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Catskill Mountains

     “Is he dead?”

     “I don’t know. Poke him and see if he moves.”

     Cole Stanton lay on his back with one arm flung out to the side and the other laying across his forehead, shielding his eyes from the blinding daylight. Painfully, he raised one eyelid catching a glimpse of two boys, one with a head of dark curly hair, the other a freckle-faced blonde, standing outside of his jail cell. Even that small movement proved to be too much, he snapped his eye shut, listening as two sets of feet shuffled around the room.

     Whatever instrument of torture the boys had found to poke him with scraped against the metal bars of his jail cell. The noise was deafening and he was sure his eardrums were going to break. He held his breath, waiting for the jab. He felt a sharp stab to his rib-cage and rolled off of the cot, onto the floor, landing on his back.

     At the sight of him laying face up, staring at them, the boys dropped the stick and ran screaming from the jail. If his head wasn’t about to explode, Cole would have enjoyed a good laugh at their expense. As it was, he lay there wondering how he was going to get himself up from the floor. His mouth tasted like a stale cigar and his ears were filled with, what sounded like, the buzzing of a thousand locusts.

     The worst of it was, though, he couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten here. He recognized the bars surrounding him to be those of a jail cell and knew that the pain came from a grand hang-over, but try as he may, Cole couldn’t remember what town he was in.

     There was a vague recollection of being on a train and reaching for his bags only to realize they’d been stolen out right from underneath him. Literally. When he’d boarded the train he’d tucked the travel bag under his seat for safe keeping. Now he was thankful that he’d had the sense enough to leave most of his life savings in the bank because the thief would have stolen that, too.

     Hearing the door to the Sheriff’s office open, he winced, the pain in his head moving behind his eyes. Groaning, he hoped who ever it was walking through the door was coming to put him out of his misery or bringing him some water.  

     Damned, he sure was thirsty.

     “The sheriff will be along in a minute.”

     Cole squinted up through a blurry haze at the man leaning against the bars. Unruly brown hair framed a thin face and light brown eyes peered at him from beneath a set of thick bushy eyebrows. Dressed in dark pants and a matching jacket, Cole would have thought him to be the lawman. 

     “Water.” Barely managing to rasp the word out, he wasn’t sure the man heard him.

     “Water!”

     “Yeah, I heard what you said, mister. I’ll give you some water, but only if you promise you’re not going to throw it back up. The sheriff wouldn’t take too kindly to having the jail cell dirtied up by some drunken stranger.”

     The kind soul walked away from Cole mumbling, “Only got the place back into tip-top shape just last week. Wouldn’t be right if somebody messed it up so soon.”

     By the time the gentleman had poured the water into the tin cup, Cole had managed to push himself up into a sitting position, resting his back against the wall next to the cot.

     “I’m not going to retch.”

     Returning to the cell, the man put the cup in Cole’s outstretched hand. “That’s good to hear.” Squatting down, with the bars between them, he asked, “What’s your name?”

     He stopped gulping the cool water long enough to answer. “Cole Stanton.”

     “I’d take care not to drink that so fast, if I were you.”

     Ignoring his concern, Cole emptied the cup and held it out for some more. He sat up a little straighter and opened both eyes, taking in his surroundings. The cell he’d spent the night in was tiny, barely big enough to hold him and the narrow cot.

     He looked over to where the man was pouring his second cup of water, he was shadowed by an entry flanked by two long, narrow windows. A large desk sat square in the room.  A map of the States hung on the white-washed lathe and plaster wall behind it. As his senses slowly began to return, Cole noticed the aroma.

     The scent was from his past, reminding him of warm summer rain and sunshine; of a happier time in his life. It was a part of his life that had been locked away in the back of his mind and in his heart for a long time. He closed his eyes, shuttering away the memory. Opening his eyes, he saw the small vase filled with white Lilies of the Valley sitting on one corner of the desk.

     The sheriff must have a wife or a sweetheart, someone with a tender side who thought that the flowers would brighten the room. Or someone who wanted to leave a reminder so her man couldn’t forget her.

     The man brought back the cup and handed it through the bars to him. “You got a name?” Cole asked.

     “John Wagner.”

     “Nice to meet you, John Wagner.” He handed the cup back through the bars.

     “You want more?”

     “No, two’s enough for now.” He’d wished he’d had that attitude last night when he’d been drinking himself half- blind.

