WOMEN OF SURPRISE 01: A Surprise For Abigail

by Tracey J. Lyons

  "Looks to me like Mr. Stanton here has scared the wits out of them," Mr. Wagner answered with a chuckle.

  Continuing their walk to Aunt Margaret's, Abigail stole a glance at Mr. Stanton, noting several things. While Mr. Wagner stood four or so inches taller than she, Mr. Stanton positively dwarfed them. His face was covered by a thick brown whiskered beard. All she could see were his nose, dark whiskey-brown eyes, a patch of pale skin on his forehead and around his mouth.

  She wondered what all that hair was covering up? Before she knew what was happening, Mr. Stanton caught her studying him. As his dark gaze fixed upon hers, his full lips turned up into a wicked smile, showing two fine rows of white teeth.

  Never in her life had a man looked at her like that; as if he was going to devour her one bite at a time. She felt the heat of a blush spreading up her neck and across her face. Feeling her new-found confidence suddenly on very shaky ground, Abigail straightened her spine.

  It was hard for her to forget just how reserved she'd once been; how easily she'd let herself be led into doing other's bidding. That had all changed when Edwin left her for another woman. He'd actually done her a great favor, his deceit spurring her on, forcing her to become braver.

  Tired of letting life pass her by, Abigail had grabbed life by the horns, jumping at the chance to come stay with Aunt Margaret-thinking a change of scenery was just the balm she needed. Now, just as she was feeling like she could do anything, Mister Cole Stanton was trying his best to intimidate her with just one look.

  She wasn't going to be having any of this man's nonsense.

  "Howdy, Miss. Nice to see you, sir," Stanton said as he nodded his head and greeted every single person they passed.

  Abigail was infuriated with him. "Stop that right now."

  "Stop what?"

  "Being so nice to everyone. You are supposed to be getting your punishment for drunken behavior. The least you could do is act a little remorseful."

  He slighted her with a dark glance. "Are you serious?"

  "Of course I am. I'm the sheriff and drunken disorderly behavior is a serious offense!" If she hadn't been trying so hard to keep up with the long strides of the two men, she'd have stopped to stamp her foot for proper emphasis.

  "That it is. But I'm not sitting in a jail cell right now, am I?"

  "No. But if I had my way, you'd still be there," Abigail mumbled.

  "I don't doubt it." He'd heard her words. "But you wouldn't want me to be looking mean and crazy, scaring your townsfolk on my way to Sunday dinner now, would you?"

  Abigail rolled her eyes heavenward. This whole situation had been crazy from the very moment she'd arrived in town. She'd come here because her aunt was sick. Then she'd found herself talked into filling in as the sheriff. Abigail had to keep reminding herself that this was a new, braver life.

  However, never in her wildest imaginings would she have seen herself walking down the main street of Surprise with her aunt's adviser and a common criminal keeping her company, on their way to Sunday dinner of all things.

  "No, I don't want you worrying my neighbors," she finally admitted.

  There were plenty of other things to worry about. Such as fulfilling her duties as sheriff and making sure that Aunt Margaret was being taken care of properly.

  She was content to continue what she'd been doing for the past month while mending her broken heart; worrying on her own and keeping Surprise what it had always been, a sleepy little town. A place where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened.

  The town still had the same dusty road, a general store, post office, church, a small livery and one boarding house. Walking past the old saw mill, she couldn't help feeling a little sad at the dilapidated appearance of the structure. The building looked as if it hadn't been used in years. There was a cluster of homes at one end of town with the railroad bordering the other.

  Surprise, a town aptly named, seemed to appear out of nowhere. One minute you were riding along through the rolling fields and the next you were in the town. And just as quickly the buildings and street ended.

  The centerpiece of the hamlet, according to Aunt Margaret, was her home. The grandest dwelling was made up of square-cut native rubblestone, with a hyphen hallway that connected the structure to the larger two-story clapboard addition. This house was her aunt's pride and joy; a place where Abigail had spent many lazy summers playing on the lawn with her two cousins, Lydia and Maggie.

