Longing For The Tormented Sheriff (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  “They left this with her,” Mr. Hammond was shaking with anger, holding a note. It said: You better keep your mouth shut if you ever want to see your children again.

  Anger filled Michael’s whole being, and he handed the note back to Mr. Hammond. “I will find your children,” he said, standing up, surprising both Mrs. Wesley and her mother.

  “How?” she said.

  “Tell me where they stopped you,” Michael said, “I will go there right now. This happened today, so there might still be some evidence.”

  “They stopped me about two miles from here,” Mrs. Wesley said, wiping tears away from her face, “By the thick cluster of trees.”

  “I know where it is,” Michael said, “I will go there now.”

  “But how will you find them?” Mrs. Wesley said with a trembling voice.

  “I have been investigating these people,” Michael answered, putting his hat on again, “You have to know that I will not rest until I have found the people behind this and put them away for a long time.”

  “How did the man that stopped you look?”

  “I can’t really remember,” Mrs. Wesley said, “It all happened so fast.”

  “Was he taller or shorter than me, for example?” Michael asked.

  “I think, shorter,” she said uncertainly.

  “Do you think that the man that came here was the man pretending to be a sheriff is the son of a bitch that took my grandchildren?” Mr. Hammond said, fuming, “He was here? At my home! I should have shot him…”

  “Mr. Hammond,” Michael interrupted, “Please,” he gestured to his wife and daughter that were visibly upset by his outburst.

  “Sorry, my dear,” he said, walking towards his daughter, “But why would the man come here and pretend to be someone else? Surely, he would just have said who he was!”

  “It is strange,” Michael agreed, “But I will go now.”

  “I should go with you,” Mr. Hammond said.

  “No! You must stay with them,” Michael objected, “If anything happens… you must be here to protect them.”

  “You’re right,” Mr. Hammond agreed. Michael bade goodbye and hurried outside. What sort of monsters took children away from their parents?

  * * *

  Michael rode like the wind towards the place that Mrs. Wesley had mentioned. The sun was setting, and he would have little time to investigate. He kicked his horse’s sides to make it go even faster. He made the turn towards the thick cluster of trees and slowed down. He looked to see if anyone was around but soon realized it was impossible to find out.

  This was the perfect place to wait and ambush someone; everywhere, there were large tree trunks, big enough to hide a full-grown man out of sight from the road. Michael dismounted and led his horse towards a large tree with a low hanging branch. He tied the reins, but loosely in case if he would need to ride away quickly—possibly in pursuit of someone.

  He looked around the ground, and the first thing he noticed was wheel markings. The dry earth dusted very easily, but Michael could make out where Mrs. Wesley must have stopped and where the man rode away—with her children.

  He was about to walk in the direction where the tracks seemed to lead when he heard the breaking of twigs nearby him. His hand shot to his belt, and he pulled out his gun, turning towards the sound. Near the turn in the road, he was sure he saw someone. Very slowly, he pulled back the hammer of his gun and crept towards the figure. His heart was racing, not with nervousness or fear, but with hatred and fury.

  Was the bastard who did this here? Perhaps making sure that Mrs. Wesley didn’t return to Rust Canyon. He walked closer and stood behind a large tree. Michael crept to the side of it, peering at a man that was crouched down, seemingly examining the road. The man was dressed all in black, and Michael noticed he had light-brown hair, and when the man stood up, Michael could guess that he was shorter than he was. And the man was pale as the moonlight. All of a sudden, Michael jumped out at the man, holding out his gun.

  “Get down,” Michael yelled, but the man grabbed his gun faster than Michael anticipated. The man pointed his gun at him, but Michael shot him, aiming for the man’s leg—he would have to make him talk. But he just missed him. The man was about to shoot when his gun jammed. Michael seized the moment and jumped on top of the man.

  “Ahh,” the man groaned but managed to kick Michael off him. He punched Michael hard in the jaw once and was about to swing his fist a second time, but Michael managed to block his punch and kick him in the stomach. The man heeled backward, and Michael tried to grab his hands together. The man was surprisingly strong, and with seeming ease, he broke from his grip. Michael jumped at him again, this time managing to hold him down with his weight.

  “Where are they?” Michael shouted at the man, pinning him down.

  “What are you talking about?” the man grunted.

  “The children, you scum,” Michael retorted.

  “I don’t know,” the man gasped, trying to kick Michael off him.

  “Stop,” Michael bellowed, but the man pushed him off. Michael pointed his gun at him, but the man stared at him, looking surprised.

  “Sheriff Flemming?” he said.

  “What?” Michael said confusedly.

  “Don’t shoot,” the man said, holding his hands up.

  “Why the hell shouldn’t I?” Michael spat.

