Hannah Grace (3 page)

Certainly not Sandy Shores' newly appointed sheriff.

"What can I do for y; mister?"

He gazed into the colorless eyes of an elderly woman whose hard-lined face, slumped shoulders, and pursed mouth denoted some unnamed trial of the past. Gray hair fell around her stern countenance, straight and straw-like, reminding him of a scarecrow-the kind whose expression would chase off the meanest bull.

"I'll have a bowl of beef stew and a slice of-"

"Plumb out,"

"No beef stew?"

"You hard o' hearin'?"

"Chicken noodle?"

"No soup atall." With hooked thumb, she pointed behind her, "Menu's back there,"

His eyes scanned the chalkboard behind the counter where someone had scrawled several words with creative spellings: "Chikin liver and onyuns - 504; potatos and gravy on beef - 754; cheese sanwich - 254; pork sanwich on toasted Bred - 354; Ted's specielty - 504"

"What's Ted's specialty?" He had to ask.

"Fish. You want it?"

"Is it cooked?"

She gave him a scornful look. "What kind o' lame-brained question is that?'Course it's cooked,"

"I don't know. Some people eat raw fish,"

"Not'round these parts they don't. Where you from?"

"Ohio. Columbus area,"

She sniffed. "Long ways from home, ain't ya?"

He grinned. "It's taken me a few days' ride,"

Lifting one brow as if to size him up, but keeping her thoughts to herself, she asked, "You want the fish? It's fresh out o' the big lake, pan-fried."

His stomach had been growling ever since he walked through the doors, and, in spite of the grit and grime beneath his feet, the dark and dingy walls, and the fetid odors of burnt onions and cigarette smoke, he had a feeling this Ted fellow could cook.

"I'll try the fish." He smiled at the killjoy, but, as expected, she just nodded and turned on her heel. "Can I have some coffee, too?"

Another slight nod indicated she'd heard him.

"Ohio, huh?"

From the table next to him, a man sporting a business jacket, string bow tie, and white ruffled shirt, lowered his newspaper. A half-smoked cigar hung out the side of his mouth directly under his pencil thin moustache. He removed the cigar and laid it on an ashtray. "What brings you to these parts?"

Always wary of shysters, Gabe examined the fellow on the sly. Experience had taught him not to trust anyone until he'd earned that right. "Work," he replied.

"Yeah?" The man massaged his chin, and Gabe knew he was getting equal treatment, a careful scrutiny. Suddenly, the stranger reached across the four-foot span that separated their tables and offered his hand. "Vanderslute's the name. George."

Gabe stuck out his arm and they shook hands. "Gabriel Devlin. Good Dutch name you've got there."

Vanderslute chuckled. "You're definitely in Dutch territory. Pretty near half the town, I'd say. Maybe more." He looked out over the small, dimly lit eatery. "Not Ted, though. He's English, through and through. That there was Eva, his aunt. She owns this place, has for thirty years." He leaned forward. "She comes across as an old crank," he murmured in hushed tones, "but on the inside, she's nothing but mush. Known the two of them since I was this high." He stretched a palm out level with the tabletop. "Used to stop by here on my way home from school. Depending on her mood, Aunt Eva-that's what everyone calls her-would pass out free cookies. On good days, that is,"

Vanderslute took a sip of coffee, then took a giant drag off his cigar and placed it back on the tray. Gabe felt the tension roll off his shoulders. He glanced out the window and spotted the little ragamuffin again, his lean frame bent over a barrel as he rifled through the garbage within. "Who's that little waif over there?" he asked.

"Huh? Where?" Vanderslute pitched forward to peer out the smudged glass.

"Oh, him. He's been hanging around for a few days. He'll move on. 'Spect he jumped the back of a train coming from Chicago area. Vagabonds do that from time to time,"

"Vagabonds? He's just a little kid. Hasn't anyone tried to help him?"

"He runs off every time. Like some wild pup. Some of the ladies leave bowls of food on their doorsteps, and he'll run and get them whilst no one's watching, providing some mongrel mutt doesn't beat him to it," He laughed, as if what he'd just said was unusually funny.

Just then, Eva brought a steaming cup of coffee to the table and George slid back in place. When Gabe looked out again, the boy had vanished-like some kind of apparition. He blinked twice and shook his head.

