A Sheriff to Unlock Her Memory (Preview)

Chapter One

Port Shepstone, Oregon

September 1882

Sheriff Logan Barrett picked his steps with care. After the downpour the night before, the planks of the dock were especially slippery. He suspected the slickness of the planks had something to do with the juices and oils from the fish that the fishermen often cleaned right there on the dock.

The rain had done a decent job of washing a lot of it away, but there was always a residual layer of slime that showed up in the water like an oily sheen. Logan wondered if a scrubbing brush and a lot of soap would make a dent in it. Then he wondered how likely it was that anyone would ever bring the soap and planks into close proximity and let the thought die.

Thanks to the previous night’s thunderstorm, the air smelled strongly of salt and tar and less strongly of fish as the day began to heat up. The air still rang with the cries of gulls trying to find something to eat. That never went away. Not that he’d want it to. It was part of the charm of Port Shepstone. The gulls, the fish, the boats.

Walking past an old, rickety shack that stood squarely on a bit of the dock surface that stuck out onto the land, he smelled the pungent odor of onions frying. Shell’s Shack was gearing up for the morning rush.

“Sheriff!”

The cry came from behind. Turning, Logan watched his deputy, Jordan West, make his way across the dock’s surface. With dark hair and eyes that shifted between green and brown depending on his choice of clothes, Jordan had been both cursed and blessed with the least memorable face a man could have. Without his badge, he was just a face in the crowd. His booted feet did a good job of negotiating the slippery surface, however, and he only lost his footing when he came level with Shell’s Shack.

Throwing out his arms, he caught himself on the hut’s wall and held on.

“Jordan,” Logan said with a nod, helping to right him. “Are you okay?”

“Yessir,” Jordan said. He grinned and sniffed the air. “Shirley must be getting started on her fish stew. It smells spicy today.”

Logan gave another sniff and yes, there was something added now that gave a whole new dimension to the smell.

Only the strong-stomached dared to try Shirley’s fish stew. She wasn’t above using ingredients that were a hair’s breadth from being inedible. Funny thing was that most of the long-term fishermen, the ones who went out far into the deep ocean, had no trouble with her food. They would crowd the dock, forming a winding line a mile long to get the stew. Perhaps it was better than the fare on the boats.

Logan frowned at his deputy. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, Jordan, but why are you here? I thought you were keeping an eye on the office.”

“You said to tell you if any urgent messages came in,” Jordan said. “There’s a message from Wagonwheel and another from Bull’s Creek.” He held out the telegram papers. “I wasn’t sure if they were urgent, so…” He shrugged.

Logan took the papers. He stuffed them into his pocket as two weathered fishermen pushed past them, carrying baskets with fishing nets piled high.

“I’ll take a look at these later,” Logan said and turned to make his way down the dock to the harbor master’s office. It was in a squat, low building at the end of the promontory, where it had a great view of the little cove that gave Port Shepstone its harbor. “Mr. Chesterfield called me in. He’s got something he needs to show me.”

“Right,” Jordan said. “I can head bac—”

He didn’t finish as the sounds of angry voices filled the air. Soon they were accompanied by cheers and the wet meaty sounds of fists on flesh.

Logan and Jordan didn’t hesitate. They launched into a careful run that nevertheless saw them skidding and sliding along the planks. They raced past the fishermen, many of whom were coming out on the decks of their ships and watching the fun. Some began to cheer.

A knot of men had formed on the dock just outside the harbor master’s office. Men cheered and whooped or groaned as events unfolded in the middle of their circle.

Logan reached the circle and began to push his way through to the front, but someone careened into him. He caught the man by the shoulders. He was a sailor, no doubt about it. The lingering scent of fish clung to him, and his clothes were old and had several holes in them. His long beard was streaked with gray.

He growled at Logan. “Let me go! I’ve got a score to settle.”

“The thing is, this is my town, and I don’t like people settling scores here,” Logan said, holding on firmly.

