Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “Come on, boys,” called a voice from the kitchen. The boys ran away from their father’s stern gaze, giggling. Michael couldn’t help chuckling as he followed the four Hoppers into the kitchen. Benjamin’s house was the complete opposite of his own house. Despite the boys running around, the home was spotless, warm and had a delicious smell of sizzling bacon.

  “Oh, who do we have here?” Fanny Hopper asked kindly, looking at Michael, “Sheriff Flemming, what a pleasure,” she smiled. Fanny was a short woman with dark hair in a long braid that shuffled back and forth as she spoke. Her cheeks were red, and she radiated warmth and maternity.

  “Sit down, I will pour you some coffee,” she ushered. Michael obliged and sat down next to two of the Hopper boys. The oldest looking, stood next to his mother, helping her set the table.

  “Ian!” Fanny called, “Come eat.”

  “Our second oldest,” Benjamin explained, “He always has his nose buried down in a book.” As Fanny handed Michael a steaming cup of coffee, a boy entered the house looking startled, seeing Michael sitting at the table. Michael smiled at the boy, who was his father in miniature.

  “Hello,” the boy said quietly but was soon drowned out as his three brothers began talking in a loud chorus.

  “Boys, boys,” Benjamin started, but then he sighed and accepted the coffee mug his wife handed him. Fanny began filling Michael’s plate with bacon, cheese, and beans, to his great happiness. In no time at all, the four boys had left the table, after wolfing down their breakfast.

  “Is it like this every morning?” Michael asked.

  “Pretty much,” Benjamin chuckled.

  “Boys,” Fanny exclaimed as a piercing scream and crying could be heard outside, following the sound of chaos.

  “I actually wanted to ask you more about what you mentioned yesterday,” Michael said as silence filled the room since they were the only ones inside the house.

  “Oh, yes,” Benjamin replied, alert, “I recently found out that just before the fire, John Hickley was offered to sell the post office.”

  “Really?” Michael asked, “Who wanted to buy it?”

  “I’m not so sure who it was,” Benjamin replied, “I’m not sure Hickley wanted me to know this, to be honest.”

  “Why do you say that?” Michael said.

  “Well, because I met him when I was out with the boys the other day. I asked him how his leg was, and we started chatting. Hickley said it was just his luck that the house burned down just as he was contemplating selling the house and moving the post office further up the street to a smaller building,” Hopper finished.

  “And you think he didn’t want you to know this?” Michael asked.

  “I’m almost sure,” Benjamin replied, “As soon as he said this, he went white and said he had to go rest his leg.”

  “That’s very curious,” Michael pondered, “I wonder who wanted to buy the building.”

  “I think it might have been Jacob Frazier,” Benjamin added, hesitantly.

  “Frazier?” Michael said.

  “I know I’m no investigator, but…” Hopper started, “But yesterday I saw Hickley shaking hands with old Jacob, looking pleased.”

  “This is good work, Hopper,” Michael said encouragingly.

  “Thank you,” Benjamin said, embarrassed, “It helps to be unmarkable because then no one notices you standing around,” he grinned.

  * * *

  Michael left the Hopper home, with a full stomach, and rode the short distance contentedly towards the ruins of the Post Office. To his surprise, men were carrying charred wood onto a large horse carriage, clearing away the burnt ruins. Michael wasn’t familiar with any of them, which was quite strange.

  He dismounted his horse and tied it securely to a hitching post. As soon as his fingers touched the post, a vivid memory of Lillian flashed into his mind, of when she loosely tied the reins of his horse, barely making any difference than if she had just left the horse there. Michael shook his head, ridding himself of her dazzling smile, and tinkling laugh… Focus, Michael. This is more pressing.

  Michael walked towards the commotion near the old post office and noticed Jacob Frazier speaking with a few of the workers. As he approached, Frazier turned around, dismissing the men and greeted Michael like an old friend.

  “Sheriff Flemming!” Jacob exclaimed, “Good day.”

  “Good day,” Michael replied curiously, “What is going on here?” he asked, looking around marveling at how little was left of the building that had once stood there.

  “We are clearing this mess away,” Jacob replied boisterously.

  “And why is that?” Michael inquired.

  “Well, I bought this building, or what’s left of it.”

  “What do you plan on building here?” Michael replied.

  “I’m glad you asked, Sheriff,” Jacob said happily, starting to walk slowly away from the men working, Michael followed.

  “I am planning on building a grand, new General store,” he continued, “With a great, big warehouse.”

  “On the old General store lot?” Michael asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I will even make room for the Post Office next to the store,” Jacob added.

  “That sounds like a good investment opportunity for you,” Michael said, looking intently at Jacob.

  “One should always look for the light in the darkness,” Jacob said somberly.

  “One could say you are benefitting quite well from other people’s darkness,” Michael quipped back.