Silence overtook the two for the next several moments as George dug into the plate of roast beef and potatoes Eva had dropped off at his table when she'd deposited a mug of coffee under Gabe's nose. Gabe's mouth watered, his stomach grumbled. He sipped on his coffee and ruminated about the boy.

"What's your trade, anyway?" George asked between chews.

Gabe took another slow swig before setting the tin mug on the table. "You ever hear of Judge Bowers?"

"Ed Bowers, the county judge? 'Course I have. I work the newspaper. I'm a line editor, not a reporter, but I read the headlines before anybody else does. I hear he just appointed a new interim sheriff up in Sandy Shores-someone from..." A light seemed to dawn in his eyes. "Ohio," Gabe grinned. "You wouldn't be...?"

"You should be a reporter," Gabe said. "You've got the nose for it,"

"You learn, you know, Well, I'll be. Too bad about Sheriff Tate, though. He was a good man, honest and fair. Heard his heart just gave out," George shook his head. "The law business is hard on the body. Good thing you're young. What are you-twenty-four? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-eight."

George nodded, as if assessing the situation. "You can handle it. Most of what happens in these parts is petty crimes, but there's the occasional showdown. Not often, though," he added hastily. "You watch yourself, young man. You'll do fine,"

"Thanks. I appreciate that,"

Not a minute too soon, Eva returned, this time plopping a plate of pan-fried fish in front of Gabe. On the side were cooked carrots drizzled with some sort of glaze and a large helping of applesauce. The most wonderful aromas floated heavenward, and his stomach growled in response. "Eva, you are an angel." He smiled at her and felt a certain pleasure to see one side of her mouth quirk up a fraction and the tiniest light spark in her eyes.

"Pfff," she tittered. "Go on with you." She swiveled her tiny frame and hobbled off toward the kitchen, still looking like a scarecrow, but with a little less severity.

As he always did before delving into a meal, Gabe bowed his head and offered up a prayer of thanks to God. Then, he draped a napkin over his lap, knowing George Vanderslute's eyes had taken to drilling holes in his side.

"You're a praying man, I see,"

Gabe took his first bite. "I am. I pray about everything, actually."

"Huh. That's somethin.' Seeming stumped, George forked down the rest of his meal in silence, the smoke from his cigar making a straight path to the ceiling.

As much as he would have liked taking his sweet time, Gabe wolfed down his plate of food, thinking about the miles of road that still stretched out before him. If he didn't arrive before nightfall, he'd have to camp alongside the tracks again, and the thought of one more night under the stars didn't set well with him.

The image of the mysterious little imp who'd stolen from the back of a wagon, rummaged through a waste barrel, and disappeared down an alley materialized at the back of his mind. Would he be shivering in some dark corner tonight, half starved? Gabe swallowed down the last of his coffee, determined to chase him out of his thoughts.

Protect him, Lord, he prayed on a whim, suppressing the pang of guilt he felt for not taking the time to search for him.

Sandy Shores came into view at exactly a quarter till ten, three hours after he left Holland. It had been the slowest, steepest, and most precarious leg of the entire trip, requiring him to navigate gravelly slopes in the light of the moon. Not for the first time, he thanked the Lord for his sure-footed mule, Zeke the Streak, who could not run if his life depended on it but still had strength enough to pull a redwood from its roots; and for Slate, his dapple-gray gelding, calmly bringing up the rear but possessing the speed of a bullet if the situation called for it.

A cool breeze was coming off the lake, bringing welcome relief from an otherwise long, hot day on the trail. Gabe cast a glance out over the placid lake, amazed once more by its vastness. At first glimpse, one would never suppose its distance across to be a mere one hundred miles; it seemed more like an ocean. Gentle waves licked the shoreline, making a whooshing sound before ebbing back into the chilly depths. The Sandy Shores lighthouse, sitting like a proud mother at the end of the pier, flashed her beacon for incoming fishing boats and steamers.

Electric streetlights lit the way as Gabe turned east off the railroad path onto Water Street, which led to the center of town. On the corner to his right stood the three-story Sherman House, the hotel he would call home until he found permanent housing suitable for his budget, if not for his taste. According to Ed Bowers, who had made all his room arrangements, he had a view of the Grand River Harbor and the big lake from his third-floor window. Nice for the interim, he thought, but not a necessity for my simple lifestyle. He'd grown up in affluence and decided he was ready for humbler circumstances. His father's money had been well-earned, and it had reaped him warranted respect in the community and surrounding areas. Even so, Gabe couldn't live off his father's wealth and still respect himself. Besides, he'd had enough of women pursuing him for his family money-Carolina Woods, for one-and it was high time he moved away from Ohio, where the Devlin name didn't make such an impact every time folks heard it mentioned. Furthermore, a smaller town meant smaller crimes, he hoped-the kind that didn't require gunfire to resolve them.

