Wilson's Hard Lesson (94 page)

That Sunday, when we were leaving church, we saw Pastor
Hofmann deeply engrossed in conversation with an older man I did not know. The
Pastor appeared to be fully focused on what the other man was saying, but when
he saw William, he put his head up and waved my husband over.

“William, you know the Curate?” Pastor Hofmann said. He
turned toward me and added by way of explanation, “He’s with the Anglican
church outside Sioux Falls.”

“I do,” William said, sticking out his hand. “It’s good to
see you, sir.”

“I’m not sure you’ll think it good news,” the Curate said.
He was an anxious man, or so it seemed. He spoke quickly and his hands shook
throughout; every moment it appeared his eyes were looking in a new direction. 
“I’ve come to warn you.”

Just that morning, a stranger had appeared in the Curate’s
congregation for Sunday services. Such a thing wasn’t unusual; more and more
people were coming to the region every day and many of them were searching for
a place to worship.

“But this fellow was different than most,” the Curate says.
“Most of the time when someone comes in, they pay a good amount of attention to
the service. Yes, people’s minds can wander if I preach too long, but them that
are there to worship do tend to keep their eyes facing forward most of the
time.”

I wasn’t sure where the Curate was going with this story, so
I cocked my head, curious to learn more.

“Our service is just under two hours long; two and a half if
you count fellowship,” the Curate explained. “This fellow came early, stayed
the entire time, and I don’t think he spent more than twenty seconds total
looking toward the front of the church.”

“Was he cross-eyed, by any chance?” I knew my husband was
serious, but we all laughed.

“No,” the Curate said. “His eyes were perfectly normal, as
far as I could see. It’s just that he wasn’t looking for God. He’s searching
for someone else, and judging by how he most ardently directed his attention,
I’d say that someone is you, young lady.” He nodded toward me. “There are a
number of young women in our flock, and more than a few are ginger haired.  The
way he stared at them was quite unsettling.”

“To be fair,” William said, “It’s quite easy for any man to
find themselves staring at a woman like Abigail.” He blushed a little. “One
could almost say it was the natural order.”

The Curate blushed. “Be that as it may,” he said, “what
isn’t any part of a natural order or even a divine plan, is when that same
young man comes up to me after services inquiring about his long lost cousin,
William Adalwolf.”

William’s eyebrows went up. “My cousin?” He snorted. “That
would be quite a trick.”

“I know your history well enough to know that,” the Curate
said. “So I told him that as far as I knew, you worshipped with the Saints.”

“Thank you for that,” William said.

“This man,” I asked, interrupting their conversation. “Tell
me, what does he look like?”

The Curate’s description didn’t sound anything at all like
the fire marshal. He said nothing about a tall, broad man with a foul face and
stiff legs. Instead, he described, in excruciating detail, a man I knew I’d
seen before: the fire marshal.

“The Saints have their services way out there, almost on the
county line,” William said. He was driving the wagon home at quite a clip; the
horses were kicking up dust and gravel as they galloped along. “By the time he
rides out there to see if he can find us, half the afternoon will be gone.”

“That’s good,” I said. “You want us to be home before he
gets there.”

“That would be best,” William agreed. “It’s not good to be
surprised inside your own home.”

Pastor Hofmann had promised he would send for the Sheriff.
He’d wanted us to stay at the church until the law came, but William wouldn’t
hear of it. “I’ve got too much at home to protect,” he said. “I can’t have taken
the risk of having all my research suddenly burning up in an act of spontaneous
combustion.”

I asked about that as we galloped along. “You don’t think
Papa’s shop was a case of spontaneous combustion?”

“No,” he said, holding up two fingers. “And here’s why. One:
there’s no scientific proof anywhere that spontaneous combustion actually
happens. In every supposed incident, researchers have been able to find some
source of a spark or other cause. Fires don’t just happen for no reason.”

“Oh.” I let out a deep breath. “I didn’t know that.”

“The fact that the papers report such credulous nonsense as
fact doesn’t help matters,” he said. “And of course, one must always keep an
open mind. It is possible that your Father’s print shop was the first ever
incident of spontaneous combustion.”

“Possible but not likely?” I said.

“Exactly,” William agreed. “Possible but not likely. And
then you factor in reason number two, which was the fact we know Robert Benson
wanted to marry you.”

“I’m not sure he wanted to marry me,” I said. “He just
wanted a guarantee that Father would do everything possible to repay the loan.”

