Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “What are you making, mother?” Lillian asked, kissing her mother on the cheek and peering into the pot, “And how did you manage to retrieve this monstrosity?”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” Dorothy teased, “I was clearing away from the small shed behind the house, and I found this,” she gestured to a small stepping stool with three steps.

  “Father’s stairs,” Lillian gasped, “I had forgotten about these.”

  “Your father made this for me right after we got married. I could not reach the high shelves in the pantry, so he built this for me.”

  “I used to play on this.” Lillian smiled, her mind flooding with memories of her childhood.

  “I remember,” Dorothy replied, “After a while, I kept everything I used in the lower shelves, and I stopped needing the steps. And your father must have put it away.”

  “I also remember him tripping over these more than once,” Lillian laughed.

  “He would have been glad to put it away,” Dorothy reminisced.

  “Are you all right?” Lillian asked cautiously. She could not remember her mother speaking about Lillian’s father without retreating inside herself a moment later.

  “I am,” Dorothy replied simply.

  “I’m glad, and I am looking forward to the soup.”

  “Let’s eat early,” Dorothy suggested, “You look exhausted, my darling Lilli.”

  “This was quite an eventful day.” Lillian sat down at the kitchen table and recounted the events of the shooting.

  “Oh, Lord help us,” Dorothy simpered after Lillian had finished telling her everything, “A shooter…” her voice trailed off.

  “I thought about father as well,” Lillian finished the unspoken question that hung in the air. Could this be the same person that killed Philip Walter?

  * * *

  “We should get going,” Michael said to Benjamin Hopper. They had been riding around town, trying to see any signs of where the shooter might have gone. Michael was confident that the shooter would have hurt himself, and they had gone to Doctor Littlefield to see if someone had come in with a wound on their hand. The doctor had not seen anyone with such an injury but assured them he would inform them at once if he would.

  “You’re right,” Benjamin replied, “It’s getting dark.”

  “What do you say about a quick drink at the tavern?” Benjamin added. Michael paused as he considered it before answering, “You know that sounds good.”

  They rode towards the tavern and tied their horses securely at the hitching post. Inside the tavern were loud voices, and laughter filled the small building. As they entered, all eyes were on them, and suddenly everything became quiet, until someone shouted drunkenly, “Did you catch them, sheriff?” All at once, the room erupted into laughter and the talking resumed.

  “Not just yet, Dennis,” Michael replied with a small grin, recognizing one of the hotel workers.

  “I saw you running,” Dennis hiccupped, “Like a speeding train, you were.”

  “Did you, by chance, see the shooter?” Michael asked curiously as Benjamin went to get them drinks.

  “Nah, nah,” Dennis slurred, “I just saw you shoot past, phew,” he made a sound like a bullet, “Nothing but a dark blur…” his voice trailed off as he took a gulp from his glass.

  “I was going to give you something,” Dennis continued, patting his jacket, “I can’t find it,” he chuckled, “Or remember what it was,” he added and roared with laughter.

  “You take care now,” Michael said clearly, turning away from the drunken man and sitting down next to Hopper.

  “What did old Dennis have to say,” Benjamin chuckled.

  “Not much,” Michael let out a long sigh. He took a sip of his drink and felt the tiredness washing over him.

  “This was quite a day, eh,” he added with a grimace.

  “You certainly have been busy since returning,” Benjamin said, “and just think how much has happened in a short amount of time.”

  “You got that right,” Michael agreed, “I just wished I would have returned here earlier.”

  “If I would have just had the chance to speak with my father, if only just once. Then I would perhaps be closer to finding the people responsible,” he added bitterly.

  “I hope I am not out of bounds,” Benjamin began slowly, “But perhaps this is how it was meant to be. Take me, for example. My father was beloved here, and I spent my entire life trying to live up to his legacy,” he spoke softer now, staring into his glass, “But even though I was with him towards the end, and I know what he expected of me, it did not make my life any easier. The loss is always just as great, and I do envy you because you did have the opportunity to go and find who you were and who you are now.”

  “You are an excellent sheriff, Michael,” he finished.

  “Thank you, Benjamin,” Michael replied, “You have been a great help.” For the remainder of the night, the two of them talked about the case and the town, and Michael felt a sense of belonging that he was not sure he had ever felt before. And that ignited his longing to find those who were terrorizing his town.

  * * *

  It was very dark outside when Michael rode his way home. His whole body ached from the long day of riding and running, and he just wanted to sleep. Benjamin kept surprising Michael. Once they had sat for a while at the tavern, he proved to be intuitive, although uncertain. Michael guessed this came from being around domineering men, like his father and Benjamin’s father.

