My Heart Goes Out To You


My Heart Goes Out To You


My Heart Goes Out To You

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It was late afternoon and the heat of the sun had already begun to wane, making it a pleasant summer’s day. A gentle breeze stirred up some of the tall grass on the banks of the river, while the trees along the river seemed to sway in rhythm with the wind.

The air carried faint hints of the sweet fragrance of flowers growing nearby. It was peaceful and tranquil; an ideal setting for anyone looking for solitude. But even though this place would be a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of city life, there was only one person who could appreciate its serenity, peace, and tranquility. That was me.

“This is nice,” I said as I gazed out across the river from our private cabin porch. “I wish we had more time to just sit here.”

“There isn’t much to do here but fish and watch birds,” Tom said dryly, his arms crossed over his chest. He was lying on the hammock that hung between two trees close by the cabin door. His head was propped up on one elbow, which was why he looked so annoyed.

“We’ve spent hours watching those stupid blackbirds peck at worms. There’s nothing else to entertain us except the occasional barge going down the river.”

He was probably right about not having much to keep busy with. We were staying here until my father got word that my mother was well enough to travel back home. So far, no word came through. And after almost three weeks, we finally decided to pack up and move on.

The problem was, there wasn’t anywhere else in the world to go. If my father couldn’t find a ship heading back south to New York City, then we’d have to return to Texas and take passage on a train headed west. My father hated traveling by rail. But since we didn’t want to spend another year in the wilds of Montana, it was better than taking the long journey by horseback or wagon.

“Don’t worry, Tom. We’ll get her back safely,” I told him firmly, knowing how badly she was struggling with her illness. It made me furious that I couldn’t help her the way I wanted to. But I did what little I could, spending every spare moment tending to her.

She needed all of my attention when we weren’t on the trail searching for a ship bound for America. And although she had plenty of people around her who cared about her, none of them knew exactly where they were going to take her next, and that was why Tom and I had come west on our own to seek out the only man who might have heard something about a ship heading south.

“You think so?” Tom asked with surprise.

“Yes,” I answered. “The doctor has been able to treat your mother successfully these last few days. He says her fever should clear up soon and she shouldn’t have any more trouble.”

“Well, we haven’t seen anything unusual lately,” Tom said, sounding doubtful. “And if the doctor can’t cure her, then I don’t see how you’re going to make sure she gets well before winter hits.”

“I’m still hoping it works out,” I reassured him. “But even if it doesn’t, there are other ways to bring her back to New York in good health. We won’t leave her behind.”

A silence fell between us as Tom contemplated our situation, trying to imagine a future without my mother. When he didn’t say anything further, I took that to mean he accepted my explanation.

That was why he wasn’t as angry or suspicious as usual today. I knew how hard he tried to protect his younger sister from the dangers of society. It was partly due to their father’s harsh upbringing as an orphan on the streets of New York City, and partly because Tom wanted to give his little sister everything he never had growing up.

It was a noble goal and I loved him for it. He always put his family first and would do whatever it took to help her. He was also the most loyal person I ever met.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that Tom was a lawman in disguise. Although I hadn’t mentioned it to him yet, the reason Tom went into law enforcement was simple: to find a way to save his family. And that included saving me. Even though I had never intended for him to become an undercover agent, I understood why he felt compelled to play this role, whether he liked it or not.

My father had made that clear to us during our last conversation on the trail. He told us that if Tom continued to work for the Pinkerton agency, he would be forced to quit, and I was relieved that he did so before things got serious between Tom and me.

He knew it wouldn’t matter if we became engaged or married someday; he could never tell me about his job.

That’s why I agreed to pretend to fall in love with the handsome marshal, which was why I kissed him when I thought I might actually like the taste of him. But now that my feelings were becoming deeper and stronger, I was beginning to wonder if I wanted to continue pretending anymore.

“Do you hear that?” Tom asked suddenly, interrupting my thoughts.

I looked around the area but saw nothing unusual or out of place. A large bird swooped past in search of some worms nearby. The wind rustled the leaves on the tree, but otherwise, there was little sound except for a distant train whistle somewhere in the distance.

“Hear what?” I asked. “It sounds like someone shouting.”

“Someone is yelling,” Tom said. “Sounds like two or three men are arguing.”

“Where do you hear it?” I whispered, leaning close to him.

“Over there,” he answered. “Listen.”

