The Sheriff’s Trail to Her Past (Preview)

Chapter One

Elden Falls, Arizona, Summer 1870

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” Clara Morgan said, looking around the parlor and sighing.

Everything reminded her of her father—his chair by the hearth with the pile of books next to it, his walking stick in the stand next to the door, the writing desk by the window, still covered in the correspondence he hadn’t had time to respond to before—

“It was all so sudden, Miss Clara. It won’t feel normal for a long time,” the maid, Melissa, said, placing her hand comfortingly on Clara’s arm.

The funeral had taken place that afternoon—a sorry, somber affair. Most all the town had turned out to pay their last respects. Clara’s father was well-known, a good man who’d done much for the community in Elden Falls.

“A man gone too soon,” the pastor had said in his eulogy.

Clara had wept. Her father had meant everything to her, and now he was gone. She didn’t know what she’d do without him.

“I should start sorting out his things,” Clara said, for she knew if she sat down, she’d only begin to sob again.

“Leave that now, Miss Clara. I’ll make a pot of coffee, or perhaps you’d like some chamomile tea?” Melissa asked, but Clara was determined to keep busy.

Before the funeral, there’d been plenty of callers offering their sympathies, and Clara had replied to numerous letters of condolence. But now, the house seemed quiet. The funeral was over. That was the end of it—for others, at least. But Clara was thinking of the future—of what was to become of her now her father was dead.

“I’ve been putting it off. I need to know… the arrangements.” 

“But it all belongs to you, of course,” the maid replied. “Your father made provision for you, I’m sure of it.”

“I know… but I need to be certain of it,” Clara replied.

The thought of going through her father’s papers seemed like a violation. He was a private man who rarely spoke of personal matters. In the years following her mother’s death, Clara had found him ever more inward-looking, though he was the most generous man she knew.

But often she’d caught him lost in his thoughts, with a look of sorrow on his face, and if she asked him what was wrong, he’d mumbled something and changed the subject. It was as though he had been carrying a burden he felt unable to share.

“Would you like me to help?” Melissa asked.

She’d been their maid for the past ten years—as much a friend as a servant. Clara nodded.

“If you don’t mind,” she said.

Melissa shook her head, rolling up her sleeves as she looked around as though wondering where to start.

“I’ll say one thing about your father. He never threw anything away. And he’d never let me throw anything away for him, either,” she said, shaking her head with a smile.

Melissa was right. Clara’s father was a hoarder—but an organized one. Clara knew where he kept his will and other important papers, though she’d never been privy to the contents.

“If anything ever happens to me, open this box with the key I keep by my bedside,” he’d told her, and Clara now had the key in her pocket.

The box was made of ivory—a gift to her father for his work on the railroads, where he’d managed the construction of thousands of miles of track from east to west, making a fortune along the way. Clara’s hands trembled as she took down the box from a shelf above her father’s desk.

“It’ll be all right, Miss Clara, don’t worry,” Melissa assured her as Clara turned the key in the lock. 

Opening it, she found a bundle of papers, along with various bonds and banking instructions. Her father was a rich man, and that made Clara a wealthy woman. She was unmarried, and her father had been forward-thinking enough not to impose the condition of matrimony on any inheritance she might claim.

“It’ll all be yours,” he’d said.

And yet Clara still felt nervous—the thought of such responsibility now being hers. She knew nothing about money or managing it wisely. Her father had a lawyer, of course, and there was an accountant, but Clara was determined to understand things for herself and make wise decisions as to her fortune.

“There’s a letter here,” Clara said, finding an envelope with her name on it at the bottom of the box.

Her father’s illness had been sudden, a fever come on after a fall from a horse. Clara had nursed him, but the doctor had told her not to expect a recovery. She’d held his hand on the day he died, weeping as he’d drifted away from her. Now, she took the letter in her trembling hands, knowing she’d hear her father’s voice in the words.

