Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  He wasn’t particularly happy with breaking into this house, but these were desperate times. This house had all the signs of a hasty retreat. Or perhaps escape? There was a chair that lay on its side in the kitchen, and Michael imagined people moving around, stuffing possessions into bags. Because although the house was completely furnished, there was nothing else here—no old pictures on the mantle, no books or a sewing basket, not even a hat on a hook near the front door.

  The kitchen cabinets were open, and there were still mugs and bowls inside some of them. Michael peered inside the pantry and was surprised to find that it still had quite a few cans of beans and a tin of coffee. He grabbed one of the cans and blew away the dust.

  He had not eaten anything today, and the residents of this house would likely not miss this can of beans. He opened it up and grabbed a fork from a drawer next to the stove. Cold beans weren’t his favorite type of dinner, but he certainly had eaten worse.

  Michael sat down in a dusty looking armchair and rummaged in his rucksack, finally pulling out his father’s letters, which he had tied securely together with a leather string. Outside was almost pitch black now, the only light coming from an oil lamp that had been left behind, which was almost out of oil. Michael grabbed the bottle he had brought with him and took a generous swig from it. He opened one of the oldest letters from the pile.

  Perhaps I can find some trace of father talking about the buildings and places Philip mentioned.

  Michael was reading the third letter his father had sent him after he left. He had still been in Arizona, enjoying being away from Rust Canyon, seeing new places and people. He had been excited for a new adventure, although he had spent much of his time ignoring the pang of guilt he had felt every time his father sent another letter.

  Michael sighed and took another swig from the bottle. The remorse of not being here when all this was happening was creeping up on him again. He had dismissed his father’s frequent letters, not writing back nearly as often, making excuses for being preoccupied. Michael had even felt as if his father sounded like… an old man, blabbering on and on.

  Dearest Michael. The fall is about to arrive; I can feel it. There is change in the air, and I am not certain it will be for the better. Rust Canyon has an infestation. It is hard to know which houses are affected, and we must tread carefully, lest we carry vermin with us. It is unlike me to be interested in such activities, but perhaps it is my old age or simply my solitude. Yet again, I am stuck in the middle. There was a brawl between Mr. Wesley and the farmer upstate, Mr. Everett. I was close to putting both of them in the lock-up. As if neither of those needs a vermin issue, on top of everything else.

  I am awaiting your next letter with great anticipation, son, and I do hope I will not have to wait quite so long this time.

  Yours respectfully, S. Flemming.

  Hang on… That doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t I notice that before? Michael thought, rereading the letter. What was it father would always call the criminals he caught and searched for his whole life—Vermin.

  A vivid memory from Michael’s childhood popped up at once. Michael had been around eight years old at the time. His father had caught him and a friend sneaking from church to steal a bottle of cider from the general store. Michael’s friend, a skinny boy, called Joseph, ran away as Michael’s father appeared behind them, his intimidating glare enough to make all color drain from both of the boys’ faces.

  He had dragged Michael back to the station, right in front of the jail cell, and made Michael look at the man sitting inside. Michael could not remember who it had been; all he remembered was that it had been some petty thief his father had caught red-handed.

  “Are you going to end up like this one?” Michael remembered his father saying, “A liar and a thief? Nothing more than vermin?”

  Michael had shaken his head, but looking confusedly at his father, whispering, “What is vermin?” His father had replied, “A rat, like this one. If you find one, there is undoubtedly another one laying around. You need to fill up all holes and find the nest. That’s what we do to vermin here,” his father had said, pointing his last words at the man behind bars.

  This must be what his father had been referring to, Michael was sure of it. This story had been one of his father’s favorite, one which he re-told many times.

  Mr. Wesley… Vermin issue? Michael muddled over. Not long after this letter, Mr. Wesley died. “Hard to know which houses are affected.”

  There was a connection there. Philip wrote about houses having potential, and Michael’s father wrote about an infestation. This might be much bigger than he could have ever anticipated. Michael needed more information, someone who his father might have confided in. The trouble was who could he trust?

  * * *

  The following morning Benjamin walked determinately into the office. He began by checking up on his prisoner, who sat looking more miserable than ever before. Benjamin felt rather sorry for Vincent, but he would not lament when he would not be his problem anymore.

  Benjamin needed to send a telegraph, but after the post office had burnt down, it was taking a much longer time than before to send and receive letters. He was about to stand up and go see John Hickley when someone burst through the front door of the office.

  “What is going on?” Benjamin said, walking towards the ruckus.

  “Hopper,” Jacob Frazier said with a booming voice.

  “You cannot simply burst in here,” Benjamin said resoundingly.

  “I am about to lose my mind,” Jacob said, “Where is the Sheriff?” He made himself likely to walk further into the office, but now Benjamin had had enough.