  As she led her prisoner up the wide porch steps, Abigail wished her cousins were here. At three years her senior, Lydia was the one who was full of life. She could be counted on to act first and think about the consequences later-much later.

  And Margaret, her junior by just six months, was the sensible one, always doing what was best for everyone involved. Abigail was the one in the middle. She'd been the shadow who'd followed in the wake of Lydia and stood in awe of Maggie's calm command of any situation.

  Stepping onto the claret-colored carpet partially covering the dark wood floor of the foyer, she caught the familiar scent of lavender potpourri. She knew the blue urn on the entryway table was filled with it. The smell had an instantaneous affect, settling around her like a warm blanket. The long hallway was laden with dark furniture, and ornately framed family portraits graced the white painted walls.

  The meticulously decorated sprawling three-story home was a vivid contrast to the stark simplicity of the town. And she loved it. Standing next to her, Mr. Stanton elicited a low whistle, interrupting her feeling of contentment.

  "This is some place."

  "This is my aunt's home. You would do well to remember your manners, Mr. Stanton." Steeling a glance at him from the corner of her eye, Abigail doubted this man had any manners. And if he did, they certainly had been left by the roadside a long time ago.

  From the far recesses of the house came the sound of a bell ringing.

  "Ah, she knows we've arrived." Mr. Wagner motioned for them to follow.

  They walked through the long hallway and entered the dining room. This room was done as was the rest of the house, with rich details. The focal point of the room, a portrait of Abigail and her two cousins sitting at their aunt's feet, hung on the creamcolored wall over the fireplace mantel.

  Her aunt was seated at the far end of the long cherry-planked dining table, the large wicker wheelchair dwarfing her small frame. She sat bundled amidst a collection of woolen blankets. "My guests at last!" A frail hand appeared from beneath the mound of cloth, gesturing, beckoning them to come into the room.

  "Good afternoon, Aunt." Leaving Mr. Stanton standing in the doorway, Abigail dutifully dropped a kiss on her aunt's pale cheek. Shock still rolled through her whenever she saw her aunt. It was hard to get used to her sickly appearance.

  Her aunt had had dark chestnut-colored hair and a round face that always had a rosy glow. This woman's hair was gray, and hadn't a dark strand in it. Her face, drawn and wrinkled, was a ghostly pasty white.

  Abigail's first thought upon seeing Aunt Margaret weeks ago was that she was dying and she'd arrived just in time to say a final good-bye.

  It was hard to forget the panic that had welled up inside of her when she'd first seen her aunt. Was this the same woman who'd played at three-legged races with her three young nieces? But today her aunt was here in the dining room holding court like a queen; an encouraging sign that surely her health was on the mend.

  Glancing towards the doorway, Aunt Margaret said, "I see you've brought our dinner guest."

  Abigail frowned down at her. "Aunt, please remember he is not a guest, Mr. Stanton is my prisoner."

  "That's right, silly me, I forgot." Raising her hand she motioned to him to enter the room. "Come in and sit. Anna will be serving our Sunday dinner momentarily."

  Nodding to Aunt Margaret, Cole entered the dining room. "Thank you for inviting me, ma'am."

  "You're welcome. I'm sure that the sheriff told you the rule about not leaving a prisoner in jail on a Sunday."

 
"Yes, she did." Cole grinned. "I'm mighty glad to be incarcerated here in Surprise. I have to say it's the first time I've ever been let out of jail for a decent meal and to be a guest at such a fine home."

  "I'm glad you're so receptive to the idea, Mr. Stanton."

  Abigail's anger simmered. How could they converse as if it were the most natural thing to be doing? She was quite certain that criminals were not let out of jail in any other town for Sunday dinners! The muscles in her hand clenched. This was one more thing that she was going to change.

  "Abigail, dear?"

  "Yes."

  "You're hurting my hand."

  "Oh my goodness!" Abigail looked down at their hands, she hadn't realized she'd been squeezing so hard. Quickly, releasing it, she patted the paper-thin skin gently, trying to smooth away the red imprint she'd left behind.

  "Abigail, sit down."

  Taking a seat on her aunt's right, she glanced up to see Cole Stanton looking at her in a way that set her nerves on edge.