I followed his gaze and spotted a group of rough-looking men standing at the edge of the town. They were all wearing dark clothing and talking loudly enough to be overheard by anyone listening closely.

“What do you think they want?” I mused aloud. “They look dangerous.”

Tom shook his head slowly. “Maybe one of them was caught breaking into a house and got arrested.”

“How would he get away so easily after being chased off? And why would the sheriff let them go?” I wondered.

“Who knows?” Tom answered. “Probably not important anyway.”

“You’re probably right,” I replied, looking down at my hands. “We’d better get going. Maybe we can find out what all the commotion is about and who the men are later.”

When we neared the marshal’s office, Tom grabbed my hand. “Wait here until I’m inside,” he instructed.

“Why?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you accompany me in case someone recognizes me?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, squeezing my fingers reassuringly. “If that happens, I’ll come out and explain things to them. Now just wait here for me to finish up with Mr. Clements.”

With that, he ducked inside the building and disappeared into the hallway.

After waiting five minutes, I decided to take a closer look outside. I stood near the window and peered through the cracks between the shutters. There was no sign of Tom anywhere. The town was as quiet as before, with not a single person or horse moving on the street.

I walked toward the front door with renewed concern, wondering where Tom was and what he was doing in there. I glanced back at the street, half expecting to see Tom emerge from the marshal’s office. I waited another moment but he didn’t appear.

The thought of his disappearing like this sent chills over me. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I knew something wasn’t quite right. My father warned us both about the risks associated with working undercover.

In fact, he told Tom and me that it was more common than anyone expected in law enforcement. That was why he insisted that we always travel with someone else. It took me a minute to decide what to do next. If I went home, I might learn something about Tom, especially since his father owned this station.

On the other hand, if I stayed here, I might discover what Tom was hiding, which would certainly prove useful to the agency and myself.

So I decided to return to my room upstairs while I considered my options. I would have gone back in time if I hadn’t seen that man again.

***

As soon as the sun peeked above the horizon, the town woke up and started bustling with activity. People arrived to open businesses, children played in the streets, and horses trotted along the roadways. I watched all this go by while trying to keep track of my whereabouts, but the only people I saw were the locals.

I was beginning to feel like a stranger in my own hometown. Even though most of them were friendly enough, I felt out of place, like an outsider looking in at life happening without her.

By lunchtime, I had almost forgotten my purpose in coming to town. The marshal’s office was quiet again, and no one had yet entered the restaurant, so I returned to my table and ordered food. After eating a few bites of chicken salad, I set aside my plate and tried to ignore the growing hunger.

“Miss? Miss? Can I help you?”

I turned to see a young waitress holding out a cup of water and wiping the counter nearby. “Sorry, yes. Could you bring me some coffee?”

“Of course,” she replied, smiling. “Would you like sugar? Milk? Or perhaps a piece of pie?”

“Please, black coffee,” I answered.

The waitress headed over to the pot and filled my cup. She poured a generous helping of sugar, added cream, then handed me the steaming mug. “Will you be staying long?” she asked as she poured another cup for herself. “It looks like the marshal will be closed today, so maybe you should stay overnight.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be best,” I agreed. “I’m not sure when he’ll reopen.”

The waitress nodded in response and sat down beside me. We talked for another half hour about nothing serious, mostly personal matters and local gossip. When the subject switched to work, I explained how I worked for the agency, which seemed to amuse her.

“And what kind of cases do you investigate?” she asked with genuine interest.

“Anything that comes along,” I said with a shrug. “Including bank robberies and train robberies, murders, kidnappings, even arson, embezzlement, and fraud.”

She smiled and shook her head. “There’s just too much crime for two small towns to handle.”

“That’s true,” I conceded. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

“What are your duties as an agent?” she asked.

I hesitated briefly before answering. “Mostly I listen for clues and write reports after every mission.”

“Sounds exciting,” she said with an encouraging smile. “You must love it.”

I did, although that love often made it difficult to remain objective about the job and the criminals we encountered. But that was why I liked the job: I got to do things no one else could ever dream of doing.

I could never tell her the details, of course—that was part of the agreement I signed with my father before I began working for the agency. Still, if the waitress wanted to learn more, I might share a bit of information. “Sometimes, but that depends on the case,” I answered carefully. “When a case is particularly tough or dangerous, like this one, you can bet that I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

She looked up in surprise, and I wondered what thoughts were going through her mind. Did she believe me? Or did she think I was just saying what I thought she wanted to hear? Either way, I hoped she didn’t get any ideas.