  “Sheriff Flemming,” the man said slowly, “My name is Rex Rodgers… I’m the bounty hunter that’s been trying to warn you!”

  * * *

  Lillian groaned as she tried to move. Her hands were aching now from the tightly wound rope, and she had a hard time moving around. She was tired beyond belief but was unable to sleep. Samuel had been walking in and out of the room for the remainder of the day, bringing her water once in a while. He looked bad and still clutched his hand close to his chest. Lillian didn’t dare try to speak with him again due to the frightened look on his face every time he heard a noise or a sound from outside.

  He had been outside for a long time now, and as Lillian noticed the rapidly darkening sky, she wished that she was not alone. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Michael’s face, either beaming with pride like when she rode on her own for the first time or the crestfallen look she had noticed when Vincent had returned to her home after the fire at the Post Office. As her discomfort and pain increased, so did the look on Michael, she noticed.

  I pray that you will find me, Michael. Please save me…

  Lillian looked up to see Samuel returning to the room. He was white as a sheet, and the cloth he had over his hand was dripping with blood.

  “Samuel,” she exclaimed, and to her surprise, he didn’t try to stop her from talking.

  “This needs to be treated,” she added, looking at his injured hand.

  “I can’t go anywhere,” Samuel moaned weakly, and Lillian gasped as he almost lost his footing.

  “Please, sit down,” she pleaded. He did as told and sat down in front of her.

  “Has he gone?” she whispered, looking at the door that led outside. Samuel nodded his head.

  “You have to untie me so I can try to mend your hand,” Lillian said urgently.

  “No, I can’t,” he said with panic in his voice.

  “Samuel, I’m afraid that you will not make it if you keep losing blood,” Lillian replied.

  “I don’t feel so good,” Samuel said weakly.

  “Please untie me,” Lillian repeated.

  “All right then,” he said, moving his uninjured hand to his boot and grabbing a small knife. Lillian gasped, but he began to use the knife to cut the rope from her wrists. After what seemed to be an entire lifetime, the ropes finally dropped to the floor. At once, Lillian took Samuel’s hand in hers and removed the cloth he had been using as a bandage.

  There was an apparent gunshot wound on his hand, which would have to be treated by a doctor soon. Lillian thought desperately what she could do, looking around the sparse room. She noticed the wate
r canteen and crawled over to grab it.

  I don’t have anything to cover the wound, she thought, but then she realized what she could do. She tore away a long strip of her dress, just wide enough to cover the wound. She poured water over the injury, and Samuel hissed with pain.

  “Be still,” she said, laying the clean piece of cloth over the wound. She began to wind the long strip of her dress in a circle after circle over his hand, making sure to tie it tightly enough. Finally, she tucked the end of the fabric, looking at her handiwork.

  “It should be better now,” she said, “At least a little bit.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Samuel asked, “After all we have done,” he said guiltily.

  “I believe you should always help if you can, especially those that help you,” Lillian said.

  “But I haven’t helped you; I have only harmed you,” Samuel said bitterly, not looking at her.

  “I do not know the reason why you are here, but I cannot change what has happened,” Lillian replied, “and I cannot look at another person suffering and not help.”

  “Even if that is a bad person?” Samuel asked.

  “I don’t think you are a bad person, Samuel,” Lillian said and gave him a small smile.

  “I wish I never came here,” he muttered, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said, gesturing to the room they were in.

  “What do you mean?” Lillian asked.

  “We weren’t supposed to keep you here,” Samuel said, “But…” he stopped himself just before he said the name of his companion.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he said, backing away from her.

  “Please don’t leave,” Lillian said at once, “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “All right,” Samuel said hesitantly, “I’ll stay.”

  “Thank you,” Lillian replied, “I can’t bear another cold night here on my own.”

  * * *

  “You sent me a letter,” Michael stated, looking at the man in front of him.

  “I sure tried,” Rex said, gingerly standing up. Michael was still clutching his gun, still not quite ready to believe him.

  “The letter was burned,” Michael said, standing up, looking at the man in front of him. He certainly fits the description that Benjamin had given, although he could not be certain if he would describe the man as with a broad forehead.

  “Recently, a bounty hunter from the Gatesville sheriff’s office came to pick up a prisoner,” Michael said.

  “Yeah, I was one of them,” Rex replied.

  “Did you speak with my junior sheriff at that time?” Michael asked.

  “I did not,” Rex said, “He spoke with my associate, Cleveland ‘the blind.’”

  “I see,” Michael replied thoughtfully.

  “Did you recently try to speak with Mr. Hammond, pretending to be me?”

  “Well… I might have done something of that sort,” Rex chuckled, but Michael did not see any reason to smirk about this matter.

