“No such luck.” Putting down the harmonica, Chance leaned forward. Annabelle saw a big grin cross his face, and his eyes shone at the sound of his old friend’s voice. She wanted to embrace Ben, but in spite of her excited scream when Ben opened his eyes, she sensed that the moment must wait. It was Chance’s presence that had brought her fiancé out of his coma, and she did not want to interrupt what was happening between them. “I’m really here, Ben, as big as life. But you can’t call me Chance anymore. Your fiancée says that from now on, everyone’s got to call me Charles. It’s a long story, but what matters is that I’m startin’ over again, and doin’ it right this time.” Chance looked across the bed at Annabelle, and his voice grew gruff. “Looks like you’re going to have to start over again too, Ben. At least, you’d pretty darned well better, because there’s a pretty gal here who’s going to be awful disappointed if you don’t.”
Ben’s eyelids half opened as he tried to focus on his friend’s face. Then, turning his head toward Annabelle, Ben struggled to sit up. “What … ? Where … ? Chance? Annabelle?” His head fell back on the pillow, eyes moving from one face to the other. “What on earth … you two … doing here together?”
Lavinia must have heard Annabelle’s shriek of joy, for the woman burst through the door with more speed than her age and dignity would have suggested her capable of. “What is going on in here?”
Annabelle looked up. “It’s Ben! He woke up.”
Lavinia cried out and knelt next to Chance. Her son stared again from Annabelle to Chance to his mother before his head dropped back on his pillow. His eyes fluttered shut as if it was all too much to take in. But there was a faint smile on his face, and his color was better.
Lavinia raised her head. “It must have been that awful harmonica that did it. That screeching noise could wake the dead.” Before Chance could respond, Lavinia took the big Iowan’s hand and squeezed it, causing the big Iowan’s eyes to widen and a blush to rise to his cheeks. “Bless you, my boy. You must stay with us until he is fully recovered. No, no, don’t protest.” She turned to the maid, who was standing in the doorway, mouth agape. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go fetch the doctor. And hurry!”
Over the next few weeks, Ben’s moments of consciousness grew longer and more frequent. At first he could not remember the attack, and Annabelle had to remind him what had happened and how Chance had ended up in Salem. She hadn’t told him all the details, however. Some things could wait.
He frowned, putting his hand to the thick bandage on his head. “I think … remember … happened. Thought maybe … war battle.” A moment passed before he spoke again. “It’s coming back now. The stock clerk. Was waiting in the alley. He called me. I thought … needed help.”
“The clerk’s real name was Willy Ratzel, not Zeke Hart, and—nevermind all that. That’s how I found your old friend, Chance McInnes—but we must call him Charles McMullen now. I’ve told everyone he’s my cousin from back east. It turns out your old friend from the war has been right here in Oregon the past couple of years. He’s been hoping to find you.”
At that, Ben tried to sit up. Annabelle helped prop him on the pillow, while his eyes roved over her face as if he still didn’t quite believe he was not dreaming. Ben turned back to his friend. “Both of you … here?” An expression crossed his face that Annabelle did not recognize. Jealousy? Her cheeks grew hot, remembering that she had actually met Chance before Ben. What a coincidence, hardly to be believed! That was one of the details she’d decided did not need to be discussed, along with several others.
“We’ll go into all that later,” she told him. “Ben, Chance needs our help.”
Her fiancé was processing everything slowly, as if being forced to speak an unfamiliar language. The doctor said it would be weeks, at least, before he was fully recovered. “Help? Why?”
From the rocking chair, Chance frowned at Annabelle. “Now, there’s no need to bother Ben with my troubles.”
“Don’t be silly. We must tell him now, before anyone questions your presence here.”
Ben slowly swung his head from one to the other. “What troubles?”
She sighed and explained Chance’s run-ins with the law as briefly as possible. Ben’s mouth straightened into a grim line as he looked at his friend. “I see.”
