Not a Sparrow Falls - Wyldhaven, Book 1, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

K

Early August, 1891

Boston, Massachusetts

 

Charlotte Brindle, seated at the desk in her bedroom, leaned her elbows on the blotter, propped both hands against her throbbing forehead, and stared down at the rows of newspaper advertisements before her.

She scrunched her eyes shut against the memory of what she’d seen in town this nooning. Her stomach roiled at the images. Kent Covington, the man she’d intended to marry, was not who she’d thought he was.

Why was she never enough?

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Had she really read those words from the book of Philippians only this morning? She huffed a breath. How did one go about being anxious for nothing in a situation like this? By prayer and supplication… She gritted her teeth. Fine.

“Lord, rip his head off.”

She could almost picture the Lord’s disapproving frown. It looked a lot like Pastor Sorenson’s would, had he heard her say those words. She sighed. Right. That probably wasn’t the kind of prayer and supplication the verses referred to. Another set of verses, ones Pastor had spoken on just this past week, came to mind. But I say to you who hear: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, and pray for those who spitefully use you. 

Her focus angled toward the ceiling. “I just want someone to love me. To really love me. Is that too much to ask?”

She waited. But no peace that surpassed understanding crept in to soften the blow her heart had taken today. Instead a restlessness churned inside her. A burning desire to get as far from Boston as possible. Was that the Lord speaking? Why did it have to be so hard to determine the Lord’s will for one’s life? She’d thought she knew. And now this…

She sighed and forced her eyes open. Her agitated fingers had loosed several of her dark curls, and she went to work repairing the damage. She thrust the hairpins in with deft fingers and then used her silver hand mirror to assess her hair in the larger mirror across the room. Satisfied the job was done well enough to keep Mother from fussing about her appearance, Charlotte returned to the task at hand.

She’d snuck the newspaper from Father’s study and needed to put it back before he discovered it was missing and asked Mother where it was. The last thing Charlotte wanted right now was to answer a bevy of Mother’s questions over why she’d needed the paper, for Mother surely wouldn’t understand, nor be amenable to, her desire to escape the stuffy confines of Boston.

Well, if the truth were told, it was more an escape from the perfidious Kent Covington than it was from Boston. How far was far enough that he wouldn’t come looking for her? Any place would suffice, she supposed, so long as she could convince Mother not to give him her forwarding address.

The headache flared with a vengeance. How likely was she to be able to keep her destination a secret? Not very. For Mr. Covington had Mother firmly in his corner. His reputation was so stellar Charlotte wondered if Mother would even believe her if she told what she’d seen. On second thought, of course Mother would. And then she would remind Charlotte that all men were faithless flighty creatures, and point out how much money the man brought to the relationship, and advise her to set aside her qualms.

Then Charlotte would spend the autumn declining proposals from the man and facing down Mother’s ire afterward. She shuddered. If she thought speaking of what she’d seen this morning would change Mother’s mind, she would go to her posthaste and tell all! But truly all Mother cared about was the number of dollar signs attached to the Covington name.

In the newspaper, there were advertisements for everything from women’s corsets (complete with rather shocking illustrations of skimpily-clad women modeling them) to Coca-Cola, “The Ideal Brain Tonic—Specific for Headache.”

After reading that particular ad, Charlotte briefly toyed with sending Rose right down to the corner store for a bottle to ease the throbbing in her skull, but then she would have to explain to Rose why she had Father’s paper, and the maid never could keep a secret.

Again, the desire to simply get as far from Boston as possible churned through her. She remembered another of Pastor Sorenson’s oft-quoted quips. “A ship that is moving is easier to steer.” Very well. She would make a move and trust the Lord to steer. Lord, I only want Your will, so please guide my steps.

“There!” A small printed piece without any imagery caught her eye, and Charlotte straightened, lifting the paper for a closer look. A town out west in the new state of Washington was looking for a schoolteacher, but the address to respond to was right here in Boston!