“Is that so?” the man asked.

“Let him go, Sheriff,” Mr. Chesterfield said.

Logan spotted him over the other man’s shoulder. “It’ll be my pleasure to teach this lout some manners.”

He raised his fists and then spat out some bloodied saliva, nearly hitting another sailor’s shoes. The man stepped back into someone else and got shoved forward for his troubles.

The situation would spiral out of control in a breath. Sailors were not patient, well-adjusted individuals. They spent a long time on boats and ships with other men constantly around them. It seemed to take a toll on them, making them more likely to cause trouble than any other employed man.

Having grown up in Port Shepstone, Logan knew this better than most.

“I can’t let you do this,” Logan said, shaking his head. He looked at the man he was holding up. He had an eye that was swiftly swelling closed, and a thin trickle of blood was seeping from a nostril.

“Let me go!” the man roared and broke free of Logan’s grip. He turned and launched himself at Chesterfield. The big harbor master was waiting for him and used his own momentum to make the sailor crash into a barrel.

It was full of something with a pungent odor that slopped over the side, anointing the man with a substance that looked like grease. His hair was glued to the back of his head and the stuff dripped down. Logan realized that it was molasses from the rich, sweet smell of it.

Chesterfield strode toward the man and grabbed him by his collar. Then he shoved the man’s head into the barrel and held it down. The sailor scrabbled and bucked but the harbor master was a large, strong man, a sailor once himself. No amount of paperwork seemed able to take his stringy, resilient muscles from him.

Logan couldn’t allow the unruly sailor to be drowned in a vat of molasses. That was murder. He and Jordan rushed forward. The sailors, always on the lookout for serious trouble, dispersed so quickly it was as though they had never been there.

Reaching Chesterfield at the same time, Logan and Jordan tried to pull the large man off the smaller one.

“Come on! You can’t drown him!” Logan grunted, trying with all his might to move Chesterfield back.

“How about I only drown him a little?” Chesterfield asked.

“It’s attempted murder then and not murder,” Jordan said, “but you’ll still be in trouble.”

Chesterfield laughed. “Trouble? Me?” He paused and seemed to decide something. Then he let go of the sailor and stepped back.

The man came up out of the barrel spluttering and coughing, wiping the stuff from his face with his hands.

“He’s a madman!” the sailor grunted when he could breathe. “Crazy!”

“Well, next time you need to have an opinion about how I run my harbor, maybe keep it to yourself!” Chesterfield roared.

Logan was willing to bet money that every sailor in earshot had a good mind not to say a single negative thing about the harbor now. To do so would be suicide.

The sailor wiped his face as best he could, leaving sticky streaks across his skin. Looking down at his hands, he tried to shake off the excess molasses. It hung in globs and streaks and crusted around his eyes and dribbled from his nose and mouth.

“Go get yourself cleaned up before the bees and ants find you,” Logan suggested, patting the poor man on the back.

The sailor nodded, and two of his friends materialized from behind boxes and crates to quickly take him away.

Turning to the harbor master, Logan shook his head. “Really?”

The big man shrugged. His right hand was covered in a sticky mess up to his wrist. He walked to another barrel and began to wash in the rainwater.

“You know those bilge rats don’t understand much. It’s the fist or the whip. They don’t have two pennies’ worth of sense to rub together to keep warm on a cold winter’s day. They think they know everything, but it takes smarts to run this place, and I got ‘em.”

He tapped his forehead with his right index finger. It trailed wet, thinned-out molasses onto his face. He sighed and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

“That no-good scoundrel is lucky you came by. Insulting the integrity of my dock is a punishable offense.”

“What did he say?” Jordan asked, frowning.

Mr. Chesterfield leveled an annoyed look at him. “That little pi—”

“Let’s just call him an unfortunate sailor, okay?” Logan asked, not wanting to listen to every inventive and colorful cuss word that the harbor master knew. As a retired sailor himself, Logan was certain the man knew them all.