  “Stop this, Jacob,” he rebuked.

  “Now listen,” Jacob said icily, “I just went to see Dorothy, and she cannot get out of bed, I believe her concerns might prove too much for her.”

  “You need to tell me where Flemming went,” he finished, breathing heavily.

  “Jacob,” Benjamin said, uncharacteristically stern, “The Sheriff is doing his job…”

  “His job is to be here,” Jacob cut him off.

  “Jacob,” Benjamin repeated, but Jacob shook his head, turned around, and stormed out of the office. Benjamin walked after him, feeling his ears burning red. He was going to ask Jacob to come back inside to smooth things over, but Jacob hurled at him: “Has he perhaps given up?” Jacob spat.

  “How dare you,” Benjamin heaved.

  “He hasn’t been Sheriff for more than a few months, and when the going gets tough, he vanishes,” Jacob yelled, and there was a small crowd gathering around them.

  “This is my family that is suffering. My niece, my sweet, darling niece, who has never so much as hurt a fly, is gone,” Jacob had to take a deep breath as the thought of Lillian seemed too much for him. When he had composed himself, he continued, “And now my cousin’s wife is withering away before my own two eyes. I want to know where our Sheriff is.”

  Benjamin was at a complete loss for what to say. He could see people putting their heads together, whispering. As he was silent for longer and longer, the whispering grew louder. But by some grace of God, Benjamin was saved the retort by the sound of an approaching carriage.

  It was a small, black carriage, drawn by two strong looking horses. Bars covered the windows of the carriage, and two men sat accompanying the carriage. The carriage rider was a tall man with a grey beard, pipe between his teeth, and a patch over one eye. The other man seemed to be younger but had a bandana over his mouth, and his hat was drawn low.

  “Howdy,” the grey-bearded man said.

  “Morning,” Benjamin said to the strange man.

  “Which one of y’all is Hopper?” The man asked.

  “That would be me,” Benjamin replied.

  “I’m Cleveland ‘the Blind’ Ramsey,” the man chuckled, gesturing to his eye patch when he said blind.

  “Benjamin Hopper,” he said.

  “I am here on official business,” Cleveland said, “Along
with my associate,” he nodded to the other man, “From Gatesville Sheriff’s office.” Cleveland jumped down from the carriage and walked towards Benjamin, handing him an envelope. Benjamin opened it and saw the signature of the Sheriff in Gatesville and the confirmation of what Cleveland was saying.

  In all the confusion since Michael had gone, he had not had the chance to even think about the telegram from Gatesville, informing that they would be sending someone over to pick up Vincent.

  “We’re here to pick up your prisoner,” Cleveland said with a wide grin.

  “Of course,” Benjamin replied, “Follow me.” He walked back into the Sheriff’s office, pleased to see that the arrival of these two men had at least taken the attention away from Michael not being present.

  * * *

  Michael woke early after a restless sleep. Throughout the night, he saw Lillian, hidden away in some horrible shed, calling his name over and over. Each time he approached her in his dream, she fell further away from him, crying and asking why he would not save her. Waking up in that empty house made him miss his half-burnt down one.

  Although that was not really true. Michael stood up from the bed he had slept in and walked into the kitchen. Last night he had managed to light a fire in the stove, although it took him a very long time. He found the coffee tin and heated water. He was going to go out early and search for one of the other houses that Philip had written about.

  Michael was sure that the best solution was to find someone who might know more, but the question remained—who that might be? He did not dare to go to the town just yet. Michael wanted to maintain the illusion that he had succumbed to the threat he had been sent. Otherwise, he feared that he would put Lillian in ever greater danger than she was currently.

  Michael took his belongings and stuffed them into his rucksack. He grabbed another tin of beans and made sure there was no trace of his being in the house. Once he had fetched his horse, he rode ahead, down a beautiful road, covered by tall trees.

  He was about to make a turn when he heard the sound of hooves approaching. He pulled back on the reins, staying in the clearing of a heavy branch, which hid him from the adjoining road. The sound grew louder, and finally, he saw a familiar figure riding, getting bigger and more apparent. It was Doctor Littlefield.

  Michael observed the Doctor, trying to make up his mind. His father had always spoken highly of Doctor Littlefield. However, Michael wasn’t sure who he could truly trust. As the Doctor rode past the clearing that Michael was at, he made up his mind. I will have to take my chance; I cannot waste any more time. Michael rode ahead, causing Doctor Littlefield to slow down to a stop.

  “Sheriff?” Doctor Littlefield said, surprised, “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I am looking for Lillian Walter,” Michael replied.

  “Here?” Doctor Littlefield asked.

  “Doctor,” Michael hurried to say, “I need to ask you a question.”

