrests for vagrancy, theft, disturbing the peace. Too much shunning. So, not wanting to destroy Liza’s trust in her, Rachel had not reported the plan to the sheriff.

  Rachel had been such a fool—first for being so cocky, thinking she could just invest the money and thus solve all the women’s troubles, and then later for not doing more to stop Liza from confronting the thief. If she’d tried harder, perhaps Liza would still be alive.

  Of course, there was no way to know for certain if Liza’s death had been the result of her going to talk to the thief. She had been working that night. Her killer could have been a customer. The sheriff at the time had said it was a common yet unfortunate end to some soiled doves’ lives, but Rachel’s heart still clenched at the memory, convinced Liza’s death had been at the hands of the man she’d confronted.

  Throughout the five years since, the guilt had dogged Rachel, as did the question of why Liza felt she could meet that man who she believed had committed such a heinous crime. Why had she thought she was safe doing so?

  Pushing away the disturbing memories and focusing on Zane as he stood over her, Rachel fished a small tract from her pocket. This was why she went out each night, she told herself as she thrust the paper at Zane. “Here, read this. This is my hope for these women, what I must do.”

  As he read the pamphlet, leaning it toward the dim moonlight, Rachel slipped into the dark alley between the haberdashery and the saloon. The shadows, long and deep, swallowed her up.

  Oftentimes, with her escort, Rachel would first go into the saloon to get a feel of the evening’s mood. Occasionally, a surly customer would harass the women and set them on edge. Those nights made it all the more difficult for her to help them.

  But, pressed for time tonight and without Jake, Rachel headed straight to the cribs via the alley. This route was dark, stinking of garbage and waste of all sorts. She risked tripping over discarded tins and such, or even the occasional drunk. All she had to deal with tonight, thankfully, was her skirt brushing against the outer walls. Although she would wear last season’s styles while doing her ministry work, Rachel tried in vain to avoid snagging her skirt’s material on the rough boards that sided the buildings. At least her maid was adept at tugging the threads back in. Mother would be less likely to notice that the fine clothes she’d purchased, albeit last year, were on their way to ruin.

  As she entered the yard behind the saloon, Rachel stopped to press herself against the building’s rear clapboards.

  The yard was empty except for the stray dog that had had puppies this past autumn. It now trotted past with a piece of garbage in its mouth. Rachel glanced around, thankful that no ejected drunk was trying to sneak back into the saloon through its rear door. She took the moment to pray that Zane would give up following her.

  “Please, Lord,” she whispered. “Hide me.”

  When, over the lull in the music, she heard firm steps upon the sidewalk pause by the narrow alley, she drew in a bre
ath and held it, eyes shut tight and bottom lip pinned between her teeth.

  Then, thankfully, the steps continued on. Zane didn’t enter the alley. Rachel dared to let out her breath and look around again. A pair of lanterns on the rear-door posts lit the yard and the cribs, those tiny huts where the women plied their trade. Still clinging to her basket handle, Rachel felt her heart wrench. It always did when she first arrived.

  This way of life shouldn’t exist. There was no reason why the women here couldn’t have decent, safe lives. Rachel had been teaching some of them some basic skills that could lead to jobs as seamstresses or domestic work. If she was going to encourage them to change occupations, she should provide them with some skills to aid their departure.

  With a fast glance around the corner, Rachel stepped toward the cribs just as a woman in a filthy pink dress stumbled out of the rear door. Rachel recognized Annie Blake, an older woman who’d been in town as long as she could remember. She was short and scrawny, her face lined like crumpled paper and her teeth stained brown.

  Annie fell, and when the woman turned back toward the door, Rachel gasped. Her face was bleeding.

  The door stayed open, spilling out additional light as Annie rose unsteadily to her feet. Rachel could see tears glittering in her eyes.

  Stirred to action, Rachel rushed over to her. She set her basket down in front of the narrow nearby porch that led to the woman’s rented crib before wrapping her arm around Annie’s thin shoulders. The woman dropped her head into her hands and began to weep.

  Father, have mercy on this woman.

  The wind chose that moment to rise, drawing out from the open door the unpleasant smell inside. Rachel held her breath as she led the older woman toward her crib. After setting Annie down on the steps, Rachel opened her basket. In it she had all the things she needed for the night. Bandages, salves of arnica and comfrey and salts to stanch blood, willow bark among her various teas to help with pain because she refused to use laudanum. Thanks to Abernathy’s attempt to poison her, she’d learned firsthand the dangerous effects that an opiate could have on a person if overused. It might be the painkiller of choice nowadays, but she knew too many people who seemed to want it overly much, a thought that scared her.