“Shall I leave you to read it, Miss Clara?” 

But Clara shook her head.

“No… please stay.” And, opening the envelope, she pulled out a piece of paper covered in her father’s neat script.

She didn’t know what it would say, but as she began to read, her eyes grew wide with astonishment.

My darling Clara. If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead, and the key to the box is yours. I want you to know I love you more than anything in all the world. You and your mother meant everything to me, and I’ve ensured you’ll be provided for. I’ve left everything to you—the house and my fortune—to do with as you see fit.

Please take the advice of Mr. Murray in deciding what to do next. But there’s another matter of far greater importance I need to tell you of, and I only hope you’ll understand my reasons for withholding it from you for all these years. 

The truth is, I’m not your father—not your birth father, at least—though in all things, I’ve always treated you as the daughter your mother and I could never have.

At these words, Clara paused, looking up at Melissa. “Read it,” she gasped, thrusting the letter into the maid’s hands.

Melissa’s reaction was the same as Clara’s, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

“But… that’s impossible. You’d have known. We’d have known.” 

Clara took the letter back and continued to read. Her mind was in a whirl. She’d never suspected anything but what she’d assumed—that she was the daughter of her father and mother. She had no memories of anything else—of anyone else. The house in Elden Falls was all she’d ever known, but this…

I know this will come as a shock to you, Clara. But it changes nothing about who you are, and who you’ll be. You’re my daughter, and you’re entitled to everything I’ve left you.

Still, the story of how you came to Elden Falls is one I’m sure you now want to know. You were young—a baby—when we brought you home with us. You came from a difficult family, in a place called Willow Creek, a hundred miles upstate from here. It was a lawless place, and you’d been taken from a family after your father was arrested for robbery and your mother couldn’t take care of you and your sister. 

What became of them, I don’t know, but your mother and I brought you back to Elden Falls and gave you the loving home you deserved. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before. I don’t know why I didn’t—perhaps I never wanted you to look at me any differently. I love you, Clara, and I hope you’ll forgive me for doing what I thought was right.

He’d signed it with love, and as tears rolled down Clara’s cheeks, she clutched the letter to her, not knowing what to say or what to think. It was Melissa who spoke first.

“What will you do?”

Clara looked up at her, drawing a deep breath as she wondered the same thing. In some ways, her father’s revelation changed nothing. But in others, it changed everything.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t understand… It’s just…” she stammered, and she sank into the nearest chair, feeling as though she was about to faint.

“I’m going to make you some chamomile tea, Miss Clara,” Melissa said. She hurried out of the room, tutting to herself as she went.

Clara read through the letter again, feeling as though she no longer knew herself. It was the strangest sensation, like inhabiting the body of a stranger. Everything she’d believed about herself was now called into question. She didn’t know who she was, or who she’d been meant to be. It was all so confusing.

None of this was supposed to be like this—but then, what was the truth?

“There we are, Miss Clara,” Melissa said, returning a short while later with the tea. “And I cut you a slice of seed cake, too.”

Clara was grateful. She’d never imagined such a revelation. It was extraordinary, and it was taking a while for her to come to terms with it. Again, she read over the letter, shaking her head at the thought of the secret her father had kept from her all these years—her whole life.

“I just don’t understand why they didn’t tell me,” she said as Melissa passed her a cup of the fragrant chamomile tea.

“Your father was a good man, Miss Clara. It sounds like he wanted to do what was right by you. He was the sort of man who saw an injustice and wanted to help. Think of all the people in this town who turned out to pay their respects to him today. They did it because he meant something to them, to us all. I imagine he got wind of you and wanted to help. Don’t blame him for wanting to keep you from harm by not telling you the truth. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.”

Clara took a sip of her tea and nodded. Melissa was right. Clara couldn’t blame her father for what he’d done. Her life had been a happy one—far happier than it might’ve been had she remained in Willow Creek. But her father’s revelation raised so many questions, and the more she pondered them, the more Clara wanted answers.