Chance’s face turned red. “If you want to kick me out of your house, Ben, go right ahead and do it. I’ve become a no-good lawbreaker these past few years, and—”
Ben spoke over him with long pauses between each phrase. “Whatever you’ve done … doesn’t matter. We’ll make it right. As right as we can, anyway. Can’t return the money yourself, of course. They’ll take money … arrest you anyway.”
“That’s what Annabelle and I thought—” Chance began.
“So I’ll return it for you.” Ben spoke over him again. “When … stronger.”
While Chance searched for a response, Annabelle broke in. “Your friend needs to start over, Ben. I told your mother he’s my cousin Charles, from Iowa, Charles McMullen.” She paused. “That’s not entirely untrue, you know. I do have a cousin named Charles.”
Ben chuckled. “Charles, eh? Close enough.” He lay his dark head back against the pillow, and closed his eyes, still smiling. After a moment, she and Chance heard a low snore.
Chapter Forty-Three
Annabelle
Salem
Spring, 1867
The reporter from the Statesman and Unionist scribbled rapidly across the page of his notepad as Annabelle recounted how she had become lost among the sandstone cliffs and stumbled upon the outlaws in their lair. She made sure to describe the event in the most purple terms.
“ … And then a group of monstrous men seized me and took me prisoner. They dragged me to their leader, a yellow-bearded giant, muscled like a Titan. I recognized his horrible visage from posters plastered all over the state of Oregon and begged him to let me go, offering him the contents of my poor purse and calling upon the Lord to help me. Taking pity, the bandit repented of his evil and ordered his men to release me from my bonds immediately. After we conversed further, Mr. McInnes informed me that his heart had changed and he wished to make amends for his sinful misdeeds.” She stopped to draw a breath, making sure the reporter was writing every detail. “Alas, it was too late. His wicked followers, hearing his plans, dragged him away and callously murdered him. The poor bandit Chance McInnes is no more, but at least his soul resides in heaven.”
“And his men released you—er—unharmed?” Mr. Hogan glanced up from his notebook.
She shivered dramatically. “Even such bloodthirsty wretches dared not lay a finger on a virtuous woman.”
The reporter wrote this down as well, looking skeptical. “So before his violent death, the notorious outlaw Chance McInnes told you he wished to return his ill-gotten gains and even told you where the money was buried? Doesn’t that seem, er, unlikely?”
“Perhaps. However, when I quoted scripture, it touched his heart, and then we both knelt down and prayed together. I assure you, Mr. Hogan, that he fully repented of his misdeeds before his demise.”
“Do you think you’d be able to find the cave where the money is buried?” The reporter licked his pencil and waited for her answer.
She nodded. “I have already gone to the sheriff and described the route. I am confident that he and the bank’s agents will find the spot, apprehend whichever gang members remain, and find the buried chest with no trouble.”
The reporter looked at her. “It seems you were on very good terms with this bandit for you to have such influence on him, Mrs. Marlowe.”
She beamed at him. “Isn’t it wonderful when a sinner’s soul is reached? We must never give up on anyone, Mr. Hogan, no matter how depraved they may seem to our mortal eyes.” Annabelle stood. “Thank you for your time. I’m sure your readers will be most edified by my story.”
“It’ll sell plenty of papers, that’s for sure,” he said dryly, and stood up with her. �
��Thank you for sharing your experiences, ma’am.” He held the door open for her and winked as she slipped out. “I’m sure it all happened exactly as you said.”
The posse returned that afternoon. Annabelle watched them ride up the street, while standing in the shade cast by the store’s awning. Ben stood beside her, one arm around her waist. The other leaned on the cane he now used to steady himself when out of bed.
The sheriff stopped in front of them and leaned down to shake Ben’s hand, tipping his hat at Annabelle. Behind him was Chance, along with the other members of the posse.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the sheriff said seriously, “for directing us where to go. We dug up the money box exactly where you described it. It has been returned to a representative of the banks. The remaining bandits are now in jail, awaiting trial.” He frowned. “Sadly one of them got away, a hang-dog-looking type. His horse was a good deal faster than a man would think based on its appearance.” He turned to Chance and shook his hand. “Thank you for riding with us, Mr. McMullen. You must be proud to have helped close the books on one of the most notorious criminals in Oregon.”