“Fine, the rat said he had heard that all the ports along this stretch of coast were under new management,” Mr. Chesterfield said. “He said he heard there was extra coin to be earned by giving up some information.”

“What kind of information?” Logan asked.

The harbor master shrugged. “No idea. He didn’t say. He thought I knew and would pay him to give it to me. Naturally, I explained that although there might be places where that sort of thing is considered fine, this is not one of them.”

Logan nodded. “Has his boat ever come here before?” He looked back the way the sailors had taken their sticky friend to see a large ship tied at the far end of the dock. The men were just reaching it now with their friend slung between them.

The harbor master nodded. “Come inside and I’ll tell you the whole tale.”

This was going to take a while. Logan turned to Jordan. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Go talk to that ship’s captain. Find out what you can.”

Jordan gave a curt, efficient nod, and stalked off.

The harbor master’s office was actually a set of rooms. There was an outer office, a storeroom, and an inner office. The outer was where a group of men, all retired sailors, sat doing paperwork. Apparently there was a lot of it that kept things ticking smoothly in a well-run harbor.

Logan was thankful that even on a bad day, his desk never saw the piles of forms that those men’s desks saw. Yet they were still in good spirits, talking amongst themselves as Chesterfield led him inside. They nodded to him one at a time. He nodded back, greeting each by name.

They were George, Paul, and Larry. All lived in town, all had wives and grown children and a few grandchildren running around as though they were carbon copies of each other. They even looked similar with graying brown hair and weathered lines in their brown faces that seemed to never lose the tan of decades on the sea.

The office smelled of pipe smoke and a thick pall of it hung in the air. Logan tried not to breathe. He stifled a sneeze.

All his life, pipe and cigarillo smoke had clogged his sinuses and made him sneeze like he was getting the dreaded influenza. This was going to be an uncomfortable meeting.

He hurried through the office into the back office, the one with the view, on the harbor master’s heels. This was, of course, Chesterfield’s. He had commissioned the large glass panes himself and had them brought by ship from Portland. Through the windows, rain or shine, he could look out over the harbor and see every ship and detail he could ever want to see.

As they sat—Logan in the visitor’s creaky, lumpy chair, and Mr. Chesterfield in his better, softer one behind his desk—Logan looked out through the window to his left. It was a magnificent view of the bay.

The sunlight glinted off the little swells as the wind began to pick up. In the sky, farther out, Logan could see more clouds building, but having lived there all his life, he knew it was unlikely they would have another storm so soon… especially at this time of year.

Far out in the swell beyond the two large rock outcroppings that reached into the sea from either side, the white sails of a ship could be seen. Was it heading their way? Could be.

“So, why am I here, Jeff?” Logan asked, turning from the window. He could use the harbor master’s first name in private. Chesterfield was a bit of a stickler for formalities when other ears were present.

The harbor master sighed. He picked up his pipe and began to dig around in the bowl with a sharp metal tool he’d found in the ashtray.

“It’s a nasty business,” Chesterfield said.

Logan waited. There was no hurrying this man. He would do things like the sea did, in his own time.

“It’s the talk, you know,” Chesterfield finally said, when he’d emptied a bowl of black soot from the pipe. “The sailors and the fishermen that head up and down the coast. They’ve got some strange stories to tell now.”

“I’m going to need a little more detail,” Logan said.

“Yes, yes!”

Silence stretched out and Chesterfield reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out a pile of papers and dumped them in front of Logan. Then he withdrew a leather pouch and began to take pinches of tobacco, stuffing them into the pipe’s bowl.

Logan looked at the papers and then at the harbor master. He hoped he would be done with this, whatever it was, before Chesterfield lit his pipe. Logan rubbed his nose, preempting the sneeze.

He took the pages and held them up. “What are you trying to tell me?” he asked.