  Hopper lit up when he spoke of his children and was wiser than he appeared. Michael pulled the reins to steer his horse towards his house. And that’s when he noticed the light from inside his home.

  I am sure I put out the lamp before I left this morning, Michael thought confusedly. The tiredness of the day and the few drinks he had drunk had slowing downed his senses. As he rode closer, he realized what he was seeing.

  “What in the name…” Michael gasped, jumping off his horse. Now that he was nearer, he saw the flame inside, slowly filling the kitchen. He looked around for something to put out the fire but didn’t see anything at first glance. He pulled up his handkerchief, covering his mouth and nose and pushed open the door.

  At once, the flame grew exponentially, reaching over and licking at the wall in the kitchen. Michael realized the kitchen table, or what used to be the kitchen table, was about to tip over, which would spread the fire over to the sitting room.

  Father’s notebooks! Michael turned around, pulled open a wardrobe in the hallway, and grabbed a heavy, woolen blanket. Holding the blanket out, he stormed towards the fire and covered the aflame table. He kicked down the table and reached for a jug of water and splashed it at the wall. A loud sizzling sound indicated the fire was out. Michael stomped over the blanket, making sure that he had put out the fire completely.

  If I had been a moment later back home, there would not have been anything left. But whoever did this might still be around? The fire was small… Michael ran outside and around the house, trying to see if he could make out movement in the vicinity. But it was pitch black outside now, the faint light from the moon was not enough to see further than a few feet.

  “Goddamn it,” Michael cursed, returning to the house, and at once the smoke and smell of singed paper filled his nostrils.

  He pulled up the blanket and groaned as he noticed one of the notebooks from his father that he had been reading the previous night. Now it was a blackened ruin. This book had been the latest one with his father’s contemplations about the fires.

  Who was behind this? And were they watching him? Someone must have known he was away from his home but was not sure when he would return. Michael tried to think back to everyone that had seen him at the tavern. Was the perpetrator one of them?

  He stepped over the burnt table and looked out the kitchen window, and his foot stepped on something small. Michael bent down and picked up a singed pack of matches. The same kind of matches he found at the Post Office.

  This
is a warning, I am sure. But that must mean I am getting closer to the truth. I will not let these bastards get away with this. I will find them, Michael’s thoughts grew angry as he turned over the pack of matches over and over in his palm.

  Chapter Ten

  Lillian felt apprehensive as she tied her coat securely around her the following morning. She had hardly slept during the night; she kept tossing and turning with images of faceless gunmen shooting everyone she loved. Lillian imagined her mother had as well not slept. She had heard her tiptoe past her room twice during the night and was sure Dorothy had stopped by her door.

  Lillian imagined her mother debating whether to enter her room or not. She opened the front door quietly, as her mother was still sleeping. The morning air was warm, despite the cloudy sky. Lillian walked the familiar path towards the hotel.

  “Morning, miss,” a tall man smoking a foul-smelling cigarette, who stood by the hotel entrance, said with a crooked smile.

  “Good morning, Ray,” Lillian replied politely, “Welcome back,” she added stiffly.

  “Thank you, little bird,” Ray replied, taking a step closer to her, making Lillian recoil slightly.

  “Well, I expect my uncle will be pleased,” Lillian said, forcing her to stand her ground and not run away from the tattooed man.

  “No doubt,” Ray chuckled, “No doubt indeed, little bird,” he said, taking another step closer to her and blowing smoke into her face. Lillian squared her jaw but did not move. Ray stared at her until he finally walked away. Lillian breathed deeply and hurried into the hotel.

  Ray Jennings was her uncle’s assistance, and Lillian detested him. Thankfully, Uncle Jacob would usually send him on trips, so Lillian did not have to see him too much. But whenever he was in town, he would stare at her in an untoward manner and be constantly smoking these horrible cigarettes. Lillian would like nothing more than ask her Uncle to send Ray away, but Uncle Jacob always talked about how Ray had had a troubled life but had made a fresh start when Ray began working for him.

  “Uncle Jacob,” Lillian happily said as she noticed her Uncle standing by the reception.

  “There she is,” Uncle Jacob bellowed happily.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked concernedly, “Should you not be resting?”

  “My, dear,” Uncle Jacob chuckled, “I am fit as a fiddle.”

  “I was so worried,” Lillian admitted.

  “Worry not, child,” Uncle Jacob reassured.

  “As long as you promise me you will be careful.” Lillian smiled reproachfully.

  “I will if you promise to make me one of your magnificent pies,” Uncle Jacob winked.

  “You got it,” Lillian laughed, feeling lighter than she had felt all day.

  Lillian walked into the kitchen where Charlie stood, whistling while he peeled potatoes.

  “Good morning,” he said happily as he noticed her.