  “Ask away,” the Doctor said, “Mind you, I have been over at the Johnsons almost all night, Amos Johnson had a nasty cut that was infected, so I would prefer to speak in my office, or later today…”

  “I’m afraid that is not possible,” Michael interrupted him.

  “Well then,” Doctor Littlefield said, “What would you like to know?”

  “Not here,” Michael replied, “Follow me.” He turned around and rode back towards the abandoned house he had just vacated.

  “Can I ask why we are going to the Everett farm?” Doctor Littlefield asked as they led the horses to the stable.

  “I think it is wise if I do not tell you too much,” Michael said as he returned into the house, “But I will make us some coffee. Then I will need to ask you about what you know about my father’s last months.”

  “I have been waiting for this,” Doctor Littlefield sighed, to Michael’s great surprise, “Now I am going to need that cup of coffee.”

  Michael walked into the kitchen and began heating the coffee he had made earlier. He returned after a little while with two mugs of coffee and handed one to the Doctor that sat at the kitchen table, looking somber.

  “Why did you say you have been expecting this?” Michael asked.

  “Your father,” Doctor Littlefield began, “In the end, he was… Well, he was not like himself.”

  “How do you mean?” Michael asked.

  “I knew you father for a long time,” Doctor Littlefield continued, “And in his last months, he had begun to behave differently.”

  “How so?”

  “He was secretive, and he spent a majority of his time cooped up, either at the Sheriff’s office or in his home. But after the tragic death of Mr. Wesley, he came to me,” he said.

  “What did he say to you?” Michael asked.

  “He told me to make sure that you would be informed of his suspicions, in case anything ever happened to him,” Doctor Littlefield said, looking intently at Michael. “He said that you should know the truth about what was going on in Rust Canyon.”

  The Doctor paused for a long while as he finished the last of his coffee.

  “Truth about what?” Michael said impatiently. It was infuriating how long it was taking the man to say this.

  “Your father said there was a curse over Rust Canyon,” Doctor Littlefield said calmly.

  “A curse?” Michael gaped. This did not sound like his father at all. He had never been one to believe in anything supernatural or what he would always call it Old Wives’ Tales.

  “My father said there was a curse over Rust Canyon?” Michael repeated in disbelief.

  “I hope you forgive me for not telling you this sooner,” Doctor Littlefield said apologetically.

  “When he came to see me, he had written it all down in his journal and told me that you must know about how all the signs point to a curse.”

  “Curse,” Michael muttered, more confused than ever.

  “I simply thought his mind was going,” Doctor Littlefield said sadly, “I had hoped I would never have to tell you about this, but I suspect he wrote about this in one of his journals. I did not want to tarnish his memory.”

  Michael sat in stunned silence. A curse? It did not make sense. All the signs point to… Wait a minute. Something shifted in his mind, something that sounded very much like his father.

  “Are you sure he said signs, point to a curse?” Michael asked, “Is it possible he said clues? All the clues point to a curse? “

  “Uhm,” Doctor Littlefield hummed thoughtfully, “Now that you say it, yes, he might have said clues.”

  That’s it! Michael knew what this meant, and it certainly did not mean a curse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lillian pulled her knees towards her, hugging herself. It was another morning, waking up in this hell. The ties holding her hands together were beginning to chafe her wrists, despite the soft silk material used. She had barely slept last night; she kept waking up thinking she heard sounds outside.

  More than once, she had been certain that she was hearing the hooves of horses, but she did not dare to try and call for help. She was not really sure how long she had been held captive; it felt like it had been forever, but she thought it was more likely only a few days. The solitude had a strange effect on her. A stoic calm had taken over her. Lillian had been thinking up ideas to find out where she was and who had taken her. And possibly how to escape.

  Lillian had become so frighteningly accustomed to these miserable surroundings that she did not even flinch as one of her captors appeared holding a tray of food. She noticed it was the shorter one. Lillian imagined that he was kinder, although it was hard to think about that when these two men did not display any sign of difference to her situation.

  Still, the shorter one always lingered when he brought the food, his eyes shifting back and forth as if he was unable to look directly at her. Lillian watched him approach her, making up her mind.

  “Please,” she whispered, her voice croaky and sore. The masked man stopped de
ad in his tracks, looking alarmed. “Please, can you take these?” Lillian murmured, holding out her bound hands. The man looked at her wrists and noticed the red chafing, and Lillian imagined that he made a wincing look. He put down the tray and pushed it towards her, avoiding her eyes.

  “It hurts,” Lillian said, allowing some of her genuine fear she had been pushing away, reach the surface.

  “Please…” she added pleadingly. He stopped, looking behind him nervously. Lillian was sure he was about to leave, or possibly slap her when he spoke.