William raised an eyebrow. “Out of the blue, he just
randomly decided to demand probably the most beautiful girl in town as the collateral
for one particular loan? Be realistic, Abigail. People don’t work that way.”

I blushed. “I wasn’t the most beautiful girl in town. Not
even close.”

“Well, we’ll just accept that you’re probably wrong about
that,” William said. “How old were you when your Father took out this loan?”

“When he got the press?” I searched my memory. “I think I’d
just turned fourteen.”

“And you’re eighteen and a half now,” William said. “Benson
got tired of waiting for his payment, that’s all.”

“You think he started the fire in Father’s print shop?”

“That would be my hypothesis, yes,” William said. “I very
much doubt that he did the deed himself. It’s more likely he sent one of his
lackeys to do it for him.” The farm was in sight; he pulled the horses to a
slower pace so we could make a more discreet approach. “Probably the same
fellow he’s sent to fetch you.”

Shotsi was dead. I knew it as soon as I saw her little brown
body sprawled on the ground. Her head had been bashed in, most likely by Robert
Benson’s walking stick.

“He’s here,” I hissed to William. “We have to get away from
here. Let the Sheriff handle it.”

“I’m not going to be run off of my own homestead,” William
replied. He drew a pistol that I didn’t know he had from inside his vest
pocket. “Stay behind me, and at the first sign of trouble, I want you to run.”

“We’re past the first sign of trouble,” I said. “We’re up to
the twelfth or thirteenth sign of trouble, by my accounting!”

William laughed. “That’s my liebchen. Mind’s always going a
million miles an hour, no matter what else is going on.”

“You two might as well come in,” a deep voice called from
inside the house. “I’m not going to wait all day, and I shouldn’t have to walk
all the way out there.”

William and I looked at each other. There was no doubt at
all in my mind. That voice belonged to Robert Benson.

He was sitting in the front room, in William’s chair, with
one of the countless journals my husband subscribed to open on his lap. “You
are to be complimented,” he said to William, “on your fine library.” His gaze
turned toward me, and I shuddered as he examined my form. “And your taste in
women.”

“Thank you,” William replied. “I go to great lengths in the
keeping of both.”

Robert Benson laughed. “And who could blame you? If I were a
man of your youth, and a gem of such worth tumbled unexpectedly into my lap, I
would hang on to it tooth and nail. Everyone says you’re a bright man. It’s not
beyond you to see what a treasure Abigail is.”

Every word Benson said, although complimentary, made me feel
slightly ill. It wasn’t as if I was a person to him. Instead, I was an
artifact, an object d’art to be acquired and displayed.

William said nothing. Benson had seen the gun my husband was
holding, but it didn’t seem to trouble him.

“The thing is that your youth prevents you from seeing some
unavoidable facts,” Benson continued. “Nothing alters the fact that this young
woman has been promised to me for many, many years. The law takes breach of
contract – particularly the marriage contract – very seriously.”

“I signed nothing!” I spat. “There is no contract.”

“Your father signed.” Benson shrugged. “You were a minor, so
it was only fitting. The law is what the law is.”

“And under that same law, Abigail is my wife,” William said.
“A woman who is married to one man can’t be wed to another. Our marriage
rendered any contract engaging her to another void.”

“Somewhere in this mess you must have an Introduction to the
Law,” Benson sneered. “That argument may impress what passes for a judiciary
out here on the frontier, but I assure you that’s not the way things work in
the civilized part of the country.”

“Well,” William said, “that’s too bad, because here is where
you are, and here is where Abigail is going to stay.”

Benson reached inside his coat pocket, a motion that caused
William to cock the trigger on his pistol. Benson held a hand up, seemingly
unconcerned. “Hold on, cowboy.” He extracted a thick envelope from his pocket
and put it on the table. “In this envelope is enough cash to fund your research
endeavors for the rest of your life.” When he dropped it, I could see the green
edges of bank notes. “Surely that’s enough to persuade you this marriage wasn’t
meant to be?”

“I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard this, Mr. Benson,”
William said, speaking through gritted teeth, “but there are things in this
world that just can’t be bought.”

“What nonsense!” Benson said. “You’ll think differently
after you count what’s in there.”

“I’m not going to count it,” William said. “I’m not
interested in money. I want you out of my house.” He adjusted the grip he had
on his pistol. “Now.”

“Such a waste.” Benson got to his feet, in a slow process
that was clearly painful for him. “You’re obviously bright, and have vision and
potential. But you don’t know that the law says a widow is free to remarry as
she pleases.”