“You know, once upon a time, a sheriff would read what you gave him,” Chesterfield snapped. Then he shook his head. “Fine, fine! I’ll make it easy for you. These are reports that the fishermen have made. They’ve been seeing folks floating in the water out there. Not many, not like when a ship goes down, but one here, another there. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Sailors get washed overboard in storms plenty of times. Sometimes, his mates can’t get him back onboard and he’s dragged down to Davy Jones’ locker. It happens.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Okay,” Logan said. “How many months’ worth do we have here in this pile?”

“Oh, that’s about six months,” Chesterfield said.

Logan inspected the sheets. In six months, there had been thirteen dead men spotted in the sea. None of the bodies had been retrieved and brought to shore, he was certain of that. So why the fuss? Why show him? He couldn’t do a thing about sailors being washed overboard in storms.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” Logan said. “Did anyone report them missing? Is there any hint of foul play? You know I can’t do a thing about accidents, right?”

Chesterfield shook his head. “No, I know. And that’s a funny thing. See, I first got suspicious when I saw old McGraw’s boat, The Jolly Jill, come sailing in under a new captain. Captain Kole, as it turns out. Now this fellow Kole wasn’t one of the fishing crew originally, and to my eye, it didn’t look like his men were overly fond of him.

“So, I went poking around,” Chesterfield said. “And what did I find? Only that Captain McGraw was dead, and this Kole fellow took over, just like that. That doesn’t happen. Fishing boats are like families. You don’t just step in there and become captain.”

“Did they say that something happened to McGraw?” Logan asked, wondering why he was being burdened with this. It wasn’t a matter for the law unless there was clear foul play.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? No one’s talking,” Chesterfield said, as though that explained the whole thing. “No one said what happened to McGraw or how he died. Only that he was dead. And you know sailors. Getting them not to flap their lips is hard. The crews are seasoned men who have faced down things that would turn you pale as a cuttlefish, yet they’re too scared to tell me what happened to my friend. I smell a rat!”

Logan wasn’t sure what he could do. His jurisdiction was the land and maybe the harbor, but not more than that. This matter was concerning, but not one that he had any idea how to remedy.

Chesterfield must have read it in his expression because he groaned and thumped his desk with a meaty fist. “Don’t you see? They’re not talking. There’s only one time when a scurvy lot like these men don’t talk, and that’s when there’s a bigger threat than me and my wrath hanging over them.”

Logan nodded. He glanced out of the window. The ship had made good time coming into the harbor. They were tying up.

“I’ll take a look,” Logan said, folding the pages and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. “But I can’t promise anything. I’ll see if someone up or down the coast knows what happened.” He rose.

Chesterfield nodded. “That’s all a man can ask for. And what about those other poor souls out there? Should I tell the men to bring them in when they find them floating out there?”

Logan considered this. Somewhere there were families wondering what happened to their fathers, brothers, uncles…

He nodded. “All right. Let’s see what we can do for them.”

Chesterfield smiled and stood. He slapped Logan heartily on the back, almost knocking him off his feet.

Just then, there was a loud commotion outside the door. It burst open and Jordan came striding into the room.

“Sheriff,” he said. “We’ve got a problem.”

Chapter Two

Port Shepstone, Oregon

September 1882

The blanket wrapped around her shoulders was scratchy and damp. Her clothes were still wet, and she was shivering although she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or everything else.

Her head hurt and her vision blurred from time to time. There was a sick feeling in her stomach, like she wanted to be sick but also like she was afraid—so terribly afraid. Of what, though? No one seemed to be threatening her right at that moment.

Perhaps the threat had been in the past, the recent past, and now she was feeling the effects of it? That had to be it.

The sun was nice and warm, and sitting on a box on the dock felt better than being on the boat. But her head hurt. It was throbbing as though someone was hitting her with a small hammer right on the top of her head.

“What’s the problem?” a voice asked.

It was a pleasant voice, male and not too deep, but not too high either. It sounded a little exasperated but still friendly. Better than the gruff voices of the men who had pulled her from the water.

She risked looking up.