Boisterous piano music and uproarious laughter coming from a place called Charley's Saloon assaulted his senses after two hours spent with nary a sound, save for Zeke's occasional braying, some sleepy crickets' chirps, and a gaggle of geese honking from the lake. Gabe wondered if he should expect a run-in or two with a few of Charley's patrons.

His eyes soaked up the names of storefronts Jellema Newsstand, Moretti's Candy Company, Hansen's Shoe Repair, DeBoer's Hardware, Kane's Whatnot-and he wondered about the proprietors who ran each place. Would they accept him as their new lawman, particularly since the late Sheriff Watson Tate had held the office for well over twenty years?

When he spotted Enoch Sprock's Livery on the second block, he pulled Zeke's reins taut. Slate snorted, his way of exhaling a sigh of relief for having reached their destination.

"I know what you mean, buddy," Gabe muttered, feeling stiff and sore himself. He threw the reins over the brake handle and jumped down, landing on the hard earth.

"You needin' some help there, mister?"

A white-bearded fellow with a slight limp emerged from the big double door.

"You must be Enoch,"

"In the flesh," The man extended a hand. "And who might you be?"

"Gabriel Devlin,"

"Ah, the new sheriff. We been expectin' ya'. Hear your room's waitin' over at the Sherman," They shook hands. "Nice place you're stayin' at,"

Gabe grinned. "News gets around, I take it,"

Enoch snorted and tossed back his head. "This ain't what you call a big metropolis." He took a step back and massaged his beard even while he studied Gabe from top to bottom. "Awful young, ain't ya?"

Is this how folks would view him? Young, inexperienced, still wet behind the ears? He supposed few knew he'd been responsible for bringing down Joseph Hamilton, aka "Smiley Joe"-a murderous bank robber who wielded his gun for goods throughout Indiana, Ohio, and parts of Kentucky. His last spree was on February 4, 1901, when Gabe received word in his office via telegraph that undercover sources determined Smiley Joe had plans to rob the Delaware County State Bank at noon that very day.

It hadn't made national headlines, but every Ohioan had the best night's sleep of his life after reading the next day's headlines: GABRIEL DEVLIN, DELAWARE COUNTY SHERIFF, TAKES DOWN NOTORIOUS MIDDLE-WEST BANK ROBBER!

Having watched the entire robbery out of the corner of his eye while pretending to fill out a bank slip, Gabe, who had placed two plainclothes deputies at the door in case the villain tried to escape, confronted him while the deputies aimed their guns. "Smiley! It's the end of the line for you, buddy," he said coolly. "Drop the bags and turn around slowly, hands in the air."

At first, it appeared Smiley would comply. His shoulders dropped and he started to turn. "Drop the bags!" Gabe yelled. "Hands to the sky!"

Other deputies, all placed strategically around the bank, surrounded him. The bank stilled to funeral parlor silence as customers scattered and backed against all four walls, terror pasted on every face.

But Smiley Joe wasn't one to surrender, and, in a rattled state, he went for the eleventh-hour approach: he drew his gun. Wrong move. Shots were fired, and, when it was over, one wounded customer lay sprawled on the floor, groaning and bleeding from the shoulder, while Smiley Joe Hamilton lay dead, Gabe's gun still hot from the bullet he shot through his head.

"That's all right by me, you bein' young," Enoch was saying. "Time for some new blood 'round here. 'Sides, any friend o' Judge Bowers is a friend o' mine," A slight accent from the British Isles colored his tone.

"I appreciate that."

"Want I should take your rig inside and tend to your animals?"

"That'd be mighty nice of you."

Gabe made a move to retrieve his money pouch, but Enoch stopped him. "You just get what you need out o' your rig, and we'll settle up in the mornin.'

"You have no idea how good that sounds." Gabe reminded himself to retrieve his carpetbag from the back of the wagon. All he needed was a change of clothes for tomorrow, his shaving gear, a bar of soap, and some tooth powder. Right now, nothing sounded better than a soft bed. Shoot, I might even sleep through breakfast, he mused. Ed Bowers didn't expect him in his office until mid-afternoon.