Without another moment’s thought, Charlotte took up the fountain pen, pulled out a sheet of her favorite rose-scented stationery, and penned her interest in the position.

She’d already been offered a teaching position here in town, but she hadn’t accepted it yet, thank heavens. Mostly because Mother had objected so strenuously, stating she was concerned about Charlotte taking a carriage into the heart of the commercial district every day. In truth, Charlotte wondered if Mother wasn’t hoping to be a grandmother before the end of the year. The thought made Charlotte even queasier. And now there wasn’t a chance under heaven that she’d be taking that school, because that would mean remaining in Boston, where Mr. Covington could, and would, continue to call.

After inserting the stationery into an envelope, she promptly called for a carriage and rode into town herself. The late-summer day was warm, and she enjoyed the breeze cooling her brow. She untied the ribbons on her hat and pulled it off, tipping her head against the seat to catch the strongest gusts. Someone was sure to glimpse her through the window and report her scandalous behavior to Mother, but she couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment. The air wafting in her curls was doing wonders for her headache. Or perhaps that was simply the relief at having found a position to apply for which would take her far from here?

Benedict pulled the carriage to a stop, and Charlotte quickly replaced her hat and tied the ribbons as he opened the door and held out a hand to help her down.

“Thank you, Benedict. I know a trip into town twice in one day is not what you expected.”

He gave a stiff little bow but, as usual, made no reply.

Charlotte sighed. Mother’s silly rule about the male servants speaking as little to her as possible wore very thin most days. Father was only a banker, a very well-to-do banker, but it wasn’t like they were part of some European royal court where her reputation could be tarnished by a simple word spoken here or there.

“You know I’d never report you to Mother for speaking to me, don’t you?”

Benedict only offered a dip of his chin, his eyes darting up and down the street.

Charlotte gave up. He was afraid that one of Mother’s upper-echelon friends might see them and turn him in.

The post office loomed before her, but she couldn’t seem to get her feet to move. She stood quietly, staring up at the doors. The letter in her fingers trembled, and the pain in her stomach, which had been a tiny crimp up to that moment, threatened to roll over into all-out nausea. Charlotte closed her eyes and tapped the envelope against her palm. She envisioned the brick facade of the school down on Tremont Street. It was a good school that would allow her to stay home and at the same time give her some independence. Yet her independence would end the moment the school day came to a close and she walked back through her parents’ front door. It would especially end the moment Mother wore her down and talked her into letting Mr. Covington come calling again, for well she knew Mother’s powers of persistence and persuasion.

Behind her, Benedict shuffled his feet and cleared his throat softly.

A moving ship…

Lifting her chin, Charlotte took the stairs up to the double doors and strode inside. She was a grown woman, after all. Independent and in full possession of her faculties. And this was almost the twentieth century! Surely a woman ought to be able to make up her own mind about whom she ought to marry?

She slapped the letter on the counter so firmly that the attendant startled.

Charlotte felt her face heat. “My apologies. I’d like to buy a postage stamp for this, please.”

K

 

Early August, 1891.

Seattle, Washington

 

Patrick Waddell sat at a window table of the O’Shanigan’s Pub and Eatery.

A middle-aged woman with mouse-colored hair and rolls around her midsection set a plate of greasy chicken and potatoes before him and topped off his mug of ale. She plunked one hand on an ample hip. “You a stranger to these parts?”

Waddell kept his expression bland. He was wise enough to recognize a gossip when he saw one. “Just passin’ through.”

She gave him a nod. “Best food in the city. We’d be obliged if ye’d spread the word.”

She scurried to the next table before he could reply, but as he glanced down at the puddle of oil forming beneath the soggy gray chicken, he strongly doubted any word he might spread about the place would be the kind O’Shanigan wanted getting about. He grimaced. He used to be able to tolerate grease when he was younger, but now that his years had rolled past sixty, it caused him no end of chest pains whenever he ate too much of it.

But just this once, he’d let a complaint remain silent. He wasn’t here for the food. No sir. Not the food at all.