“If you like being alone,” the waitress said finally, “you should try visiting Mount Rushmore. It’s not far from here. You might find it interesting.”

“I may just do that,” I responded, and then, because I couldn’t resist, I added, “Thank you for the recommendation.”

We exchanged pleasantries for another hour until I decided I needed to pay my bill and leave. I thanked the waitress again for the conversation and went outside to wait for Tom.

“I was wondering if I’d find you sitting here,” he said when he reached my table. He pulled out a chair and sat next to me. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit.”

“Not at all,” I replied, relieved that someone would be traveling with me. I glanced toward the front door as a group of women walked by us and continued their search for a parking spot. The marshal wasn’t there yet. “How much longer do you plan to wait?”

“Another fifteen minutes,” he said.

“I’ve already paid for my meal,” I said. “Why don’t we walk around town and take a look at the sights before leaving?”

Tom gave me a quick glance. “That sounds good. I saw an old carousel over at the park earlier, but that’s about it.”

“It’s still early,” I reminded him. “Perhaps the marshal will open his office soon.”

As we crossed the street, we stopped to watch four boys trying to catch a stray cat. One boy held the animal by the tail; another used a stick to whack its back legs while another stood on its hind legs and scratched its neck with the tip of his boot.

They laughed hysterically every time they missed. As we watched them for several moments, Tom chuckled. “Those young’uns have some funny tricks,” he commented.

“That’s probably why we’re so fascinated with animals,” I mused, looking across the road. “They can do things that nobody ever expects. Cats seem to be the best at it. Just imagine what a dog might do.”

We walked to the park and climbed aboard the horse-drawn carousel. The horses seemed to be carved out of real wood, each with different expressions. There were happy ones, sad ones, and others that looked like they had been caught off guard and surprised.

I took a seat on a black stallion. It was the only dark horse and looked most, unlike the rest. Tom joined me and then moved closer. A moment later, he slipped an arm around my waist. He kissed the back of my shoulder and then slid a hand under my hair, brushing it aside and running his fingers softly down my neck to my chin. His lips moved to my ear.

“Maybe I should ride this,” he whispered.

I turned my head to meet his kiss and found myself wishing the ride hadn’t ended. My heart pounded hard in my chest. I knew he meant nothing by it, but still…

I felt Tom’s hands sliding under my shirt and caressing my warm skin. I shuddered, remembering our previous kisses. This one was even more intense than last night’s, perhaps because this time there was no pretense or awkwardness. The passion of the moment made everything easier and more natural between us.

The carousel stopped turning, and everyone started climbing off their steeds. As we stepped away from each other, I felt his fingers gently brush against my lower back as he walked past me.

***

A short time later, the marshal appeared at the entrance of the park and beckoned me inside. He greeted Tom and then told us how glad he was to see us. That surprised me because I wasn’t sure what Tom could contribute to the investigation, but apparently, the marshal didn’t share that opinion.

“There’s something about those boys who killed Mr. Pritchard,” I said. “They weren’t acting like normal kids.”

“Normal kids wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood,” he said bluntly.

“But they were having fun doing it,” I argued, thinking of how happy they all seemed when the deed was done. “They didn’t really mean any harm.”

“You can’t always tell what people are capable of unless you’ve known them for a long time,” the marshal said slowly. “Some people get into trouble without meaning to.”

“Do you know the boys who attacked your son?” Tom asked.

“Yes, they were hanging around the marshal’s office after school, playing tag with his dog.” The marshal paused for a moment. “I’m afraid he got too close to one of them today. The animal bit his face when he tried to stop him.”

“Is your son injured?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing serious, although I don’t want to find out the hard way that he’s not so lucky someday. I’ll have to start teaching him how to handle animals, just in case.”

I nodded my understanding and returned to the matter at hand. “What did these boys do before they turned to crime?”

“None of their parents would allow them near here,” he said. “All three of them come from families that are on the edge of poverty. They live mostly out west where they can be left alone—or as much as possible.”

“Doesn’t anybody notice that they’re missing?” I asked.

“It’s hard to miss someone who doesn’t show up for school for weeks at a time,” the marshal replied. “Their teachers assumed they were ill. But now…” The marshal let his voice trail off. He sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. “This is a terrible shame.”

Tom placed his hand on the marshal’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We’re going to solve this mystery,” he promised.