  He sat across from her, while Mr. Wagner sat at the opposite end of the table. She decided to ignore both of the insufferable men.

  "Have you heard from Lydia or Maggie?" she directed to her aunt.

  "No, I haven't heard one word from either of them in weeks. I was hoping they'd be coming along for a visit soon."

  Anna, who served as housekeeper, cook and nurse, entered the room pushing a serving cart that carried their steaming dinner. Tall and rail thin, she was attired head to toe in black, looking more like the head of a woman's dormitory rather than someone who was charged with caring for a wealthy sick woman.

  "Ah, here's our Anna. The roast smells divine. I wish I had my appetite so that I could enjoy more than just a few morsels." She began to cough softly into a linen handkerchief.

  Abigail's heart pulled. Reaching over she touched her aunt's arm. "Anna, please bring aunt some hot lemon tea."

  "Add a heaping teaspoon of honey to the cup, Anna," Margaret ordered.

  Leaving the serving cart near Mr. Stanton, Anna patted Margaret on the shoulder and left to get the tea.

  When the coughing spasm had safely passed, Margaret turned to Mr. Stanton. "Would you be so kind as to carve the roast?"

  "He's my prisoner!" The words jumped out of Abigail's mouth. "You can't have him cutting the roast."

  "Are you afraid that I might take this carving blade to someone's throat, Sheriff Abigail?"

  Forcing herself to meet his curious gaze, Abigail quickly amended her statement, though it was difficult to keep her voice even. For all they knew Mr. Stanton could be an ax murderer. "What I meant to say was, the carving of the roast should go to someone who is a guest at the table or the man of the household, someone like Mr. Wagner. Perhaps he should cut the roast."

  "It's just a piece of meat. I don't see any harm in my cutting the roast!"

  "Mr. Stanton, please mind your tone of voice, and Abigail, you would do well to remember your manners." Color rode high on Aunt Margaret's cheeks and Abigail quickly regretted her words. She didn't want to be the cause of another coughing spell.

  "I apologize for my rude remarks. Of course Mr. Stanton should carve and serve the roast." Unable to contain herself she added, "Everyone in jail should be given such an honor."

  "For goodness sake, Abby. He was charged with drunk and disorderly behavior not murder." Waving her hand towards him, Margaret ordered, "Get on with the task before the food gets cold."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  He sliced the meat to a perfect thickness and as Margaret passed the plates to him, Cole placed two slices of beef on each one.

  "You did a fine job, Mr. Stanton. And might I add, without any extra bloodshed. Good for you."

  Beneath his beard Abigail saw him grin. It unnerved her. From across the table his gaze met hers. The grin faded. He placed the carving set back on the cart. She shook out the cloth napkin onto her lap, he did the same. Steaming bowls of potatoes and carrots were passed around the table, the vegetables added to their plates.

  Anna brought in the honey-laced lemon tea and wheeled the cart away from the table. There was an awkward moment while grace was said and then the only sound to be heard was the scraping of silverware across the china plates as they started eating.

  In between bites, of what was the best meal he'd eaten in a long time, Cole eyed the sheriff. All prim and proper she was, with her hair pulled back in a brown ribbon, the faded brown starched shirt and crisp cotton skirts neat as a pin.

  He wondered for the hundredth time how this slip of a woman came to be in such a position?

  After swallowing a mouthful of buttermilk biscuit slathered with freshly churned butter, he inquired to no one in particular, "How does a woman come to be a sheriff?"

  Abigail's gaze flew from her aunt to Mr. Wagner and back to her aunt again. Cole could just imagine the lump in her throat. It wasn't right for a woman to be involved in the law. Not right at all. As far as he was concerned she had no business being sheriff. From what he'd seen in the few short hours he'd been in this town, Sheriff Abigail was sadly lacking in lawman's skills.

  "See, it's like this ..."

  Cole turned his attention to the far end of the table where Mr. Wagner sat balancing a china cup and saucer in his hands. Cole couldn't help noticing that Mr. Wagner seemed to have the answer to everything.

