Under a Falling Star (10 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
us
anna picked up her pace as she headed up the street, a few early blooms clutched in her hand. Since Julia was still under doctor’s orders to stay off her feet, Susanna had promised she’d attend her aunt’s funeral and place a flower on her casket before it was lowered into the ground. A shiver slipped up Susanna’s spine at the thought of all those bodies stiff and cold, but she was determined. As much as she wished she could forgo the funeral, she’d told Julia she’d do this small favor for her, and she would. If she didn’t hurry, she might miss her chance to say goodbye to Miss Biddy.

“Now, don’t I look cute!”

Across the street, two rough-looking strangers had snatched the round cap from Mr. Ling’s head and were tossing it back and forth out of the small man’s reach. The taller of the two placed it on his own oily hair and proceeded to dance around mockingly. A handful of people she didn’t recognize had gathered to watch. Nobody in the timid group seemed inclined to step in. Mr. Ling stood between them, his face a stony mask.

Furious, Susanna dashed over, and going up on her tiptoes, plucked the black fabric from the man’s head before he knew what she was about.

He turned around so fast he almost tripped, his face twisted in anger that someone had dared to put a stop to his fun. The aroma of whiskey all but enveloped her.

“Give it back,” he said, scowling. He reached for it, but Susanna stepped back out of his range.

“Give it back?” she replied in mock innocence. “I’ll give it back all right—to its rightful owner!” She stood her ground, annoyance making her blind to the dangerous situation. One punch from either of the men would seriously hurt her. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

She glanced at Mr. Ling. He looked as if he was about to say something, so she quickly shook her head. It wasn’t unheard of for a Chinese immigrant to be shot dead for no reason at all. She’d read newspaper articles from other towns, but not here in Logan Meadows. Albert would never stand for stone-cold murder like that.

“We was just havin’ some fun. Now give it back, ’fore I get annoyed . . .”

Fast as a snake, he grasped Susanna’s arm and yanked her close. Dropping her flowers, she tried to wrench her arm back, but he held firm. Fear blossomed in her chest.

From out of nowhere, Dalton pushed through the crowd of people that had grown larger with the commotion, clamped one large hand on the back of the perpetrator’s neck, pushing him forward, then wrestled his hold off Susanna. When he jerked him up close, the bully yelped in pain.

“Stay away from this woman!” Dalton growled, without taking his glower from the man’s face. “And stay away from this gentleman.”

“He ain’t no gentleman. He’s one of those little—”

“Mr. Ling
is
a gentleman,” Susanna interrupted. “He conducts his affairs with dignity and manners. More than I can say for you.” She took Mr. Ling’s hat over to him and placed the dark piece of fabric in his hands. When she tried to smile her lips trembled.

“Get out of town if you have to walk!” Dalton barked at the two. “Unless you want Mr. Ling to file a complaint.”

The men laughed again as if this was nothing but a joke. “Imagine that. That half-sized clown against a civilized white man.” Tap Ling’s wife, Bao, watched from the doorway of the laundry shop. Susanna hoped their daughter wasn’t anywhere near.

Dalton took another step, his face livid with rage. “I meant what I said.”

The men exchanged a look, then the one who’d been the instigator shrugged. “Let’s go, Fred. I’m sick of this town anyway.” They stomped away.

Rattled, Susanna gathered the blossoms scattered on the ground. Now that the men were gone, she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. Dalton led her to the boardwalk and she didn’t resist when he laid his arm across her shoulders. As a matter of fact, it felt good and safe. With a finger under her chin, he tipped up her face and gazed into her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep with concern.

She nodded, wondering why she couldn’t control the trembling that had taken over her body. She had to get a hold of herself and get to the cemetery. “Yes. Thank you for coming to our rescue.”

“What were you thinking getting in the middle of that?”

That reminded her of Mr. Ling. She looked for him over her shoulder but he was gone. Before she turned back, she saw Albert standing in front of the undertaker’s door. Their gazes locked. Before she could step out from under Dalton’s arm, Albert turned and walked away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

L
ong strides took Albert up the hill toward the cemetery, his mind reeling from the sight he’d just witnessed. Susanna in Babcock’s arms. Susanna gazing into the man’s eyes, her words inaudible, as if they were the only two people on earth.

He was breathing hard by the time he crested the hill. Not from the exertion of the climb, but more the fact that he’d waited too long. Susanna had slipped away and there wasn’t one darn thing he could do about it. He was hobbled, and cuffed, as well as if he’d been arrested and thrown in a cell. In the dark tunnel of his thoughts, he cut a direct path through the cemetery and arrived at the area where everyone had gathered. It felt as if every eye was on him.

Reverend Wilbrand stood on the far side of the open graves with a Bible resting in his hands and the long tails of his frock coat moving in the breeze. The grief-stricken congregation stood opposite, their eyes red and swollen, with the long row of six-foot deep graves in between. Small groups waited in quiet conversation for the service to begin, while others stared off into the distance, at the graves, or at nothing at all.

Feeling like a fool for how he’d turned away when he’d seen Susanna and Babcock together, he wondered if Susanna had followed him up the path. The picture of her standing in Babcock’s arms, regarding him thoughtfully, was too much to contemplate.

Albert slowly shouldered his way into the gathering, feeling the need to be just a part of the crowd. Logan Meadows citizens were interspersed with the newcomers. He glanced at the path, needing to see Susanna.

