“And now he’s had to marry the girl he rescued from that terrible place. Just look at that little baby and you know what he did to that girl after taking her out of there.” Strong did more than point his finger this time at the sheriff. He stepped off the box he stood on and moved to the side of the crowd where Fred waited. Then the man lifted his hand high and shook his meaty fist as close to Fred’s face as he could reach.
“Are you any better than a vile rapist?”
Fred knew he shouldn’t respond. Had practiced ignoring slurs regularly as a part of his job. This one was so unfair. He’d never even known a woman that way. Instead of closing his lips tightly, his mouth curved upwards.
“Let’s forget about me and talk about your son if we want to jaw about rapists.”
Strong’s son, Ram, was dead. Fred had delivered a low blow just then and he knew it. Still, Strong’s talk of Fred raping anyone, much less precious Lilah, gnawed at his innards and fired his temper.
At Fred’s coolly delivered response, the small crowd murmured. Several heads nodded as Strong lowered his fist slowly, as if he were one of those fancy Hancock rubber balloons as it lost its air. The man didn’t bluster or sputter. His stunned face stared at Fred while his gaping mouth stayed silent as if he couldn’t imagine anyone speaking ill of his dead son.
“Well, looks like it must be my turn, folks.” Fred stepped around Strong and headed to the spot where the box waited for him. He shoved it aside with the toe of his boot. “Expect I’ll bump my head on the roof of the boardwalk if I use that.”
His comment indirectly pointed out Strong’s shortness and brought a few guffaws from the group around him. The banker harrumphed and reddened but otherwise said nothing.
“Now, there’s been a lot said here today, but it seems to me—”
Surprise at feeling a pull stopped what Fred had been about to say. Looking down, he saw a small boy with his hands still on Fred’s wool coat. “Need something, tiger?” he asked, rather than ignoring the tyke.
The little one couldn’t be more than four. He held a huge lollipop and had his other hand fisted. He shoved that fist toward Fred, almost like he wanted to shake. Automatically, the sheriff put out his hand and the boy opened the fist. A wad of paper fell out.
As soon as the paper landed on Fred’s palm, the boy scampered away. Fred watched him enter Carl’s mercantile with a tinkling of the bell over the door. Whispers in the crowd brought Fred’s attention back to the group in front of him. He saw that most were still watching the mercantile. A few eyed the paper in his hand, obviously curious about it.
Well, he was curious, too. “Should I just read this out loud for you all?”
A chorus of “yes” encouraged him to do that. His challenger was the lone voice of dissent. “I wouldn’t do that, Sittig. Not before you know what’s in it.”
Fred arched an eyebrow at him. Did the banker put the child up to delivering a note right before Fred spoke?
“Well, Banker Strong, contrary to the slurs you threw at me, I really don’t have any secrets from the people of Idyll Wood.”
Clearing his voice, Fred spoke louder than before as he read the first words. By the last word, his voice dwindled to a whisper.
We got your woman. Resign or she disappears forever.
Loud protests rippled through the crowd. Shouts of outrage bellowed from several and brought Saturday shoppers out of the stores. Cries of alarm from various women seemed to indicate the tale of the note had been passed on to them. None of it mattered as Fred recognized the lollipop kid held tightly by the hand of a farmwife.
He moved to hunker down in front of the boy. Once he had the boy’s attention, Fred pointed at Strong. “Son, did that man give you the note for me?”
The young boy shook his head. “Big man,” were the only words he said. They were enough to give Fred the clue he needed.
He and Morrison would have to find Hansen.
Standing, Fred lifted his hands. A wave of shushing sounds washed through the crowd. When they were quiet, he spoke in his neutral, sheriff tones.
“You do what you think best when voting today. After all, my actions as sheriff should speak for themselves.”
Pausing, Fred looked down to wrestle his emotions back under a tight grip. When he felt ready to speak, he raised his head. “I have a wife to track down.”
A rider barreled toward them, his head bare in the cold March morning. Fred recognized that wavy blonde head, so like his own, and raced to meet him.
Pulling the horse to a stop, Holder growled out the words. “I couldn’t catch them, but they’ve got Lilah.”
“Who?” Fred bellowed his question. Holder only shook his head in answer and dropped down from the back of the horse.
“My tracking’s not the best. I used what I remembered that old Potawatomi teaching us when we were kids, and it seems like the buggy that hauled her away came here.” Holder looked around as if he expected to see Lilah. “She’s somewhere in Idyll Wood.”
Chapter 9
The Prisoner
They carried her like a Christmas tree. It was such an odd thought. Yet, tied like she was with her arms and legs forced into the rest of her body, it