  “Sheriff,” Jacob said, slowing down as carriage rode slowly past them. Both men nodded silently to the Pastor and his wife, who waved them from the carriage.

  “I do realize how it can appear when you gain from other’s misfortune, but do believe me that I only wish for good fortune for this town.”

  “Tell me, Jacob,” Michael said, “How long have you lived here in Rust Canyon?”

  “Oh, just about two years now,” Jacob replied, “I have always had a strong connection to this town, and in the end, the pull was too strong for me to ignore.”

  “Can you tell, just to remind me,” Michael said shrewdly, “How many buildings do you own here in town?”

  “I would say,” Jacob began pausing to think, “After I purchased the old post office, then I own eight buildings.”

  “Eight buildings?” Michael asked, amazed.

  “I have been fortunate in life,” Jacob said with a small smile, “And I only want the best for this town?”

  “And you think you are what is best for this town?” Michael retorted.

  “Not by a long shot,” Jacob laughed heartily, “My ego may be the size of Texas, but I would never go that far.”

  “I heard that you allow Mrs. Wesley to stay in one of your houses,” Michael asked after a small pause. The two of them had walked towards the tavern in the short amount of time they had been speaking.

  “It was such a tragedy,” Jacob said, sobering up, “I only did what I could—a small comfort.”

  “That was kind of you,” Michael said, thinking about the young widow.

  “It was nothing,” Jacob dismissed, and Michael was surprised to see that Jacob seemed not to want to talk about this particular good deed of his.

  “It makes me sick to think of helpless women, struggling to make ends meet,” Jacob added fiercely, and Michael hummed his acknowledgment.

  “Just like my sweet niece,” Jacob added, and Michael felt his body tense, “She was the apple of my cousin’s eye, she was, and I try to help her however I can.”

  “Yeah,” Michael replied quietly, trying with all his mind not to think of Lillian, pushing the sweet image of her away from his mind. He had to focus… “She and Dorothy…” Jacob began speaking but was cut off from a cracking sound that made both of them turn around.

  “GET DOWN,” Jacob yelled, and Michael swiftly managed to crouch away from a bullet from the gun that had just been fired at them. Michael glanced up and saw a man r
unning away. Fury coursed through his body as he pushed himself up and sprinted after the gunman.

  “Be careful,” Jacob called after him, still not managing to stand up. Michael ran as fast as he could muster, causing his muscles to ache under strain, but the man ahead of him was nowhere to be seen.

  Who just tried to shoot me? Or were they trying to shoot Jacob?

  Chapter Nine

  Lillian stood in the saloon, setting the table for the evening. She carefully laid down the polished silverware on the crisp white tablecloth, with great precision. She had been feeling bad about how she had treated Vincent before.

  The poor man only wants the best for me, and I cannot seem to allow him closer to me. If I just stop thinking about Michael, perhaps I could learn to love Vincent. She sighed as she gently pushed a fork, so it aligned straight with the plate when she heard a sound like a gunshot.

  “Was that a gun?” she heard someone yell. She hurried towards the reception and looked around nervously. Gunshots certainly weren’t unheard around here, but Lillian thoroughly disliked guns, always had.

  “Keep working,” Charlie said, appearing from the kitchen, “Come on, people, we need to prepare for tonight.” The waiters and cooks began working again, but Lillian looked outside, feeling strange. Just as she was about a return to the saloon, she saw two men running outside. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she ran out.

  One of the running men looked very much like Michael, but a commotion ahead caught her attention. She walked quickly towards the group of people and was startled as she noticed her uncle on the ground, clutching his back.

  “Uncle Jacob,” she exclaimed, running towards him.

  “Sweet Lilian,” Uncle Jacob gasped.

  “What happened?” she asked nervously.

  “I’m fine,” Uncle Jacob said.

  “Were you shot?” Lillian asked, terrified, looking for signs of blood.

  “No, no, child,” Uncle Jacob reassured her, “I just fell and hurt my back…”

  “Oh, let me help you,” Lillian said, trying to help her uncle stand up, but he was too heavy for her to support him.

  “… When Sheriff Flemming pulled me down,” he finished with a groan.

  “Michael was here?” Lillian replied at once, “With you?”

  “Yes, we were talking when someone tried to shoot at us,” Uncle Jacob grimaced.

  “That’s terrible,” Lillian whimpered.

  “You need not worry,” Uncle Jacob reassured, “We are both ok, he ran after the perpetrator. Now, I just need to rest a bit, and then I’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

  “Let me go and find someone to help you stand,” Lillian said, standing up again and almost walking into Michael, who had returned, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily.

  “Miss Walter,” Michael said with a tip of his hat, a little out of breath from running.

  “Did you catch him?” Uncle Jacob called. Michael looked away from Lillian and walked towards Uncle Jacob, helping him stand up quickly.

