Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “Who could have sent this?” Benjamin said anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Michael replied, “But it is clear that the fire in my home and Lillian’s disappearance is connected. This is just like Father mentioned in his notes—this is much bigger than we can imagine.”

  “What are you going to do?” Benjamin asked.

  “I need to try to find out who knew that I had been spending time with Lillian,” Michael pondered, “Who would know that taking her would have more of an impact than taking someone else?”

  “I would think Vincent here,” Benjamin said, “But there is no way he sent that letter, and he has not talked to anyone since he came here.”

  “He might have accomplices,” Michael said, “I think I will have a little talk with him.” Michael walked to the back of the Sheriff’s office, where the two connected jail cells were situated.

  “Hey,” Michael called, startling Vincent. He looked absolutely miserable sitting on the metal bench, his hair unkempt, and his clothes ruffled. He was clutching his right hand, the cloth he had used to cover it with soaked through.

  “Benjamin,” Michael said, “Go fetch Doc Littlefield, he will have to take a look at his hand.”

  “Sure,” Benjamin replied and turned around.

  “Thank you for that,” Vincent replied with a weak voice.

  “You need to tell me if you were working with someone,” Michael asked him calmly.

  “What do you mean work with?” Vincent asked, “I work with many people; I’m a businessman!”

  “Did you ask anyone to threaten me?” Michael asked, his voice now icy cold, “And know that I will tell if you are lying to me.”

  “Of course not,” Vincent replied quickly, “Why would I do that?”

  “You tried to shoot me,” Michael pointed out.

  “I… I know, but I did not try to threaten you,” Vincent said desperately.

  “I was jealous… She was kind and sweet to me, but she lit up when she spoke your name,” Vincent added bitterly, “I noticed her look at you, and she never looked at me that way. I was stupid, and I thought I could make all my problems go away if I shot you, but I made everything much much worse.”

  “All right then,” Michael said, noticing Benjamin walking inside, accompanied by Doctor Littlefield.

  “The Doctor will mend your hand now,” he added, turning around, greeting the doctor now walking toward the cell, holding his big, black doctor’s bag.

  “I really do hope you find her soon,” Vincent said. Michael didn’t reply but left the office, yet again.

  * * *

  Michael knocked on the front door of the Walters’ home. He had decided to walk this time, allowing his poor horse to rest. The walk had also given him time to think more about the letter. Someone who had known about his connection with Lillian was trying, with increasingly more dangerous actions, to get Michael to leave this town.

  There was no doubt in his mind anymore about there being a direct link between all the fires and the disappearance of Lillian. His father had been investigating this before he died, and he had wanted Michael to know what was happening. Although, he never wrote about it plainly. It was as if he did not trust someone would confiscate his letters.

  “Sheriff?” Dorothy said, surprised as she opened the front door, “What are you doing back here so soon?”

  “Can I come in, Dorothy?” Michael seriously asked

  “Of course,” she said, moving to let him inside.

  “Has something happened?” she asked, “Do you know where my Lilli is?”

  “No, I don’t know where she is. Please, sit down.” Dorothy looked nervous, but she did as he asked.

  “Not long ago, I received a threat,” Michael began, “Stating that if I do not leave Rust Canyon in the morning, that Lillian will be…” he hesitated before saying, “killed.”

  “Oh, no,” Dorothy vailed.

  “I want you to know that if I thought me leaving Rust Canyon would bring back Lillian, that I would…” he added, but Dorothy looked up, her face covered in tears.

  “You cannot leave,” she said, “If you leave, I don’t think I will ever see my sweet Lilli ever again.”

  Michael was slightly surprised she had not demanded that he leave her house and the state, at once. “I think there is a connection between the fires and Lillian’s disappearance.

  “It’s this damned town,” Dorothy sobbed, “My darling Philip warned me once about it.”

  “He did?” Michael asked at once.

  “Can you tell me more about what he said?”

  “It was, well, he had been agitated,” Dorothy began, “This was shortly before he died. He did not tell me what was bothering him so, but I could see it the way he could not sleep anymore. He would get up in the middle of the night, and I would hear him walking back and forth outside.”

  “What did he say about Rust Canyon?” Michael asked.

  “One night, he had been unwilling to eat, and he had been worried,” Dorothy continued, “He had a lot to drink that night. And he told me that we were going to leave Rust Canyon very soon.”

  “Really?” Michael said, astonished.

  “The next day, he was going to go to the bank to take out all of our money,” she said sobbing.

  “That was the day he was killed,” she added and began wailing.

  “Did he tell you that he was going to the bank to take out the money?” Michael asked.

  Dorothy looked guiltily at her hands before she muttered, “No. I read it in his journal. I know I should not have, it was his private possession, but he had been behaving so oddly that I wanted to see what it was that weighed so heavily on him.”