He glanced out the window. Across the street stood the Pacific Federal Bank, and just visible in the side alley he could make out the wagon that was unloading all the cash that should tomorrow, on payday, be doled out to various city workers. A satisfied smile nudged his lips. Should. Because tomorrow a lot of city workers were going to be severely disappointed by their lack.

He sipped his ale. Pretended to eat. Waited.

His patience was rewarded when thirty minutes later, the wagon pulled out of the side alley. All the cash had been delivered.

Waddell pulled his pocket watch from his vest and consulted it. Fifteen minutes till the schedule started. He stood, dug out his wallet, and deposited several bills on the table. He tipped his hat to O’Shanigan, then stepped out onto the porch. Arms folded, he leaned against the wall in the shadows cast by the roof.

A few minutes later, the door of the pub opened and two other men emerged.

Waddell consulted his watch. Ten minutes till the schedule started. “You ready?” he asked quietly, not really looking at the two.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Horace Crispin nod enthusiastically, glee stretching his lips. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his flask, swishing a goodly amount around in his mouth before spitting it out. Next he poured a splash into one palm and patted it against his cheeks like he was going courting.

Lenny Smith’s smile was less enthusiastic, but he too indicated the affirmative.

“Right then, to your places.” Waddell stepped off the porch and strode in the direction of the mercantile next door to the bank. Behind him he heard Horace’s and Lenny’s footsteps moving in their respective directions. Satisfaction curled through him. Honestly, as long as they followed directions for the next ten minutes, he didn’t care what happened to them after that. He bit down on a grin. He sure would like to be a fly on the wall when those two and the others woke up and realized they’d done all this for naught.

It was no trick at all to slip into the back room of the mercantile when right on schedule, Lenny dropped the glass chimney of an oil lamp in the front aisle, and Chalmers, the mercantile owner, hurried forward with a broom and dustpan to clean it up. Waddell’s first worry was that Chalmers’s wife might be working on inventory in the back, but providence must be smiling down on him today, because she was nowhere to be seen.

It took him a full twenty seconds to pick the lock on the door that linked the mercantile’s back room to the bank’s back room. He was getting slow. His hands weren’t as steady as they used to be.

Waddell’s second worry had been that not all the bank personnel would move out front when Horace created his diversion, but when he poked his head carefully around the door, not a soul was in sight, and he could hear Horace’s bellowing even from here. “What’s a man gotta do to get money from his account ’round these parts!”

“But, Mr.…Higgenbaum, did you say your name was? We don’t have an account registered under your name.” The bank employee sounded quite distraught.

“Balderdash, I tell you!” Horace screeched. “I’ve had an account here for years!”

Waddell grinned as he soft-footed his way farther into the room. Here was where the entire plan could go awry. He held his breath as he stepped over to where he could see the vault, and then he eased it out on a big grin. Just as he’d been informed, the bank was slow to relock the vault door after large deliveries. And it still remained open, as inviting as you please.

Out front, he could hear Horace ramping up his complaints. Patrick hurried to the back door and pushed it open a crack. He had chosen Tommy Crispin, Horace’s younger brother, specifically for his mission for one very key reason. The boy was simple. And that would serve Waddell’s needs just fine tonight.

He smiled at the boy. “You got my bags, Tommy?”

Tommy nodded vigorously. “Just like Horace an’ me been practicin’.”

“Good lad. Hand them here, and then go wait behind that bush by the fence.”

Tommy pulled the gunnysacks from beneath his shirt. A large grin split his face. “We gonna trick them bankers good, ain’t we, Mr. Waddell?”

“Shhh!” He glanced over his shoulder, feeling a tick of anxiety over Tommy’s excitement-raised voice. Thankfully, no one seemed to have heard. “Yeah, we’re gonna trick them, but we have to be very quiet, or the trick won’t work. Got me?”

Tommy’s eyes widened. “Got you.” He pressed one finger to his lips, lowering his voice. “Be quiet, or the trick won’t work. Got you.” He nodded.