“But I’m not ignorant now. And I just can’t help but wonder… what if I was to go there?”

Melissa looked at her curiously. “You mean to Willow Creek? But why? You’ve got everything you need right here, Miss Clara. Your father left you a rich woman, with a nice house, and a good name. What else could you possibly want?”

Clara sighed. “The truth,” she replied. “This letter changes everything. I want to know who I am, where I came from, what I was meant to be.”

“You were meant to be Robert Morgan’s daughter. That’s what,” Melissa said, shaking her head.

***

But for the rest of that day, and in the days to come, Clara found herself preoccupied with the question of what her past might reveal. She wanted to see the place she came from, to meet the family she’d left behind. Her father had mentioned a sister, and that her mother—her real mother—had been unable to cope with two children after the arrest of her husband.

My real father… it’s all so complicated. I don’t have any connection to these people, but I do. They’re my flesh and blood.

Clara was determined to meet them—or, at least, to discover their fate. It seemed imperative if she was to learn who she was and who she might’ve been.

“You can’t go there alone,” Melissa exclaimed, after Clara had explained she was going to Willow Creek.

But Clara’s mind was made up. She was going to go to Willow Creek and she was going to find out who she was. To not do so would leave too many unanswered questions. Her father hadn’t forbidden it—though he hadn’t encouraged it, either. But with her inheritance secured, Clara had the independence to do as she wished, and she had every intention of doing so.

“You can come with me if you want to.” 

Melissa made a face. “But who’s going to look after the house? Have you thought this through?”

Clara sighed. She had thought it through. She knew what she was doing. There was every chance she’d find nothing—that her parents would be dead, and her sister long gone. But the thought of not knowing, of spending her life wondering what might’ve been, was too much for Clara. She had to discover the truth for herself.

“I’ve thought of nothing else. How can I carry on as normal? I can’t. I’ve got to know.”

Melissa sighed. “And what if you find something you don’t like?”

“I suppose that’s a risk I’ve got to take,” Clara replied.

In the end, Melissa relented, helping Clara to pack and fussing over her as she made her preparations.

“Where are you going to stay?” she asked as Clara prepared to depart on the mail coach a few days later.

“There’s a boarding house there. I asked Mr. Arkwright at the mercantile—he goes that way sometimes to visit his sister in Vermilion. I’m sure they’ll have a bed for me,” Clara said.

The maid shook her head but made no objection, standing at the door as Clara stepped out onto the porch. It was a warm day, the sky bright and clear.

“Will you write when you get there?” Melissa asked.

“I’ll write every day, I promise. And I’ll only be away for a few weeks. I doubt I’ll find anything. But I’ve got to try.” 

She’d found some old letters to her father with an address in Willow Creek. But apart from these, Clara really had nothing else to go on. She hoped being in the town of her birth might be enough for something to happen—to find someone who remembered her or knew something of her family.

“Goodbye. Miss Clara. And good luck,” Melissa called out as Clara closed the garden gate behind her.

It felt strange to be leaving. Elden Falls was her home, and yet she was to travel to a place that might’ve been home had it not been for the remarkable circumstances detailed in her father’s letter. Walking through the town, she greeted familiar faces, some of whom stopped to offer their further condolences or pass the time of day with her. 

“Are you catching the mail coach, Miss Clara?” Mr. Arkwright, the owner of the mercantile, asked as he greeted Clara from the steps of his store.

“That’s right—I’m going to Willow Creek, like I told you,” Clara replied.

Mr. Arkwright, who was an elderly man, with a broad forehead and graying hair, looked at her doubtfully.

“I’m not sure it’s quite the place for an unescorted lady,” he said.

Clara smiled. “I’ll be quite all right. I’m just going to… see some family,” she replied, for it wouldn’t do to tell the truth just yet.

Growing up, Clara had always been the apple of her father’s eye, and doted on by the town, too.