“Yes, sir, I sure am,” Chance said with a grin.
The sheriff pushed back his hat. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in becoming a full-time deputy? With the state growing so fast, we could sure use the help of a strapping fellow like you.”
Chance looked back at Ben and Annabelle. “Much obliged for the tempting offer, sir, but I’ve already accepted a position with Marlowe’s Emporium, and I’d hate to let my friends down.”
“Well, if you happen to change your mind, you just let me know.” The sheriff touched his hat again, nodded politely to Annabelle, and rode away.
Chapter Forty-Four
Chance
Salem
Spring, 1867
Ben stood next to Chance, watching the wanted poster come down and a new one go up in its place. It featured the only member of Chance’s gang who had escaped the posse: a woebegone-looking fellow named Walter Higgins.
Chance shook his head. “You don’t know Walter like I do,” he told Ben gravely. “Somehow I figure the West will be safe from him.”
Ben thought about the events of the past few weeks with bemusement. It had been a shock to learn what Chance had been up to since they’d parted ways three years ago, and he had a hard time reconciling the image of the happy-go-lucky farmer with the disheartened bandit who had become famous throughout the Northwest, but he was glad that things had turned out well for his friend.
Ben had recovered enough to witness the city of Salem welcome Annabelle’s respectable cousin from back east with open arms. The tall, fair-haired newcomer had ridden with the posse in search of the members of his former gang, and returned well acquainted with the most important citizens in town—the sheriff, several bankers, the mayor, and the governor. They all counted “Cousin Charles” among their close circle, as did their wives and eligible daughters.
Ben thought of his new brother-in-law. Richard, still shy and awkward around crowds, was well-known to Salem society as well, although he still avoided parties and gatherings, preferring to confine his visits to town to the mansion, or Annabelle and Ben’s apartment. At least he’d agreed to start university next fall, after the harvest was brought in.
At Ben’s side, Chance was fashionably dressed in a black broadcloth suit that suited his tall frame, along with a gold-and-green striped waistcoat and wide maroon cravat, the best available from Marlowe’s Emporium. The former Iowan was becoming quite a dandy. Ben had hired him to travel up and down the coast scouting locations for the chain of stores that Ben was planning to build, since the former bandit knew the region well. He’d already suggested several promising towns for further expansion of the Marlowe’s successful dry goods stores.
“Well,” Chance said, straightening his brand new bowler hat when the workers finished changing the posters, “I’d better be on my way. I’ve promised the sheriff’s daughter I’d take her to the dance over at the Odd Fellows’ Hall tonight.”
Ben nodded. He caught a glimpse of Annabelle standing at the window upstairs. Now that he had recovered enough to move into the snug apartment above the store with his new wife, Ben did not want to keep his bride waiting a moment longer.
“Then you should hurry,” he told his friend. “You don’t want to insult the sheriff’s daughter by being late.”
Grinning, Chance winked and set off down the street with quick strides.
Ben turned and walked toward the steps that led upward to rooms full of love and welcoming. Chance McInnes may never have succeeded in getting back his farm, and Ben still hadn’t seen the Sandwich Islands, but somehow … somehow … they had managed to find what they’d been truly seeking for all along.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my wonderful teachers, including Mrs. Porter, who shares the first name of my heroine; Mrs. Layton, who helped me believe in myself; and Mrs. Sutherland and Mrs. Neuman, who led me to an appreciation of poetry. Thanks also to my parents, whose best traits inspired some of those in my characters. Most important, no matter where in the world we lived, they always made it feel like home.
About the Author
Catherine McGreevy is the author of inspirational fiction. The daughter of a foreign service officer, Catherine McGreevy grew up in countries all over the world. A history buff, she now lives in Northern California’s gold country with her family and has written five novels. She is currently working on another.
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