“Good lad. Now go wait behind the bush. I’ll call you when I’m ready for you to come back.”

“Behind the bush. Call when you ready fo’ me.” Tommy nodded and trotted in the direction of the thick laurel that grew at the back of the bank lot.

Patrick eased out a breath and hurried into the vault. He glanced at the stack of bills that the bank employees had already started to divide into payroll for individuals. Three hundred thousand dollars didn’t look so large when you saw it all stacked together. Less than fifty pounds of cash.

Footsteps in the adjoining room jolted him, and he pressed his back against the row of lockboxes at one side of the vault. His skin prickled, and he reached inside his jacket and wrapped his palm around the handle of his Colt, holding his breath. But whoever had come into the back room kept on going out the back door.

Patrick eased out a sigh. They were likely going for the sheriff. That meant he only had a couple more minutes of distraction from Horace.

With a snap, he shook open one of the gunnysacks and started stuffing cash inside. Thirty seconds and the first bag was half filled. Another thirty put the rest of the cash into the other bag.

He darted a longing glance at the lockboxes. If only he had a little more time, he could pick a few locks, but getting greedy might cost him his life. Besides, deposit-box locks were a mite trickier than a door’s. It might take him longer than was prudent to get the boxes open. So with a fortifying breath he poked his head out to give the back room a quick glance.

Empty.

Good. He hurried to the back door and repeated the scan.

The back of the building was also empty.

Here again was a critical moment where the plan might skew off course. The blasted train couldn’t seem to stick to a set schedule. It might be coming through at any minute. Or it might be thirty minutes from now.

First he had to get rid of Tommy.

As fast as his age-hampered joints would let him, he scuttled across the road to the laurel where Tommy had been instructed to hide. When he pushed behind it, the boy was sitting on the ground with his arms curled around his head, rocking himself in that peculiar way he had.

Patrick’s heart clenched. This lad, of all of them, didn’t deserve his double cross. Rolling his eyes at his own sentimentality, he reached into one of the sacks and withdrew two twenty-dollar bills.

He bent and touched Tommy on one shoulder. “Hey, Tom. You done good. Real good, you hear?”

Tommy’s face split into a wide grin. “I done good?”

“You sure did. And because you did so well…” He held up the two bills for the boy to see.

Tommy’s eyes lit up, and his mouth dropped open.

“You like those chocolate bars that Magnusson sells in his shop, don’t you, Tommy?”

A vigorous nod preceded “I sure do!”

Patrick tugged the boy to his feet and tucked the two bills into his front shirt pocket. “Well, you’ve earned yourself some chocolate. Why don’t you go down to Magnusson’s and buy a couple bars, but then you take the change and go back to the camp, hear?”

“Take the change and go back to the camp.” Tommy nodded.

“Good lad.” Patrick glanced through the leaves of the bush. All clear. He pushed Tommy out into the open. “Go on now. I’m gonna meet you all back at the camp too.”

Tommy took several steps and then turned to face the bush with a huge grin. “I’m gonna buy you some choc’late too, Mr. Waddell.”

“That’s fine, Tommy. I’ll like that real well. Go on now.” He held his breath. Sometimes the boy got stubborn about cutting off conversation.

“Go on now.” Tommy nodded and then darted down the alley on the other side of the mercantile.

Patrick eased out a breath and clambered up the berm of the railroad tracks just behind him. Once on the other side of the tracks, he crouched down and set to running. He needed to hightail his old hide to the top of the hill before the train arrived. The crest was the only place the train would slow enough for him to jump aboard.

As he ran, he grinned between puffs for air. He wanted to leap and whoop, but only allowed the grin. Blast but the boys were going to be furious when they figured out he wasn’t going to arrive back at camp after all.

K

 

One week later

Wyldhaven, Washington

 

Sheriff Reagan Callahan sat, feet propped on the corner of his desk, paper open in his hands. He whistled low.