  “Do you have the journal?” Michael said.

  “No,” Dorothy replied sadly, “After he died, I looked for it all over the house. It’s not here.”

  “Do you think Philip’s murder is connected to all of this?” she asked nervously.

  “I think it is very likely,” Michael said, “I would have to see this journal.”

  “You can have a look in his study,” Dorothy said, “There are many papers there, which I have looked through, but I have not thrown anything away. It is as he left it.”

  “Can you show me the study?” Michael asked, standing up.

  “This way,” Dorothy said, leading him down the small hallway. She paused by a door and looked inside it, sighing heavily. It was Lillian’s room, Michael realized. He glanced inside, and his insides twisted as her scent greeted him as he walked passed the room. Dorothy then stopped in front of another door and opened it.

  “Here it is,” she said sorrowfully. The room was a small one with a beautiful view from the window, which had a desk right below it. On the desk were papers all over and notebooks, very similar to the ones that Michael’s father used.

  Michael picked one up and leafed through it. It had notes about the potential and past contracts, nothing that looked like the personal thoughts of Philip Walter. Michael opened the drawers but didn’t find anything that caught his attention. He tried to open the top drawer, but it was locked.

  “Do you have a key for this one?” Michael asked.

  “There is no key,” Dorothy said, “Philip mentioned that he had lost it a long time ago.”

  Michael grabbed a letter knife from the table and pushed it between the drawer and the desk, moving it back and forwards. Finally, there was a clinking sound, and Michael was able to pull out the drawer.

  “Hmm, I wonder what this is?” Michael said, picking up a carefully folded note. He opened it, and the only thing written there were numbers.

  “Do these numbers mean anything to you?” he said, turning to look at Dorothy.

  “No,” she said after looking at the piece of paper, “But, oh my,” she whispered, looking into the drawer. Very old looking letters, held together with a red bow, sat in the corner. She picked them up gingerly.

  “He kept them,” she sobbed quietly.

  “The
se are letters I sent him, first after we met,” she explained, “He was studying in Dallas, and we had fallen in love… I cannot believe he kept these for all this time.”

  “He must have cared greatly about you,” Michael said.

  “I think he would have liked you,” Dorothy replied, wiping her tears, “He always liked your father very much.”

  “Were they friends?” Michael asked, surprised.

  “Well, Philip at least always spoke very kindly about your father,” Dorothy said her focus on the letters in her hand.

  “All right then,” Michael said, his mind full of questions, “I will go now.”

  “Thank you again, Michael,” Dorothy said, “and remember, you are on the side of angels.”

  Michael tipped his hat and hastily left the house.

  These numbers could be coordinates.

  * * *

  Michael pushed open the door of the Sheriff’s office. He had half run from the Walters’ home, anxious to see if he could find the coordinates on a map. Benjamin looked up from his desk, which looked even more crowded if that was even possible. He had a high stack of old envelopes and was carefully examining them.

  “Where’s the map?” Michael asked. Benjamin pointed to the map he had been perusing over earlier, clearly deep in thought. Michael grabbed the map and unfolded it onto the table. The numbers on the paper were not written in a row, so it was possible to start reading the numbers in many different ways.

  I wonder if Philip wrote it this way deliberately? To make it difficult if anyone got a hold of this note?

  Outside was getting increasingly darker, and the two men worked in silence. Michael had a notebook next to him, and he wrote down possible locations. There were already a few around Rust Canyon, but other combinations of the numbers were far away from here. The lack of sleep was slowly catching up on Michael, even if he tried to fight it with all his strength.

  Michael opened his eyes, what felt like only a moment after he had closed them, but the sunlight that shone inside the window told him it was morning. He groaned as he sat up, realizing he had fallen asleep on top of the map. Michael turned around and saw that Benjamin had fallen asleep as well, still holding a pencil in his hand.

  He looked down at what he had written down, and everything came back to him at once. The threat, the numbers from Philip’s note. Thinking fast, he grabbed the map, the notebook, a water canteen, and a piece of ham someone must have brought the day before. He walked out of the office, careful not to wake up Benjamin. Outside was no one, and Michael hurried to his horse. He had to get away, to make Lillian’s captors think he had left town. He needed more time.

  * * *

  Michael rode on a small backroad that led to his house. He was not sure how long he would be away, so he would need to grab a few more things from the house. He looked around before he entered the house, groaning at the smell of burnt wood that still permeated the house.

  Michael grabbed his rucksack and filled it with the ham, map and water canteen, and grabbed the remaining cans from the empty looking pantry, as well as a bottle of bourbon and all the letters his father had sent him. He took a quick look at the map one more time, seeing where the first combination of the numbers would lead him. It was not far away, perhaps an hour riding. Michael left the house and hurriedly mounted his horse, hoping he would be lucky and find the correct location in the first try.