  "This is Miss Margaret's town and with her being so sick and all, she had me summon Abigail to come be by her side during her time of need."

  Cole couldn't help wondering why Mr. Wagner was being so evasive with his answer?

  A coughing spasm shook Miss Margaret's frail looking form. Abigail left her chair, rushing to her side. "I think you've had enough excitement for one day. Let me get Anna to help put you to bed."

  "No. We haven't had dessert yet. Please, let's have our dessert and then I'll go to bed."

  Doubt filled Abigail's face, but she finally gave into the older woman, sitting back down in her chair across from Cole. He noticed that she was avoiding his gaze by staring down at her folded hands.

  Cole couldn't keep himself from persisting with his questions. He had this burning desire to know how Abigail Monroe came to be in such a position. Didn't they realize the danger in putting such an innocent in that position?

  He'd traveled through many a town, large and small. It didn't matter the size or the number of the population, there were always those who just couldn't abide by the law. Abigail Monroe had no idea what she'd gotten herself into.

  "Is anyone going to answer my question?" He looked around the table.

  "My aunt needed me to help her and I agreed. There's really nothing more to it." She stared across the table at him. "I'll have you know that I am more than qualified for the job."

  He studied the matriarch of the household, pointedly ignoring the sheriff. "Miss Margaret? Do you have anything to add?"

  "My nieces are devoted to me, Mr. Stanton. Abi gail came to me in a time of need. After Sheriff Chauncy died no one wanted to fill the position of lawman. I suppose we really didn't need one, but Abigail was here and there really wasn't enough to keep her occupied in the house."

  "Excuse me, ma'am, but this isn't some hobby, like a sewing circle! What if she needs to fire a gun?" He looked at Abigail sitting across from him. He wasn't certain, but he though he detected a steely gleam in those hazel eyes.

  "Someone will just have to teach her."

  "Who?" he shot back at her.

  "I think you could do it, Mr. Stanton. After all you'll need to do something to make up for disturbing the peace."

  Abigail sputtered, her face turning a deep shade of red. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Cole was sure she was going to protest. A woman should know how to shoot if she lived on the open range or in the wilderness, but Surprise appeared to be a civilized town. And Cole couldn't think of a reason for a woman to be carrying a weapon, especially one that was loaded.

  "John, see to it that Mr. Stanton teaches the sheriff how to shoot.
That will serve nicely as his punishment."

  "Now see here!" Cole held his hands up. "I don't want any part of teaching the sheriff about anything."

  Margaret began to cough, and this time the coughing didn't seem to want to stop. Anna rushed to her side and wheeled her from the room. At the doorway she angled the chair backwards to ease it from the room and that was when Cole saw it.

  Miss Margaret smiled. Oh it was just a little smile, but a smile nonetheless. And if he wasn't mistaken, which he rarely was, there was a definite twinkle in her watery-blue eyes. He stood and rested his elbows on the chair back. Abigail came to stand by him. He could feel her quaking with what he was sure was fury.

  Frantically, she began whispering to him, "How could you speak like that? My aunt is a very sick woman! She could be dying!"

  Cole stared back at Margaret Sinclair noting how frail she looked with the dark blue comforter pulled up underneath her chin. Her skin looked chalkywhite against the deep blue fabric that she held fast in her withered hands. His gaze traveled to her watery-blue eyes and it was there the look of death ended.

  Cole had seen death before and he was quite certain that Mrs. Margaret Monroe Sinclair was not dying, least wise not anytime in the near future. The old woman closed her eyelids, shuttering the spark he'd seen moments before, and Anna the dutiful housekeeper took her off to her bedroom.

  "I don't think she's going to be dying anytime soon," he mumbled. Turning around he pasted his most congenial smile on his face, looking at the sheriff of Surprise. "Looks to me like we have an appointment."

  "We have no such thing, Mr. Stanton."

  Before Cole could respond, Mr. Wagner said, "Now, now, Sheriff Abigail. Don't go getting all upset. Your aunt wants you to have shooting lessons, then so be it. I can't believe that I didn't think of it myself." John pushed away from the table and stood. "We'll do that first thing tomorrow morning."