“Well, as long as someone’s there to meet you,” the store owner said. “Here’s the mail coach now.”

Clara nodded, glancing along the dusty trail leading into town. There, the mail coach, could be seen, with its four horses and the driver perched precariously on the board above them.

Here goes nothing. I just hope I find the family I’m looking for.

Chapter Two

Willow Creek, Arizona, Summer 1870

“More reports of cattle rustling—that’s three herds targeted in a week. I don’t know what’s happening. Lawlessness,” Sheriff Grant Walker said, shaking his head as he held up the report that had just come in from one of the deputies.

The deputy sheriff, Jack Malone, looked up from his desk and sighed.

“Things are getting worse. I don’t understand it. Willow Creek used to be a quiet place. It was just a backwater. But now…” He shook his head.

“It wasn’t always quiet. When I was growing up, there were bad things happening, but… I don’t know. Things got better, and now they’re getting worse again,” Grant replied. “I’ll go up to Morelli’s ranch later on, try to reassure him. But there’s only so much we can do about rustling. Once it’s done, it’s done. They’ll be over the county line already, and we don’t have the resources to mount a chase. I’ve got you and four deputies for a town of a few thousand. Not to mention all the people who pass through.”

“And they’re often the ones who cause the most trouble,” Jack pointed out.

Grant nodded, returning his attention to the latest report. More than two dozen head of cattle had been taken from an outlying ranch belonging to Paul Morelli—one of the largest landowners in the county. It would look bad if those responsible got away, but Grant had a pile of further reports on his desk—robberies, break in, a holdup at the saloon.

Willow Creek was fast descending into lawlessness, and Grant felt powerless to know what to do about it. He’d been the sheriff for the past five years, and a deputy before that. Willow Creek was his home, and he hated to see what it was becoming.

And on my watch, too.

Making his excuses, he left the sheriff’s office and walked home. His lodgings—a small house that had belonged to his parents, located on a side street—was just a short walk away, and he went to check on his horse, Beau. She was a chestnut mare—a stout, loyal creature—who tossed her head and whinnied as Grant entered the stable next to the house with a bucket of oats.

“There we are, Beau,” he said, patting the horse’s nose. “What do you think about all this cattle rustling, then?”

Grant often spoke to his horse like this. She was a good listener, and he felt certain she could understand him. They’d been companions since Beau was a foal, and together, they’d been through some hair-raising adventures. Beau was the loyalest of creatures, and now she nuzzled her nose against Grant’s cheek as he held out a cube of sugar for her.

“I don’t think it’s someone local. I think it’s organized,” he said, pondering out loud. “There must be a gang stealing to order.”

At that moment, footsteps in the yard outside the house caused him to turn, and he was confronted—though not surprisingly—by the figure of Evelyn Reed, the daughter of the saloon owner, whose name was Samson.

Evelyn was a few years younger than Grant, pretty, with red hair and large green eyes. But there was something about her that made Grant feel uncomfortable. She’d often appear like this, as though she’d spotted him and followed him. He knew she had an interest in him—she’d made it clear enough. But Grant had also made his position clear. He wasn’t looking for love or romance. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked, smiling at him as he patted Beau’s rump.

“This is work. A sheriff has to look after his horse,” Grant replied.

He was never impolite to Evelyn, but neither did he seek to encourage her.

“And his stomach, too. I’ve made you a pie,” Evelyn said, holding up a bag she was carrying.

Evelyn was always making things for Grant, though he knew full well it was her mother who did the baking. She’d arrive at the house, claiming to be just “passing by” and then produce something—just as she’d done now.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” Grant said, as Evelyn handed him the bag.

“It’s made with jarred peaches,” she said, looking at him hopefully.

This was always the moment of transaction. Nothing was ever given for free. Evelyn expected something in return—a compliment, a promise, a favor.