Two men came toward her. The one was nondescript but amiable. He was speaking to the other man, who would definitely stand out in a crowd. He was tall with dark brown hair that flopped over to one side and then hung in the way of his right eye. He had a closely shaven face and there was a little white scar on his chin that cut it in two. His lips were generous but not overly so and stood strong and secure.

“This is the problem, sir,” the nondescript man said.

The sheriff regarded her, the sun glinting off the badge proudly displayed on his shirt front. He stood over her for a moment and then went down on his haunches in front of her. For a long moment, his warm brown eyes held hers. He smiled.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “I see you’ve had a rough time. Can we be of assistance? We could contact your family or your husband…?”

She blinked. Her mind was terrifyingly blank. Did she have a family, a husband? She had no idea.

Perhaps her panic was evident in her expression because the sheriff sighed, not unkindly, and nodded. “Let’s start with names, okay? I’m Sheriff Logan Barrett and this is my deputy, Jordan West. And you are?”

She dug in her mind.

A name. I have to have a name. But what is my name?

“Um…” she began when the silence stretched out far too long. “I…”

Suddenly, she had it. A name, at least. If it really was hers, she didn’t know.

“I think I’m Clara. I don’t know,” she said nervously, her voice sounding small and timid. Did it always sound like that or was it just because she was so lost and confused? Her hand rose to her head and she winced as a jolt of pain hit her.

Sheriff Barrett noticed and leaned forward, inspecting her head. He nodded. “I think she must have hit her head, possibly when she was in the water. We’ll need to get her to Dr. Benson.”

“Do you want to take her?” the deputy asked. “I can stay and talk to the fishermen who found her. Get all the details.”

The sheriff nodded. “Okay. Sure, that’s not a bad idea.” He hesitated for a moment and then offered her his hand.

Clara drew in a breath. Her heart was suddenly pounding with fear. But why? He wasn’t threatening her. He wasn’t doing anything aggressive. He was trying to help her.

She was shaking, and not from the damp blanket or the wet clothes or the chill that seemed to have drilled deep into her bones somehow. It was fear. She had to fight the urge to run away. Away from all the men in the world.

This is ridiculous. The sheriff is trying to help me. He’s the sheriff, Clara. The sh-e-r-i-ff. Not someone who will hurt you.

His hand wavered and he was about to drop it down to his side when she finally reached out and took it. She smiled apologetically.

He responded with a warm, caring smile of his own that sent the fearful, screaming part of herself deeper into her mind where it seemed to quieten a bit.

“Be careful with your steps,” the sheriff said. “The dock is generally a little slippery.”

She nodded and let him lead her from the box she’d been sitting on. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw the deputy speaking to the fishermen.

“They found me in the ocean in one of their nets,” she blurted out quickly, hoping the fishermen wouldn’t get into trouble.

“That’s good,” the sheriff replied, leading her along the dock, steering her around cargo and men who seemed to come from everywhere all at once.

When they finally reached the land, the sheriff turned to her.

“How are you on a horse? Ever ridden before?”

Clara tried to recall if she’d ever been on a horse before. It was hard to say. Her mind seemed to be made of mush and her head was throbbing so.

“It’s okay,” Sheriff Barrett said kindly. “Tell you what, I’ll get you in the saddle and then climb up behind you. That way, we get to town quickly and you don’t have to ride alone.”

She nodded. That sounded good.

His horse was a tall chestnut mare with black rings around her ankles. Her mane was also black and there was a patch of black hair around her left eye.

“She’s called Beauty,” he said, patting his horse’s neck.

“She’s lovely,” Clara said. She patted the horse too and found it was a natural movement for her, not one filled with fear at all. Maybe she had stroked a horse before.

The sheriff helped her into the saddle and climbed up behind her. His arms circling around her made Clara instantly stiffen. She expected to be crushed, to be held tight so that she couldn’t move.

A half-formed image, one of terror and desperation, flittered across her mind so quickly she couldn’t be sure what it was.