  “Why should I believe you? If you are who you are, why would you need to deceive people into believing you are someone else,” Michael retorted.

  “To be honest, I do this often,” Rex said, “And before you say anything, allow me to explain. When I say I am a bounty hunter, I usually get the door shut in my face.”

  “So, you pretend to be a sheriff regularly?” Michael said in disbelief.

  “I do, but I do it to gauge people’s reaction,” Rex explained.

  “Gauge people’s reaction?” Michael repeated.

  “When folks have nothing to hide, speaking with a sheriff is no issue, can even be a bit exciting,” Rex continued, “However, when people are hiding something or have done something bad, the sheriff is the last person they want to be talking with.”

  Michael couldn’t help but chuckle, “As I said, my name is Rex Rodgers, I am a bounty hunter, and I do much work for the Gatesville Sheriff’s office. I have been working on finding a man that is only known as Old Ghost.”

  “And I sent you a letter, a warning because I believed that Old Ghost might have infiltrated your town, or at least has some of his men working for him there.”

  “Why do you think that?” Michael asked.

  “Well, Old Ghost leaves a trail of fires and arsons. The body count is growing with every year, but so far, no one has caught him or even knows what he looks like,” Rex said, grabbing a pipe from his pocket and lighting it.

  “I tried to send you a warning, but it seems I was too late,” he added, blowing smoke out slowly.

  “And why are you here?” Michael asked.

  “To try and find Mrs. Wesley’s children,” Rex said.

  “How did you know they had been taken?” Michael asked.

  “I have been investigating Old Ghost and his methods for a long time, Sheriff,” he said, “And this is what he does. He tries to bribe, and when that doesn’t work, he manipulates and blackmails people. He will stop at nothing to gain more, seize more power and money.”

  “When I saw Mrs. Wesley had gone, I suspected she might have tried to escape, so I tried to follow,” Rex sighed, “But I was too late, they had already gotten to her.”

  “Well, I am going to leave before I lose more sunlight,” Michael finally said.

  “I will join you,” Rex said.

  “You will?” Michael replied.

  “You are not the only one that wants to catch these bastards,” Rex said coolly.

  “Fine,” Michael said, “I am going to follow these wheel tracks.”

  “Did they take her carriage?” Rex asked.

  “Yes, they did,” Michael said and was surprised when he saw that Rex was grinning.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “This means they are getting sloppy,” Rex said, “This means we will catch them.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Michael rode next to Rex. They moved slower than Michael would have preferred, as they had to watch that they were still following the carriage tracks. The sky was getting increasingly darker, and finally, they stopped being able to see the tracks. They slowed down, stopping at a crossroads that divided the road in two directions.

  “Damn it,” Rex exclaimed.

  “We are just going to have to go both ways,” Michael said.

  “Let’s split up,” he added, looking at Rex.

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Rex replied, pulling his horse towards the road that led to the right.

  “Good luck,” Michael said, tucking on the reins encouraging his horse to move. He looked around at the narrow road. It was surrounded by a thick cluster of trees on one side and a rocky hillside on the other. He had to ride slowly as the sky was turning dark, and some of the lower hanging branches stroked and poked his arm and head.

  This is much too tight for a carriage, Michael thought, wincing as a branch pulled back and shot back and hit him on the arm painfully. I should return to Rex… But Michael had barely formed the thought when a gunshot pierced the sky, causing birds to fly from nearby trees, and Michael’s horse jumped up in the air. Michael barely managed to hold on, narrowly preventing him from falling off his saddle.

  “Calm down,” he said, soothingly to his horse, “Let’s turn back.” With some maneuvering, he was able to turn around on the narrow road, and he rode as fast as he could in the darkness and on the uneven earth. He reached the crossroads again and hurried forward, grabbing his gun from his belt. This pathway was much broader, and the road more worn.

  Are we being ambushed? This would be a perfect place to lurk and wait for unsuspecting passers-by.

  Movement ahead caught his attention, and he hurried along. In the distance, he noticed a small clearing, and a loud scuffling was happening very close by. Michael slowed down, inching towards the sound of the commotion. There was the carriage, haphazardly placed next to a large tree, and ahead was a small cabin, almost entirely hidden by the surrounding trees.

  Michael peered ahead, making sure to remain out of sight. H
e saw Rex crouching behind a pile of tree logs, looking carefully at the house. Michael did not see anyone at the house at first. But then he noticed the rifle sticking out of one of the windows.

  There was no way for Michael to ride ahead without catching the attention of the gunman in the house, and if he tried to return the way he came, they might still catch a glimpse of him—if they hadn’t already done so. Michael was thinking fast, looking around him. If he went on foot, he might be able to remain out of sight.