The marshal looked relieved. He gave Tom directions to the nearest railroad station and said goodbye. Once outside, Tom looked over at me.

“I guess we better go talk to the boys’ fathers,” he said. “They may hold the key to the whole thing.”

I agreed.

The next morning we drove to a small town north of town, passing several farms along the way. At last, we arrived at a shack-like farmhouse surrounded by an assortment of old buildings and fences that seemed ready to fall apart.

The place was a far cry from the ranchlands of Colorado Territory where I had grown up. I couldn’t imagine the Pritchards living here, especially in winter. Tom parked the buggy near the front porch. Then we climbed out and started walking toward the house.

We entered through the front door and headed down the hallway. It was dimly lit and smelled musty, reminding me of dusty old books in my grandmother’s library. One of the first doors we passed opened, and two men came out and joined us. I recognized both.

“Mr. O’Leary!” I cried, shocked. His hair was gray now instead of black; the lines around his eyes were deeper. But he still looked like the same old Jack I’d known years ago. I remembered well what a bully he used to be, but I also remembered how good he was to me when he noticed that I was struggling with some math problems.

“Miss Pritchard!” he said. “I heard you were in Texas, but I never dreamed—”

“You’re not alone anymore,” I told him. “Now I can help you out whenever you need it.”

He smiled and patted me on the back, then introduced me to the other man, a stocky older gentleman named Joe.

After we had exchanged greetings, we moved farther into the house, which was larger than I expected. Two children played at the bottom of the stairs and peeped over the railing at us. A young woman stood quietly by the kitchen table while an elderly lady sat slumped in her chair beside a large pot on top of the stove.

“Where is Mr. O’Leary?” I asked.

Joe pointed toward a closed bedroom at the end of the hallway. “In there with Miss Molly, taking care of her since she fell and hurt herself.”

“How is your mother?” I asked gently.

The younger man’s eyes grew moist and sad. “She’s getting worse,” he said. “Her illness has affected her mind.”

I knew right away that he meant her mind had been stolen by the demon that killed Mr. Pritchard and made the boys murder innocent men. I wondered if she had seen anything about it, but she didn’t speak or even look at anyone.

The younger man continued, “We’ve all taken turns caring for her. But sometimes when one of us leaves the house, the devil comes inside and tries to attack Miss Molly.”

I gasped aloud and glanced at Tom who seemed equally shocked.

“What kind of attack?” I demanded. “Can’t you stop it?”

“No, nothing stops it,” Joe answered bitterly. “Sometimes we run out of the room only to find the devil gone from the bedside and Molly lying dead.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, his expression grim. “That’s why I’m glad Tom is here. With any luck, he’ll figure out who’s doing this—and how.”

Tom’s brows knitted together, his forehead furrowed. “But you already know what’s happened?”

“We saw the bodies,” Joe said. “They were burned so badly, you wouldn’t recognize them.”

I took another step closer to the younger man. “Did your mother see something?”

Joe shook his head sadly. “Molly was asleep before the fire even started. She woke up afterward, but she had no memory of what had happened.”

“If you think the boys did this,” Tom said, “why are they still alive? Why aren’t we arresting them now?”

“Because we don’t have enough evidence yet,” Joe said. “There’s no telling if these demons really exist, or if the boys just killed their father out of grief.”

“Do you mean that maybe they didn’t do it?” Tom asked. “That might explain why I couldn’t sense them. Maybe they never actually murdered anyone.”

Joe nodded. “Maybe not. That’s what we’re hoping.”

“Well, we’ll certainly keep an eye on the boys until we get more information,” Tom said. “It shouldn’t take long, though.”

“Thank you,” Joe replied. “And thank you for bringing Miss Pritchard with you.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling a little self-conscious as he eyed me up and down.

“Are you sure you want to stay with us?” Joe asked. “With all that’s happened?”

“I know how hard it must be for you,” I responded, “so I’ll be glad to help in whatever way I can.”

As we left the house and headed outside, I thought about the O’Learys, especially the way Joe had welcomed me after I had helped him out in the past. I realized then that they were like most people — decent people trying to do the right thing against overwhelming odds.

When we reached our horses, I looked around for Tommy, but he wasn’t anywhere nearby. We waited for a few minutes, wondering where he went, then decided to ride on ahead.