  “Morning, Charlie,” she smiled and began preparing the pie.

  Later, Lillian carefully pulled out the pie from the piping hot oven. Charlie had shown her how to carve out beautiful decorations in the pastry, and Lillian gasped at the beautiful pie.

  “Look at it, Charlie,” she said excitedly.

  “It’s a beauty, that’s for sure,” he chuckled, looking up from his mountain of peeled potatoes, “You are an artist.”

  “Well, you taught me. I cannot wait to show this to my uncle.”

  “He is a lucky man to have a niece as sweet as you,” Charlie said.

  “You are kind,” Lillian laughed as she carried the pie to a cooling rack on one of the large kitchen counters.

  “The lunch is nearly ready,” Charlie continued, “Is your fellow meeting you again today?” he asked.

  “Oh, Vincent… Yes, we are meeting later.” She had completely forgotten about it; she realized guiltily.

  “You should go relax a little,” Charlie said, “I can manage here.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” she replied, untying her apron and hanging it on the hook on the wall. As she walked out towards the saloon, she noticed kids running around. A girl, a little older than the other two who were running around, came storming towards them and said bossily. “Mama said you should not run around.”

  “Sally, where are you?” the thin, pale-looking Mrs. Wesley called, approaching the children.

  “Here, mama,” Sally replied, trying to hold her siblings tight.

  “You should take your brother and sister outside to play.” She gently pushed them towards the front door. “I will only be a minute.”

  “All right,” Sally replied politely, “Come on,” she added sternly, “You heard what mama said. “The three children walked outside, and Lillian could hear the young Sally calling reproachfully after her brother as he ran away, giggling.

  “Your children are sweet.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “Could I have a moment to speak with you, Miss Walter,” she added in hushed tones.

  “Of course,” Lillian said, curious at the strange look on Mrs. Wesley.

  “Not here,” Mrs. Wesley said nervously.

  “Come here,” Lillian replied, guiding her towards a back room, but Mrs. Wesley shook her head.

  “No, outside is better,” she whispered.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Wesley?” Lillian asked.

  “Yes, yes,” she dismissed, “It’s just, no one can… I don’t want to be overheard.”

  “Let’s step outside,” Lillian said, and they walked towards the front door.

  “I should not be here,” Mrs. Wesley said hurriedly, “I am making a mistake.”

  “What do you mean?” Lillian replied, feeling anxious.

  “I just cannot keep silent anymore,” Mrs. Wesley said, and now she was shaking like a leaf.

  “You should sit down,” Lillian said, looking around.

  “No,” Mrs. Wesley said and opened her mouth to keep talking, but suddenly she looked away from Lillian.

  “This was a mistake,” she blurted out, “Forgive me, I should not have come here.”

  “Mrs. Wesley?” Lillian said, but Mrs. Wesley gave her a mournful look and walked away from her.

  “Mrs. Wesley?” Lillian called, but she didn’t turn around.

  What on earth was that about? What did she want to tell me? Lillian thought, and the uneasiness washed over her.

  “Lillian?” Uncle Jacob asked her, appearing behind her. “Who were you calling?”

  “Oh, it was Mrs. Wesley,” Lillian said, “I’m not sure what this was about, to be honest.”

  “Poor thing,” Uncle Jacob said, “She has been through so much.”

  “She sure has,” Lillian replied sadly. Together they walked into the hotel again.

  “Now, what’s this about a pie?” Uncle Jacob asked with a wide grin on his face.

  “Come with me,” Lillian laughed happily, and together they walked into the kitchen.

  * * *

  Michael pushed open the door of the tavern with force. He was angry and tired and wanted answers. Last night he had not slept at all as he cleared out the charred remains from the kitchen. He had bypassed feeling unsure about his own safety to feeling angry at those that kept doing these awful things. He wanted answers, and he was not going to leave this tavern until he had some.

  “Morning, Sheriff,” Seamus Sandham, the tavern owner, said surprised, “I’m afraid we don’t open until later…”

  “I need to know the names of everyone that was at this tavern yesterday,” Michael barked at Mr. Sandham.

  “Names of everyone?” Mr. Sandham echoed startled.

  “Yes,” Michael said simply, “I need to know who was here, around the same time I was.”

  “Well…” Mr. Sandham started, looking flustered.

  “You do realize I’m the sheriff in this town,” Michael replied angrily.

  “Yes, of course, it’s just…” Mr. Sandham began, but Michael cut him off.

  “Do you really think it wise to cross with me
?” Michael spat, “Do you?”

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Sandham quivered, “I just…”

  “Just what?” Michael yelled at him.

  “Sheriff,” said a voice from behind them. Michael turned around and saw Benjamin standing there.