Someone had made off with nearly three hundred thousand dollars from Pacific National Bank in Seattle. And they’d pulled the job off in broad daylight.

Seattle was less than fifty miles away. He lowered the paper and glanced out the front window of his office. Thankfully, Wyldhaven didn’t have a bank for him to worry about. But they did get payroll for Zeb’s loggers that came through once a month. He’d need to have a word with Ben King about varying up their routines with the cash.

Speaking of Ben. The postman-cum-accountant for Zeb’s logging crews was coming this way now.

Reagan dropped his feet to the floor, crossed to the stove, and poured a second cup of coffee. He handed it to Ben when he walked through the door, and Reagan motioned to the seat across from his desk.

“Thanks.” Ben sank into the offered chair. He set a telegram on the desktop and slid it toward Reagan’s chair.

Reagan lifted a brow and resumed his seat, pulling the yellow paper closer to him.

“You know my father is sheriff over in Cedar Falls. He sent this our way just a few minutes ago.”

Reagan felt his stomach roll into a knot at the words of the message. “So, it was Patrick Waddell who robbed the bank? And then he double-crossed his gang and absconded with the cash all on his own?”

Ben nodded grimly. “Seems that way.”

“How did your pa come on this information?”

Ben shrugged. “Aw, you know Pa. He always seems to know someone who knows someone. This time it was his friend Sheriff Blanchet from Seattle. Seems there was a young simpleton who ended up with forty dollars. Two twenty-dollar bills whose serial numbers matched two from the cash that was stolen. Story the boy tells is that Waddell gave them to him and told him to buy chocolate bars. He also slipped up and mentioned that his brother, Horace Crispin, had been helping Waddell plan the robbery. They were all supposed to meet back at their camp, but Waddell never showed up.” Ben folded his arms. “Pa says the boy’s being taken care of by an elderly widow in Seattle. But even though he’s been questioned several times, that was all he seemed to know.”

“And did Sheriff Blanchet go to this camp?”

Ben nodded. “But of course the gang had hightailed it before he arrived. No one was there.”

Reagan lifted the newspaper in a deliberately exaggerated motion and then dropped it into the trash receptacle by his desk. “Why do I read the paper when I have you, Ben?”

Ben chuckled. “After all our years of friendship, you’d think you would have learned by now. I’m always the one with the good scoop.”

Reagan chuckled. He and Ben had been fast friends for a good seventeen of Reagan’s twenty-five years. “Tall tales is generally more like it.”

Ben winced and thrust a hand over his heart. “Hey, my tall tales saved your sorry blond hide from getting tanned a time or two. Remember that time you dipped Betty Lou Harrick’s ribbons in your inkpot? Who took the blame for you that time?”

Reagan laughed. “I don’t know if my pa ever did believe that you were somehow able to cross the room, dip her ribbons, and make it back to your desk without Miss Flaherty seeing you.”

Ben stood. Rubbed his backside. “I can still feel the licking I took for you that day. Pa knew how to whip but good.”

Reagan angled him a look. “You owed me that one. There was that little incident before that where you prevaricated about me erasing your homework from your slate. I had to sit in the corner with the dunce cap on all day.”

Ben laughed. “I’d almost forgotten about that one.” He stretched his back into an arch, his face turning serious as his focus dropped to the telegram once more. “I best return to work. Just thought you’d like to know.”

Reagan nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Ben.”

Pondering the news Ben had brought, Reagan stared out the window as Ben returned across the street.

A thought jolted through him. Hadn’t he heard Lenny Smith mention the name Horace Crispin once? He scrubbed his fingers over his jaw. Yes. He was certain he had. Lenny was a regular over at McGinty’s Alehouse.

This could mean nothing good for his town in the months to come. Nothing good.

But if he could catch the gang… And if he could get more proof than just the word of a simpleton, well, that would go a long way to getting this gang locked up for a good long time.

He stood and lifted his hat from the hook by the door. Maybe it was time to mosey on down to McGinty’s and hang out for a while.

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