I was surprised when I found him standing in front of a small church, looking at its faded sign: St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. After a minute I dismounted and joined him. As Tom rode off in the direction of the O’Leary ranch, I walked over and sat down on the edge of the sidewalk across from Tommy.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Have you come to confess your sins?”

He gave me a startled glance and then laughed. “You could say that,” he said, his smile wry. “It’s a place I’ve always liked going because Father McAllister never seemed too busy to talk with me when I had questions about my faith.

He paused and glanced around at the quiet street and the well-kept lawns. “So much has happened since I got here,” he added. “I came back home to be close to my family, but things are even worse than I ever imagined. It’s almost like the devil is living here among us.”

His dark brown eyes turned somber, and he stared straight ahead, watching the passing horsemen and carriages go by. “I know God won’t abandon his children,” he finally said, his voice full of determination and purpose. “Not even in the bad times.”

I gazed up at him. He had grown taller—and older. The lines around his mouth and eyes weren’t quite as pronounced. In some ways, I saw myself reflected in his features, but in others, there was something new that made him look like a different person altogether.

“You’re not the same boy anymore,” I murmured.

He smiled briefly. “I’m afraid I am.”

“But you’re still my son,” I said, reaching out and squeezing his hand.

A lump formed in my throat at the tenderness of the gesture. How I wished things were different. How I missed seeing the young man in Tommy who talked so passionately about everything under the sun, even the subjects most avoided. Who laughed out loud and joked incessantly; the one I knew would do anything to please me and make life easier for me.

“Father McAllister taught me that all things work for good,” Tommy said softly. “Even when we can’t understand them.”

My brows lifted in surprise. “How old are you now?” I whispered. “Thirty-five or thirty-six?”

Tommy looked a little embarrassed as he pulled away and brushed a stray strand of hair out of my face. “I’ll be thirty-seven next month,” he answered quietly.

“You’re getting old,” I said with a grin. Then I leaned forward, resting my cheek against his strong shoulder, and rested my head there until a horse’s whinny startled me.

“We need to get moving,” Tom called back.

“What time is it anyway?” I asked Tommy.

Tom frowned. “It’s late afternoon.”

“That means I have to go back,” I reminded him.

“Yes,” he agreed reluctantly, “but first tell me what you think about the O’Leary boys’ murder.”

“There was no doubt in my mind that it happened,” I told him, “especially considering how they died.”

Tom nodded. “They’re buried here at the cemetery.” He pointed toward the open gate to our right. “Come on.”

I mounted and followed him to the cemetery. We passed several headstones and walked down the row to a small plot that contained three white marble markers.

“This is where they are,” he said, pointing to two of the markers and then turning around to point at the third.

The names on the two granite slabs were etched with age and time. One was marked “Patrick O’Leary, Jr.,” and the other read: “Thomas Patrick O’Leary.” The younger brother’s headstone bore a cross, and the older boy’s had been fashioned into a simple cross, with the word “Christ” carved underneath.

It was the only word inscribed on his marker, and I wondered if anyone remembered to add any epitaph at all to their stone.

“I’ve tried to find something fitting to put on his grave,” Tom muttered after we’d finished reading the stone. “Something I thought he might want to be written there someday, but nothing fits just yet.”

I studied Tommy and felt sadness fill my heart. His father and brothers must have meant a great deal to him before they were murdered, but now that I knew this place, I saw the pain in his eyes. This was a sad, lonely town.

I couldn’t imagine raising three children in such an unforgiving land. There were plenty of places in America for families to live peacefully, where children grew up happy and loved. That didn’t seem to be the case here.

“Do you know which church belongs to Father McAllister?” I asked Tom as we rode slowly by a group of men in front of the bank. They were smoking, talking loudly, and laughing.

Tom shook his head. “No, and I’m not sure there’s a church,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Did the town ever build a church?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled.

“Or maybe your priest is a traveling one,” I suggested, trying to make light of it.

“That’s what it sounded like when Father McAllister spoke,” Tom agreed. “But it could also be that the people in this town don’t want a house of worship. It would mean more government regulation.”

“I guess it’s hard enough having to deal with one or two regulations, let alone a bunch of them,” I said.

“Exactly.”

We passed a saloon where a sign proclaimed: “WELCOME TO BUNKHOUSE!” Another was placed above the swinging doors to another establishment. The painted letters spell out “THE LADIES’ PARLOR.”

Both were located near a blacksmith shop, and as I glanced across the street, I caught sight of a woman walking out of the building to her buggy. She wore a shawl over her shoulders and a hat on her head that kept most of her face hidden behind a wide brim.