“It’s okay,” the sheriff said, possibly noticing her reaction. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m just going to hold the reins. Okay?”

She nodded. “I know, I’m just…” What? She was what? Nervous, worried, scared? All of them.

He didn’t push her to finish her statement, just flicked the reins and Beauty started on. The town was up a little rise, standing proud on a patch of clearly windswept land. The pine trees bent over to one side, a sure sign there was a strong prevailing wind.

The town was familiar and completely strange at the same time. Perhaps she had been in a similar place to this before with the same kind of layout. The town spread out from the main road that was wide and ran back toward a ridge and a band of trees.

The houses and buildings had pitched roofs, deep front porches, and large windows. Their walls were weathered wood, and many needed a new coat of whitewash. More than one porch looked as though it was sagging a little in the September sun, and Clara could imagine how the steps leading up would creak with the least weight on them.

Signs hung on chains over the doorways announcing the businesses. They looked as though they had been painted many times over, the salty sea spray no doubt constantly eroding and flecking the paint off.

Folks went about their business and hardly anyone even looked in their direction, although some tipped their hats or nodded at the sheriff. It seemed a pleasant enough place, light and clean and open.

They stopped in front of a store whose sign proclaimed it was the surgery and apothecary store of Dr. Harris Benson.

“A doctor?” she asked.

The sheriff climbed down from the horse’s back. “I think you might need a doctor, don’t you? It seems your head is bothering you some.”

“Oh, yes,” Clara said, allowing the sheriff to help her down. “I mean, it’s unusual that he’s a doctor, isn’t it? I seem to recall only seeing apothecaries.”

Sheriff Barrett smiled. “Is something coming back to you? Like maybe your last name and address?” he asked. His smile was playful, and she understood that although he was asking, he wasn’t pressing for an answer.

Still, it would be good to know her last name, wouldn’t it? Clara bit her lip and tried to think. A sharp pain shot through her head, and she grabbed both sides of it as though her hands were all that was keeping her skull in one piece.

The sheriff was beside her, taking her elbow. “It’s okay, don’t push it, Clara. Let’s get you inside and taken care of.”

“How will I pay?” she asked, panicked. She began to feel in her skirt pockets for anything, any stray coin. There was nothing. Her pockets were completely empty.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sheriff Barrett said, ushering her into the store. “I’ll take care of it.”

“But… I can’t…” she began, the thought only half formed.

What am I trying to say? That I don’t want to accept charity? That I’m lost and confused and tired?

She gave up and let him take her into the store.

They were met by a smiling young woman with the same brown hair and warm brown eyes as Sheriff Barrett. There was a strong resemblance between them, and Clara wondered if they were related. The young woman glanced enquiringly at the sheriff before her gaze moved to Clara and she became somber.

“Hi Logan,” she said. “What have you got here?” She came out from behind the counter that ran the length of the room.

“Hi, Penny. This is Clara. How busy is the doc right now?” the sheriff asked.

“Setting a broken arm, little Henry Crous,” Penny said. “Won’t take more than a moment longer. He should be just about done.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said.

She took a seat on a bench against the wall and Clara leaned back. The shop smelled of herbs and alcohol. It was soothing and pleasant, and she found the knot in her stomach easing a little.

Her head really throbbed and kept her awake while the sheriff and Penny spoke in low voices. Then a door in the far right-hand wall opened and a young boy came out with his mother in tow. His arm was wrapped in what looked like a set of white bandages. As he passed, Clara noticed they looked oddly hard.

“This plaster of par is going to come off again, right?” the child asked. He had to be around eleven or twelve.

“Of course,” the woman walking beside him said. “And it’s plaster of Paris, Henry.” She shook her head. “Did you thank Dr. Benson?”

Henry turned to the man following behind them. “Thanks, Doc,” he said.

“Pleasure, Henry. Try not to fall out of the apple tree again, okay?” Dr. Benson said.