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. You’ll… have to excuse me, though. I’ve got to get back. We’ve had more cattle rustling on the ranches these past few days. I need to ride out as far as Morelli’s Landing this afternoon.”

Evelyn looked disappointed, but Grant was determined not to make any false promises. He didn’t want to lead her on. In truth, Grant was afraid of attachment. He’d lost his wife at a tender age, far too soon, and the thought of allowing himself to love again felt like a betrayal. 

“Oh, well… are you sure you don’t have time for a slice of pie?” she asked.

“I’ll look forward to having it later,” Grant said, in what he hoped was a diplomatic tone.

Evelyn insisted on walking with him as he led Beau in the direction of the sheriff’s office. In truth, Grant had wanted a few moments alone. In recent days, it had felt as though his work was relentless, and that he was failing in his duties as sheriff. Problems beset him on every side, and, with further trouble in the form of the cattle rustlers, Grant had his work cut out.

“Will I see you at the barn dance on Friday evening?” Evelyn asked as Grant hitched Beau to the tethering post outside the sheriff’s office.

“You know I don’t go in for all that.” 

Again, Evelyn looked disappointed. “All you do is work. You never have time for anyone,” she said, pouting her lips. “Enjoy the pie.”

Grant sighed. He didn’t want to be rude to Evelyn. She was a nice enough girl—a young woman now. But Grant’s memories of his wife held him back. They’d married young—childhood sweethearts. Veronica had been a sweet girl, and Grant had imagined they’d spend the rest of their lives together. But a fever had taken hold of her, and she’d died just a few days later. It had seemed so cruel, and for a long time, Grant had been angry—at himself, at Veronica, at God.

“You’re back already? I thought you were riding out to the Morelli place,” Jack said when Grant entered the sheriff’s office a few moments later.

“I am. I got cornered by Evelyn,” Grant replied, shaking his head.

Jack smiled. “She’s persistent. I’ll give her that.” 

“Too persistent,” Grant replied, sitting down at his desk to make a pretense at work.

But where to start? Grant was feeling overwhelmed. He wanted to do his best for the people of Willow Creek, but it felt as though everything was conspiring against him. He’d solve one crime, or catch one criminal, and two more would spring up to replace them. It was never-ending, and the more he tried, the more he seemed to fail.

“I’m going to see Louisa Payne. Apparently, she’s having trouble with a debt collector,” Jack said, taking up his Stetson as he rose from his desk.

“Is she in debt?” Grant asked.

“Louisa Payne’s always in debt. But he’s been threatening her, and she’s scared. I’ll speak to the man—there’s sure to be a way to resolve it.”

Grant nodded. Jack was a good man—a loyal deputy, and the closest Grant had to a friend in Willow Creek. He was dependable, and Grant was grateful for the calm and measured way he went about his work.

“All right. I’ll wait until you get back before I ride up to the Morelli ranch. I just hope we can get a handle on this rustling. It’s worrying me,” he said.

The deputy nodded. “I’m sure we can, Sheriff.” 

He nodded as he turned to leave. But before he could open the door, a knock came, and the door was opened by a young woman, well-dressed in a green dress and matching shawl with a red bonnet on her head. She was pretty, perhaps in her early twenties, with auburn hair spilling down from beneath her bonnet, framing soft cheeks and deep green eyes. She looked somewhat nervous, though she was obviously a woman of good social standing.

“Good morning,” she said, addressing Jack. “Are you the sheriff?”

“No, ma’am, I’m the deputy sheriff. This is Sheriff Walker,” Jack said, holding out his hand to Grant, who rose to his feet, nodding to the woman and inviting her to sit.

He was curious to know her business, though he already feared something further to add to his workload.

“Please, sit down, Miss…” he said, pausing for the woman to introduce herself.

“Miss Clara Morgan, of Elden Falls. Daughter of the late Robert Morgan.” 

The name meant nothing to Grant, though the look on the woman’s face suggested it should.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Morgan. How can I be of service?” Grant asked.