“What do you think about that?” I asked.

“She’s a whore,” he said bluntly as we turned onto a side street where houses were close together and made up two blocks.

“Are there many women working here?” I wondered aloud.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“How does she live? Is there an apartment building or a boardinghouse in town?” I asked, thinking she might look familiar. If I were going to take a job at a brothel, I wanted to know where the others lived—how much they paid for their services and whether they had any family to come to visit on holidays.

“There might be an apartment building, but it will take us some time to find it,” he replied.

“Then what do we do?”

“We ask around.”

As we rounded a corner, I spotted a small grocery store. A man in front of the building leaned against the wall. He appeared to be sleeping. On either side of him were piles of potatoes, beans, and flour sacks.

“Is he dead?” I asked, startled.

Tom nodded. “He must have fallen asleep waiting for customers.”

“And he never woke up?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Why are there so few businesses in this town?” I wondered again, glancing back at the saloons and brothels that lined the streets.

“The railroad didn’t bring much money to this part of Kansas, so no one else came through here to invest in anything.”

When I glanced back at the grocery store, a large man in overalls was pushing a wheelbarrow full of eggs, and several boys trailed behind him carrying other groceries. The man who’d slept outside the bank seemed to be stirring now.

He opened his eyes and blinked, then looked down at the eggs spilling from his wagon. One boy reached for the eggs and started to pick them up, but the man snatched them away from him and held out his hand. As soon as the boy dropped the food, the man walked into the grocery store, leaving the other kids to finish loading his wagon.

I watched the scene unfold from my vantage point on our horse and found myself wondering if that was Tom’s life. Was he always expected to work? What did that leave for his children?

“Come on,” Tom whispered. “Let’s go talk to one of the men. They’ll know the answers to your questions.”

As we rode past the grocery store, a young boy stopped beside me to pick up a sack of beans.

“Can I help you carry those?” I asked.

He looked startled. “Oh…uh…yes, ma’am.” He grabbed another bag.

I waited until they left the store and then pointed at the young girl standing next to the door watching them with a puzzled expression. “Who is that?”

“A little kid. Probably her brother.”

“Do kids play here?”

“They’re not allowed inside any business after dark unless accompanied by an adult,” he explained.

“I can understand that.”

Tom nudged his horse closer to mine. “Now that we’ve gotten our supplies, let’s get out of this town before dark.”

We crossed the street to a hardware store, where a man in a straw hat and suspenders was sitting on a bench under an arbor. When he saw us coming toward him, he rose to his feet, and I realized he was old. His face was creased with wrinkles and his hair was thinning on top. But he gave the impression of a hardy man whose body had yet to give out.

“Hello,” Tom said, dismounting. “Do you know how many houses were built on this street?”

The old man frowned. “Houses?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Tom answered, “houses of worship.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that.”

“Maybe it’s better you didn’t know.” I felt bad for asking such a personal question. Then I remembered Tom being in trouble with the law in Denver. Maybe he’d been asked something similar and thought it only fair to ask the same of me.

“That’s okay,” I offered. “I wasn’t looking for anyone’s opinion on religion anyway.”

“No need to apologize,” he replied, obviously confused about why I apologized to him. “It’s good that you didn’t know.”

“What do you mean?” I wondered.

“Well, I would tell you if I knew how many churches and places of worship there are in this town.”

“So there are none?”

“None that I know of.”

Tom glanced at me, then at the old man. “Would you happen to know?”

“You might ask the judge.”

I turned my attention back to the judge. “Excuse me? Judge?”

The man nodded. “My name is John Henry Parker.”

“How long have you served as the justice of the peace?” I asked. “Are you married?”

He smiled. “I suppose that makes me a justice of the peace.”

“Did you say Justice of the Peace?” I couldn’t believe we were talking to the man who’d put Tom in jail.

“Yes.”

“But you sentenced him, didn’t you?” I blurted out before Tom could answer.

John Henry Parker stared at us both. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said cautiously. “Sentenced him to what exactly?”

“For murder!” Tom shouted. “The very crime for which he just escaped from prison!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the judge responded. “How could a judge sentence someone to a crime he hadn’t committed himself?”

“Because he’s lying about it all!” I yelled. “He killed my father.”

Parker shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. I can assure you, Mr. Johnson, there is no way in hell your father or any other person died while in my care.”