  “He got away,” Michael said angrily, “Are you hurt?”

  “I just need to lie down for a bit,” Uncle Jacob said.

  “Let’s walk you back to the hotel,” Lillian suggested, and she offered her uncle her arm for support. The three of them walked in silence towards the hotel. Once they arrived, Michael opened the door for them, guiding Uncle Jacob inside. At once, chambermaids and workers came running to help their boss.

  “I will be all right,” Uncle Jacob said, sounding tired.

  “Go, rest, Uncle,” Lillian said concernedly.

  “I will,” Uncle Jacob smiled, but suddenly he looked quickly upwards, “My hat!” he exclaimed.

  “I must have dropped it when I fell.”

  “I will go fetch it,” Lillian said at once.

  “I’ll go with you,” Michael said, finally looking at her again, “I need to go back and investigate.”

  They walked side by side back toward where the shooting happened. “Are you all right?” Lillian finally asked quietly.

  “I am,” Michael reassured. When they arrived at the place where Uncle Jacob had fallen, Lillian bent forward to grab her uncle’s hat. She picked it up and dusted it off, and when she turned, she noticed Michael peering at the wall of the house they stood in front of.

  “That’s strange,” Michael muttered.

  “What is?” Lillian asked.

  “I found the bullet,” Michael explained.

  “Why is that strange?” Lillian replied.

  “Come see,” Michael gestured, pointing at the splintered wood of the wall.

  “I don’t understand,” Lillian admitted.

  “The shooter stood barely twenty feet away from us,” Michael said, “How could he have missed us by such a distance?”

  “I’m glad he did,” Lillian said shyly.

  “Me too, but look where your uncle fell,” Michael pointed, “Over there stood the shooter,” he nodded his head in the direction where the shooter had been, “And finally look where the bullet landed.”

  Lillian noticed that the bullet had landed far away from where her uncle had been lying. “Why did he shoot this direction?” she asked.

  “I think this was an inexperienced shooter,” Michael contemplated.

  “How do you figure that out?” Lillian asked.

  “This can happen when you are not familiar with the pullback of the gun,” Michael explained, “It could have jerked his hand back, which caused the far off bullet hole.”

  “Thank the heavens,” Lillian muttered.

  “Indeed,” Michael continued, “But it could mean the shooter is injured.”

  “Really?” Lillian gasped, “Why would that happen?”

  “The hammer can give you a nasty cut if you don’t know how to shoot,” Michael said slowly, “This will help me find the bastard. They will have a very distinct injury just above their thumb.”

  * * *

  Lillian ambled back towards the hotel. Michael was still investigating the bullet, and after his junior sheriff arrived, she quietly removed herself from the scene. People had gathered around, curious at seeing the new sheriff at work.

  She could not fathom what was going on. First, there were the fires, then her father was killed, and now she almost lost Uncle Jacob and… Lillian didn’t dare to finish the thought.

  My poor heart breaks at the thought that Michael might have been shot today. How I wish I could have embraced him tightly, to make certain he is well. But, I must not think this way. It is not proper.

  Lillian entered the hotel where everything appeared as usual. The dinner service was still being prepared, and not many seemed interested anymore in the hustle and bustle outside. She walked to the back, to Uncle Jacob’s office, her mind racing. A sudden sound caught her attention. She turned around and saw the door that leads to the large file closet at the back of the office, creaking slightly.

  “Hello?” Lillian said nervously. She stood still as a statue as she watched the door sway a little forward.

  Is there someone behind the door? Why can I not stop my hands from shaking?

  “Uncle Jacob?” she said, her voice trembling. Lillian carefully laid her uncle’s hat on the large wooden desk in the middle of the room; her eyes still fixed on the door that had moved. After looking at the door for a long while, Lillian turned to leave the office when she heard the floorboard behind creaking, distinctly.

  White, cold panic rushed through her, and now she was sure she could hear someone breathing, a low rasping breath. But by some strength, that Lillian was not sure where it came from, she turned around and walked purposefully towards the closet. Her hand trembled as she slowly pulled the door open and peered inside. A sudden relief filled her, as she gave the messy closet, which was filled with various boxes and the shelves heaved under files and even more boxes, the once-over.

  I surely am a tangle of nerves, Lillian laughed softly. It must be all the excitement of today, that has caused me to star
t imagining sounds and made me suspicious. I think I better head home.

  Lillian asked Billy, from the reception desk, to inform her uncle that she went home, not wanting to disturb him from his rest.

  When she returned home, a comforting smell greeted her once she entered the kitchen.

  “Hello, dear,” Dorothy said as she stood in front of the stove, stirring a large wooden spoon in slow circles. Lillian was surprised to see the heavy, brass pot on the stove, which they seldom used and was kept up high in the pantry.