  * * *

  Benjamin woke up, confused as to why there was a pencil in his hand, and an envelope stuck to his chin. He sat up and realized he was still at the office. He looked around to see if Michael had noticed him sleeping when he saw that Michael was nowhere to be seen. A knock on the front door caught his attention. He noticed his wife walking into the office.

  “I brought you some breakfast.” Fanny put a basket with eggs, bread, and a jug of milk on a chair next to Benjamin’s desk.

  “You are an angel sent from heaven, that is for sure,” Benjamin said gratefully.

  “I figured you had stayed here working, and I knew you would need food,” she said.

  “You were right,” Benjamin replied, grabbing an egg from the basket.

  “I brought food for Michael as well,” Fanny said, looking around, “I figured he would also be here?”

  “He was here last night,” Benjamin said, “I don’t know where he is.”

  “I’m sure he will back soon,” Fanny replied consolingly but was startled at the look on her husband.

  “What is it, dear?” she asked concernedly.

  “Oh, I hope I am wrong,” Benjamin said, standing up, looking over at the place where Michael had sat last night.

  “What do you mean?” Fanny said.

  “I just hope Michael didn’t leave town because of the threat,” Benjamin muttered.

  “What threat?” Fanny asked, alarmed.

  “Lillian’s captors told him they would kill her if he did not leave Rust Canyon for good,” Benjamin said seriously, looking at Michael’s empty desk.

  * * *

  Michael had been riding for much more than an hour. There was nothing around him that he imagined could be the place on Philip’s note—if it had even been a specific location. Perhaps this number was something completely different? But Michael could not believe that. Philip had kept that note safe in a locked drawer alongside letters from his wife.

  This had to be more than a coincident. Michael stopped riding, taking a look at the other possible location from the coordinates. It was on the other side of the town, and he would need to make an extra detour if he wanted Lillian’s captors to think that he had succumbed to their threat. He sighed and took a sip from his water canteen. This was going to a very long day, and the sun was unusually hot today.

  “Let’s go,” Michael said to his horse, dragging it away from the small enclosure it was standing at.

  * * *

  The burning hot sunbeams made the riding almost unbearable. The only good thing about this weather was that not many people were around. Michael had been riding for three hours now, the detour road he was riding on was a tricky and narrow road, which made the riding even slower. He was finally nearing the second location.

  As he turned at a cluster of trees, he noticed a warehouse ahead. This could be it, Michael thought, and kicked his horse’s side to make it run faster. He slowed down around a half a mile away from the warehouse, not wanting to draw any attention his way. He tied the reins near a small stream of water, which his horse immediately began drinking from. Michael walked towards the small warehouse, pushing open the door to the side of it.

  Inside was very dark and not many things were there. A few old saddles, a broken carriage, and an ancient-looking barrel. Michael walked towards the barrel and lifted the top from it. A cloud of dust covered his face, causing him to cough violently. When he finally managed to calm his lungs, he put his hand deep inside the barrel.

  There was nothing but dust and dirt, but suddenly, at the very bottom corner, he could feel something hard. He pulled up a worn-out book, a journal. Michael opened the first page and saw Philip Walter’s name; He had found it!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lillian twisted around, trying to get into a slightly more comfortable position. She groaned silently as her side ached from the awkward angle she had been sitting in on the mattress. She could sense that it was getting late, as coldness swept over the building she was in. Her hands trembled, and she swallowed the sob that tried to escape out of her lips. Lillian had been dozing on and off for the past few hours. Something about the eerie silence made her sit up.

  All day she had been hearing movement outside and muttered voices. As much as she tried to make out what the voices were saying or who they were, it was no use. Whoever her captors were, they took care to stay close enough to observe her but just far away enough so that she could only every once in a while see their black-clad outlines. One of the men was slightly shorter than the other one, and the taller one seemed to be the one that was in cha
rge.

  Lillian observed the food they had brought her. The thought of eating it was despicable, but she would need to eat; she was going to need her strength. She sat up straight and pulled the tray of food nearer, rather clumsily with her hands tied together.

  She broke a small piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth. Her mouth was so dry that she could barely chew. She took the water jug and drank from it, her body felt tingly after she had swallowed a near quarter of the pitcher in one sip.

  At once, she felt much better. Her hands weren’t trembling anymore, and her mind felt alert. She tore a piece of the bread, somewhat awkwardly with her bound hands, and ate it. It was dry, but with the cheese, the taste was not too bad. With every bite, her thoughts calmed, and she felt a fiery breath of strength wash over her. She was not going to let them break her.