“Then why did you lock him up?” Tom demanded. “Why didn’t you release him immediately? Why did you hold him without a trial?”

“Your father was charged with killing a man who was trying to kill your mother,” he explained patiently. “And since the dead man’s son and two brothers lived here in Strawn, I held him until the trial could be scheduled. You may not want to hear it, but it’s the truth.”

I took a deep breath and turned away from Tom. We weren’t going to find any answers tonight.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tom called out to me. “Let’s talk about this later.”

“There is no ‘later,'” I snapped. “My father was murdered!”

“Calm down, Miss Harper.”

I whirled around. “What was your last name again?”

“Reed.” He hesitated as if he had no idea how I could possibly remember such a thing.

“Okay, Reed. Now tell us why you locked up this innocent man and kept him in prison against his will when you didn’t even know who killed his victim.”

“You’ll just have to trust me. The evidence was overwhelming.”

“Oh yeah?” I stepped closer to him. “Tell me how.”

His frown deepened. “Please, Miss Harper, don’t bother accusing me of anything. It won’t change the outcome. And believe me, the outcome is going to be unpleasant for you.”

“Why did you arrest my friend if you didn’t think he was guilty? What did you hope to gain by doing so?”

“It’s obvious you aren’t happy with me,” he muttered. “But it was only because of the facts and circumstances surrounding your father’s death that I decided to take action.”

“So it was just a coincidence that my father happened upon the scene of a murder and ended up getting killed yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Tom here has been accused of murdering a man he never met before today,” I explained.

“Of course, I know that!”

“But why would you let an innocent man sit in prison for months?”

“Do you have a question?”

“Yes, why didn’t you ever release my friend?” I pressed. “If you’re such a fine judge, why did you keep him behind bars?”

“I didn’t keep your friend in prison.” His face reddened as if he were embarrassed. “I released him the first day after I arrived here.”

“You release someone who tried to kill him?”

“He killed himself,” he said simply.

I looked over at Tom. “What’s that supposed to mean? Was he really murdered or did he just commit suicide?”

“It wasn’t a matter of what happened, it was a matter of what didn’t happen,” John Henry Parker responded.

“What do you mean?”

“We found a note in your father’s belongings explaining that he felt like a coward for not being able to save your mother and her children. That he didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way he did, so he decided to end it all by committing suicide.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I shook my head. “Your father would never leave my mother and the kids!”

“Don’t you get it?” Reed asked. “Your father was a coward and an opportunist who got caught up in something far beyond his comprehension.”

I frowned. “Didn’t he tell us once that he knew the killer? That he saw the whole thing through the window of a hotel room?”

“That’s impossible,” Parker snapped back. “There was no hotel anywhere near where your father was shot. It must’ve been the other man’s voice he heard.”

“Who is the other man?” I demanded. “Was it your brother? Did you have him arrested on purpose too?”

Tom nodded. “He was one of the brothers who lived in town.”

“But you didn’t arrest him?” I pressed. “How come?”

“Because I already suspected he was innocent and wanted to clear his name,” Parker replied. “I was hoping that by arresting him and throwing him into jail, I might get more information about the murder. But that didn’t work. It appears, however, that I was correct in suspecting him.”

“What exactly are you talking about?”

“When I first arrived at the jail, I noticed some unusual things,” he explained. “For instance, we discovered that the night guard had left his post without telling anyone, which was very suspicious to me since he was responsible for watching the prisoner every second.

Also, there were fingerprints all over the walls leading into the cell area. I knew someone must’ve sneaked in while we were at breakfast. Then, when I examined the body myself, it became clear to me that your friend couldn’t have committed the murder.

You see, we found a small cut on your father’s wrist that was probably self-inflicted. He also had bruises all over his body that could have come from wrestling someone else.”

“And what made you think he was innocent?”

“The evidence was overwhelming,” Parker said. “I told you the night guard had left his post. We also found a note in your father’s possessions that said he felt like a coward for not being able to protect you and your family.

So what was it that I didn’t figure out sooner than now? Well, you were right. Your father didn’t see the killing. The murderer came through the window of the room where he stayed during his stay here in town.”

“So you think my father was trying to stop someone?”

“I don’t know.” Parker shrugged. “All I know is that he was killed by someone he tried to warn. Someone else paid the ultimate price for it. And I can promise you, Miss Harper, that whoever the killer was will pay with his life.”

The End

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