As if his desire had called her forth, Susanna crested the hill and hurried toward the assembly. She looked pretty and soft. She held a small bunch of flowers in her right hand. Her strong determination, mixed with an innocent vulnerability, all the things he loved most about her, stood out against the vibrant blue sky. Memories of them together tumbled through his mind as he took in her glistening hair and the hem of her skirt as it swirled around her feet. He remembered the time she’d ventured out on a winter’s day to join him in the sheriff’s office. She’d stepped through the door covered in snow, with a basket of goodies on her arm. They’d sat by the window, in the glow of the woodstove, and watched the snow fall for hours. Or the time he’d been sick in his apartment upstairs, unable to get off his back. Unmindful of her own well-being, she’d brought him bowls of chicken soup, and tended him with care, making sure he had all he needed until he was better. Dancing a waltz at the annual Christmas party, church picnics in the green of the meadow. So many memories. So much love.

She nudged her way into the crowd, stopping beside Hannah, Thom, Brenna, and Greg. Violet Hollyhock was there, as was Dr. Thorn. Susanna had briefly glanced around before joining them, and he wondered if she’d been looking for him.

The reverend cleared his throat. “We’re gathered here together to celebrate the lives and deaths of those killed in the train accident a few days ago. No one can make sense of such a tragedy. God works in mysterious ways. We can’t guess the why of such suffering. We can only accept and pray that our loved ones are now content in the bosom of Abraham. We must pray for their loved ones left behind, for strength to go on and lead full lives in the face of their grief.”

He lifted a sheet of paper off the page of his opened Bible and brought it closer to his eyes. “Mr. Harvey Bettencourt, Mr. Larry Carver, Mr. Herold Green, Mr. Joseph Martin, Mr. Scott Olson, Mr. Joseph Moyer, Mr. Simon Nobel, Mr. Tyler Levine, Mr. Homer Rumi.”

A woman cried out. When her knees gave way, the man standing close swept her into his arms.

The man next to Albert pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes as Wilbrand continued, “Mr. Oliver Smith and his wife, Harriett. Mr. Jerry Hill and his wife, Lolita.”

Reverend Wilbrand turned the page over. He drew his own
handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his forehead. “Mrs. Mary
Chaucer, Mrs. Floria Brooks, Mrs. Nancy Merts, Miss Marcy Merts,
Miss Biddy Lafont, Miss Joyce Kinkaid, and Miss Robin Rocha.”

Albert held his hat in his hands, watching Susanna across the expanse of people. It took several moments for what he’d just heard to sink into his occupied thoughts.
Mrs. Floria Brooks?
He cut his gaze to the preacher.
Floria?

Albert’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard it made him cough. Shock and grief stunned him. With all that needed attending to in town since the accident, he hadn’t checked the identity of every single deceased person. The Union Pacific railway was responsible for that. Still, he’d had Thom double-check their work and keep a list. Now he wished he’d done it himself.

Had he imagined what he’d just heard? Had Floria been on her way to Logan Meadows? Why on earth? And if she had, why had she used her maiden name?

At the far end of the row of graves, four men with ropes, Win being one of them, began lowering the first coffin down into the six-foot-deep pit. There were gasps, and cries, then the sounds of soothing. Murmured words.

The shrill cry of a hawk overhead rent the air. The large bird rode the wind on strong outstretched wings and hovered above as it watched the proceedings below.

Albert struggled with what he’d heard. Could it be somebody else? Floria hated Wyoming, at least that was what she’d told him when he’d given her his address.

He may have wanted his freedom, but he didn’t wish death on anyone, especially not his wife. Albert took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. All these questions wouldn’t tell him a thing. He needed to make sure, but there was only one way to do that, and he didn’t have a moment to spare. “Hold up, Win!” he called out.

Reverend Wilbrand’s head snapped around to see who had spoken. The men with the ropes halted their movements, the first casket halfway to the floor of its grave.

Albert closed the ground between him and Wilbrand. He put his arm across the preacher’s back and turned him away from the crowd.

“What on earth is going on?” Reverend Wilbrand whispered, his gaze searching Albert’s eyes. “These people can’t take much more. We need to get this day over and done with, and help the affected survivors grieve.”

“I agree with you, Reverend, but something has come up. Something I never expected. I need to open one of the coffins.”

The reverend gasped. “Sheriff! That’s impossible! You should have taken care of this business, whatever it is, before the service. Any such action, as you suggest, will traumatize everyone.” Both Albert and Reverend Wilbrand glanced over their shoulders at the silent crowd straining to hear what the sheriff and preacher were arguing about. “There are children here, Albert! Burying one or both of their parents. Think about what you are asking.”

That was true. Albert wished there was some way around it, but he couldn’t think of a thing. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I wasn’t aware there was a problem until right this moment when you were reading the names of the deceased. If I don’t identify the body now, I’ll have to exhume it later. But I will check, and I will be sure.”

The preacher’s astonishment seemed to ebb away, and he clamped down on Albert’s arm with a grip that belied that of a man of the cloth. His clenched jaw and crimson face were a testament to his fury. “Sheriff Preston, I have no idea what this is all about. It’s highly unprincipled to open a coffin at this point. Surely this can’t be as urgent as you think.”

Albert stepped back and shook his head, at the exact time the hawk hovering overhead gave another sharp cry.

“My
wife
may be among those you’re planning to bury today.”

Wilbrand’s eyes bulged. He snapped closed the Bible and clenched it to his chest. “Your w-wife? Did I hear you correctly?”

“You did. Am I supposed to go through life wondering if she’s dead or alive?”