     “You might want to straighten yourself up a bit, the sheriff will be around in a minute.”

     “Yeah, I’ll get right on it,” Cole muttered.

     He was standing, testing out his balance, when the entry door opened. A young, dark-haired woman entered. Resting against the bars, he stared at her. There was something about the curve of her mouth and the piercing gaze coming from those hazel eyes that pricked at the edges of his memory.

     For a frightening moment he wondered if he’d made a pass at her last night and had no recollection of it and now she’d come to seek revenge for her lost virtue? Then he looked her over and almost laughed- -she wasn’t his type. Oh, her curves were in all the right places, it’s just that they were all covered up with an ugly brown dress.

     “Good morning, Mr. Wagner.”

     “Morning, Sheriff.”

     Sheriff! That snip of a thing was the sheriff? Cole leaned his forehead against the cold steel bars, moaning in disbelief.

     “Is everything all right, sir?” Mr. Wagner asked.

     “Where am I?” Cole demanded.

     “Why you’re in jail.”

     “I know that, I mean what’s the name of this town?”

     “Surprise!” Mr. Wagner puffed out his chest as he made the proclamation.

     Cole raised his head and stared at the two people who stood several feet away from him. They had to be crazy. “I don’t need anymore surprises! Just tell me where I am,” he shouted.

     “Now see here, Mister, there’s no need for you to be yelling and cussing.”

    Mr. Wagner sure was right about that one. Cole winced as pain shot across his right temple. When the pain subsided, he managed to mumble an apology. “Sorry. Just tell me where I am.”

     “Mr. Wagner already did that, sir. You are in the town of Surprise.”

     Her voice was so soft, like silk. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the memory of it. Last night- -it had to be her- -she’d spoken to him last night. Opening his eyes, he looked at her. The same hazel eyes and mid-night black hair that he remembered. Except, her hair looked much better this morning. He smiled as the memory became clearer.

     She ran a hand over her hair, and then smoothed down the folds of her brown skirt. “Is there a problem?” She looked at him, her gaze fierce and unwavering.

     “I say, you look a might better this morning, ma’am,” Cole taunted.

     “I wish that the same could be said for you, sir,” she retorted. 

     He almost laughed, but the words stung. Cole was well aware of how he appeared. For years he’d been moving from town to town picking up odd jobs. This last time he’d even hung around long enough to set up a business as a contractor. His gaze dropped to his calloused hands; there was nothing like the satisfaction of building things with your own two hands.

     But then the memories caught up with him and it was time to run again. A person would think that after all this time he’d have come to realize that you can’t run from yourself. Turning his head towards the wall, he caught a glimpse of himself in the piece of broken mirror that hung lopsided on the brick. A rough looking character stared back at him.

     His face was covered with a dark full beard and he’d stopped caring about the length of his hair three towns ago. He didn’t want to look into the dirt brown eyes that stared back at him. Cole remembered a clean-shaven face, short clipped hair, and eyes that weren’t so filled with the bitter truth of the world. Blinking hard he cleared away the image.

     He’d learned the hard way that once innocence was gone a person could never reclaim it.

     “Mr. Wagner will take you to the — - the necessary.”

     Cole turned at the sound of her voice, grinning when he saw the blush spreading across her pretty face. The barred door swung open and Cole walked out of the cell. She’d turned her back to him.

     “There’s some fresh towels and soap.” With a wave of her hand she indicated a small pile on the corner of her desk. “You’ll find some rain water in the barrel out back.”

******

     As soon as the back door shut, Abigail collapsed onto the chair behind the desk. Placing her elbows on the desktop, she rested her chin on the palms of her hands.

     This prisoner was turning out to be more than she bargained for when she’d agreed to do this job.

     Oh, but why, of all things about last night, had he remembered the way she looked? The thought made her want to crawl under the desk and never come out. She’d just fallen into a deep sleep when the pounding on the door started and there’d been no time to fix her self up properly, not with Mr. Jules hurrying her along.

     She’d followed as he led the way down the street to the small saloon, her pulse still racing from being awakened from a sound sleep.

    Raucous laughter, bawdy singing and the smell of stale beer greeted them when they arrived. “Right through here, miss, sir, I mean, Sheriff.”

     Her loose hair had brushed against her shoulders as they’d stumbled through the narrow doorway. She remembered pushing a hank of hair wrapped in the cloth strip off her forehead, tucking the lock under her bonnet to get a better view of what the commotion was all about. Standing behind Mr. Jules, she’d peered around his shoulder, wishing she’d had a gun.