The gun in his hand was many times larger than the one
William was holding. I did the only thing I could think to do: thrust myself
between the two men, directly in the line of fire.

“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t shoot!” I turned toward Robert
Benson and asked him the question that had been burning in my mind. “Why in the
world are you willing to go to such lengths just to marry me? There are a
million women in this world. Plenty of them would love to be rich. Pick one of
them to keep your house and share your bed.”

“I don’t want to pick any of them,” he replied. “I want you.
I’ve wanted you since I saw you playing in the garden outside of your Father’s
house, with your hair in braids.” His tone grew wistful. “You were wearing a
blue checkered dress.”

I blinked. “I had that dress when I was a small girl. Eight
years ago – maybe ten.” The thought of this man watching me while I was still
in grade school sickened me. “You know I’m not that child any more. I’m a woman
grown now. Grown and wed.” I cocked my head and raised my voice on the last
word, emphasizing my marital state. “Whatever you’ve been imagining happening,
Mr. Benson, it can’t happen. It’s too late for that.”

“I’m willing to forgive your indiscretions,” Benson replied.
“You’re young, and you were scared. I can see I’ve handled things badly, and
I’m sorry about that. But I can look past what you’ve done. All you need to do
is come with me now.”

“No.” I shook my head. “William and I are married, and I
love him.” The words flew from my lips like bullets from a gun, and I could see
Benson wincing as each one landed. “You can’t just come in here and expect that
I’ll willingly walk away from my husband.”

Benson sighed. “No, but you’ll walk away from his corpse.”

Everything happened at once at that point. Benson lifted his
arm and cocked his pistol; I leapt directly toward him, hoping to knock him to
the ground with the force of my weight. At the same time, from behind me, I
heard William fire his gun.

Then Benson fired. The room was full of thunder and
screaming. I raised my hands to my ears to block out the thunder, and realized
I was the one who was screaming. It took all my will to stop, a task that
became even more difficult when I realized the very top of Benson’s head was
missing.

“Oh no,” I said , scrambling off of his prone form. “Oh no,
oh no.” If William’s bullet had landed, what had happened to Benson’s shot. I
didn’t want to turn around, terrified that I’d find my husband’s bloody corpse
sprawled out behind me. “This can’t be happening.”

Then I heard those familiar beloved German tones ringing in
my husband’s words as he clarified the situation. “It isn’t happening,
liebchen. It has happened.”

I whirled around. William was standing there, pale faced and
unsteady, but as far as I could see, unharmed.

“You’re all right?” I demanded, rushing to him.

“I am,” he said. “The same cannot be said for our clock.”
The ornately carved wooden clock that had hung high on the wall had been blown
apart; springs and gears spilled out of its case in every direction.

“Are you sure?” I began pulling back William’s vest,
frantically searching for any wounds.

“Yes, Abigail,” he said patiently. “There is more blood on
you than there is on me.”

I stepped away from him then and looked down at myself in
horror. My dress was covered in blood and gore; I’d no sooner realized this
than I had to run out onto the porch and vomit.

I was out there, struggling to avoid my composure and avoid
looking at Shatsi’s battered body when the Sheriff arrived, riding a big black
horse. He had his gun unholstered before he was out of the saddle. “Am I too
late?”

“He tried to kill us!” I said. It was all I could do to keep
from fainting. I had to cling to the porch post to stay upright.

“What happened?”

“William shot back at him,” I said. “Killed him dead.” I
felt sick again, but there was nothing left in my stomach. “It’s horrible.”

“Where’s William now?”

“I’m in here, Sheriff,” my husband called through the
doorway. “It is as Abigail says. Mr. Benson is quite dead.”

“You’d better come out here,” the Sheriff called. “No gun.
With your hands up.”

William did as the Sheriff asked. “Come over here,” the
Sheriff said. He patted William down. “How is it that you don’t have any blood
on you while she’s covered?”

“My wife…” William paused, searching for the right words.
“She is brave and foolish both. She was struggling with Benson, trying to keep
him from shooting me.”

“And you shot him with her in his arms?” the Sheriff looked
at me for verification.

“Everything happened so fast,” I said.

“It had not been my intention for the gun to fire at that
time,” William said. “When he fired, my reflexes took over. I pulled the
trigger without meaning to.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t kill your wife,” the Sheriff said.

“Rest assured that if I had, Sheriff, the very next shot
would have gone into mine own brain.”