He took his job seriously, and he prided himself on listening to whoever asked for his help. He didn’t recognize the woman, and he’d never heard the name Morgan before. Elden Falls lay a hundred miles to the south, and it seemed strange to think of an unaccompanied woman traveling all this way north across the rough, arid terrain of Arizona.

“I’ve recently discovered something unusual about myself. I grew up in a loving family. My mother died some years ago, and my father died recently.”

“You have my condolences, Miss Morgan,” Grant said, for he knew what it was to lose both parents and to find oneself alone in the world.

“Thank you. My father was a wealthy man, and he left me a considerable fortune. But he also left me this,” the woman said, taking a letter from her bag. “It’s his last will and testament, but it also revealed to me the fact I’m adopted, and that it was here, in Willow Creek, my parents discovered me.”

Grant was interested to a point—it must’ve been a startling revelation for her. But his business was crime, and it wasn’t a crime to adopt a child, even as it had obviously come as a surprise to the woman to discover as much.

“I see. And you’ve come here to seek them out?” he asked.

“Precisely. I want to know who I am and where I came from. When I got off the mail coach, I had the strangest feeling of familiarity. I knew I’d been here before. Well… I suppose I have. But I’ve come here because I want to know the truth about myself—who family were, and if any of them are still here.”

Grant nodded. He sympathized with her. But he had enough to do without worrying about a wild goose chase. 

“How long ago was it? Since you were adopted, I mean.”

“Oh, I was just a baby. I suppose no older than two, perhaps. I don’t remember anything about that time—how could I?”

 “No, I mean… it’s just where to start, I suppose. Do you know the names of your parents?” Grant asked.

He wanted to help her, or at least set her on the right path. But the thought of all the work he was neglecting as a result of their conversation weighed on him.

“No, I don’t know anything, except I had a sister, and my mother couldn’t take care of us. Not after my father was arrested for robbery.”

At these words, Grant looked at her with interest. If her father had been arrested for robbery, there’d surely be a record of it.

“Is that so? I could ask Jack to check the archives. It’s likely there’s a record of an arrest for a serious offence like that. We don’t keep records for minor crimes like drunkenness. We’d have to build a bigger office. But something like that…” he said.

Miss Morgan appeared grateful, taking out a card from her bag.

“These are my details. I’ve taken rooms at the boarding house, and I’ll be here for a few days, at least. It would be twenty years ago, but… if there’s any chance at all, I’d like to pursue it,” she said.

“I understand. And I’ll do my best to help you,” Grant assured her.

In that, he was sincere. She’d come to him for help, and he didn’t want to disappoint her, even as he suspected it wouldn’t be easy. The likelihood of either of her parents still being alive was slim, but there was a chance her sister might still be in Willow Creek, though probably married and with a different name.

“Thank you, Sheriff. I’m going to make my own enquiries,” Miss Morgan said. “I’ve got a few possible names, acquaintances of my father’s still living here. But I won’t take up any more of your time.”

She rose to her feet, and Grant did the same, hurrying to open the door of the office for her. 

“Please, if there’s anything more I can do, don’t hesitate to call in. And… please take care while you’re here,” he said.

Grant didn’t want to scare her, but the latest trouble in Willow Creek was worrying him and he feared she might get caught up in something untoward.

“I’m sure I’ll take good care, Sheriff,” she said, smiling at him and nodding.

Grant wished her a good day, watching from the door as she made her way along the street. She was a prim, proper woman—a lady. Quite the contrast to some in Willow Creek.

But I think she’s going to be disappointed. I can’t see her finding anything about her past. Though a robber…

Grant decided to check the records for himself. He was curious about the woman and her story. It seemed extraordinary to think she’d had no idea of a past life—however brief—lived in Willow Creek.

If I was adopted, I’d want to know the truth about my parents. And, opening the record cabinet, Grant began to search.