     Abigail remembered thinking; if she’d been brandishing a gun about none of the rest of the events would have happened. Abigail was certain of that. A gun made the man or in her case would make the woman. It was pretty hard to laugh at someone when they had a gun pointed at you.

     Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to convince the ridiculous town council to let her carry one. When she argued with them, they were quick to point out that the former sheriff, Chauncy, didn’t feel the need to have one therefore she shouldn’t either. They wanted to believe that this town was safe and indeed it was, however, she was the sheriff and as such should be allowed to have a gun.

     Perched precariously on a bar stool, sat Mr. Cole Stanton. A half empty glass of amber colored ale was swinging back and forth in his unsteady hand. Every so often the liquid would swish around spilling over the rim. The scarred pine bar and his pants were puddled with the drink.

     Abruptly, Mr. Jules had stepped to the right, exposing Abigail. As the patrons began to notice her, a hush fell over the room. Mr. Stanton stopped singing, gaping at her. And then he’d tipped his head back and laughed. The rich booming sound had filled her ears, making her mad. She was the Sheriff and should be shown some respect. What right did he have to mock her?

     Then she’d caught sight of herself in the bar mirror. There was no doubt about it; a male sheriff wouldn’t have been caught dead looking the way she did!

     Her stomach fluttered in nausea as she remembered. Rag curls were sticking out from underneath her bonnet and the dress that she’d managed to get into was buttoned so that she’d placed the second button in the fourth button hole.

     Thankfully, she’d remembered most of her unmentionables and had even managed to grab the sheriff’s badge off the night stand, but in her haste she’d pinned it to her dress upside-down.

     Groaning, she came back to the present and pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes thought that last night had been the most humiliating moment in her entire new life, a life that was supposed to be better than her old one. In that life she’d been jilted by her betrothed of two months, Edwin Quinn. He’d told her it was because he wasn’t ready for marriage, and yet four weeks to the day they’d broken off their engagement, he’d gone and married Jennifer Matthews.

     Jennifer was everything Abigail wasn’t; a bright, vivacious young woman with blonde hair and sky blue eyes. Abigail had always been a bit shy and saw herself as ordinary in comparison. Edwin had tried to console her breaking heart by telling her that this shouldn’t have come as any surprise. For Abigail it had been the most painful of surprises.   

     Right then and there she’d decided there would be no more surprises in her life. Abigail Monroe was going to take control and one thing was for certain she wouldn’t be falling in love again anytime soon. 

     She blew out a long frustrated sigh not even sure she knew how to take control of her life, but she was certainly going to give the idea a go.

     The back door opened, shaking her out of her ponderings. She swiveled the chair around to face the door. Mr. Stanton had washed up, tucked in his shirt and even managed to straighten his hair. The humiliation of last night still fresh in her mind, she avoided meeting his dark gaze.

     “Thank you kindly for letting me use your facilities. If you don’t mind my asking, am I free to go?”

     “No. Your punishment hasn’t been decided.” Abigail glanced at Mr. Wagner waiting for him to contradict her as he seemed to be so wanting to do. Of all the people in this town she’d yet to convince Aunt Margaret’s advisor that she was capable of doing this job.

     He wiggled his thick graying eyebrows at her in that annoying way he had and said, “Today is Sunday.”

     “And. . .?” She asked, and then she remembered. “Ah, yes, silly me. How could I have forgotten? Mr. Stanton you’re about to learn about the Founding Father’s rule, or in this case, the Founding Mother’s rule, `no prisoner shall eat Sunday dinner in jail’.”

     Abigail quickly followed with her feelings about this little tradition. “Of course the notion is so ridiculous.”

     “I don’t know about that, ma’am. I kind of like the idea of having a nice Sunday dinner.” Mr. Stanton grinned.

     “Mr. Stanton, could you kindly stop referring to me as ma’am?”

     “What would you like me to call you, sir?” Cole chuckled.   

     “Sheriff Abigail,” she replied. Since her swearing in a month ago, everyone had taken to calling her that, she didn’t see any reason why this criminal, as she’d taken to thinking of him, shouldn’t call her that, too.

     “Mr. Wagner, please tell Mr. Stanton where he is having dinner.”

     “Miss Margaret Monroe Sinclair is expecting us.”