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Subject: {ASSM} Sarah and the Stranger {Claire Kellis} (MF MFm Fm oral anal incest) [13/14]
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Date: Tue, 15 Jul 2008 11:10:02 -0400
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Sarah and the Stranger
a Novel by Claire Kellis

Spring, 2008



Chapter 13: _Lou_



They waited morosely on the front porch, protected from the moderate 
rain by the porch overhang and the lack of wind.  The three adults 
occupied the rocking chairs; Jack stood with his arm around a post.  No
one had anything left to discuss.  Sarah was determined to accept 
whatever fate awaited her while still protecting Bud.

Distant automobile engines riveted their attention on the drive.  Jack 
leaned out from his post, one hand shielding his eyes against the rain.
"It's the sheriff in front.  How come he ain't running his si-reen and 
red light?"

"No reason to rush for a dead man," said Jeff.  "Sounds like more than 
the sheriff's car."

"Lots of them behind the sheriff.  Can't see who for the rain."

"You'll see in a minute."

Five vehicles soon pulled into the yard, cutting ruts in the wet ground,
and spread out to park in a row facing the porch.  The leader was a 
county Ford painted brown with the sheriff's gold star decorating doors
and hood.  The largest was marked with large red crosses: an ambulance.
Men exited them all in a flurry of popping umbrellas and slamming doors.
The Martins stood and pushed back their chairs.

Sheriff Hailey Bates stepped up to the porch first, followed by two 
deputies, two ambulance attendants in white coats, Dr. Hiram Spencer 
with his black bag and Percy J. Gilroy in a gabardine summer suit.  For
a moment nothing could be heard but the swish of collapsing umbrellas.

The sheriff was a large, husky man in a brown uniform, Sam Brown belt 
and holstered pistol.  His upper lip supported a sweeping handlebar 
mustache below piercing blue eyes.  He withdrew his oil-cloth protected
campaign hat and nodded.  "Good morning, Jeff."

"Morning, Sheriff."

"Where is he?"

"In the kitchen: straight down the hall."

The sheriff stared Jack up and down.  "Who're you?"

Jeff answered, "My grandson, Jack Martin."

The lawman grunted and peered among his followers.  "Doc Spencer, you 
and Kindle come with me.  The rest of you wait here."  He glared around.
"And keep your mouths shut, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," said the unnamed deputy.  "I'll keep 'em quiet."

The sheriff and the doctor entered the house.  The others stood quietly,
listening to the rain, bodies shuffling their weight from one foot to 
the other.

Sarah noticed the banker and said in a venomous tone, "Come to check on
your man, Percy?"

He flinched.  "My man?  Whatever do you mean, Miss Sarah?"

"Hush up, there!" barked the deputy, glaring at Percy.  "You heard the 
sheriff's orders."

"Sorry," muttered Percy, turning away.

Sarah pulled one of the chairs farther up the porch, sagged into it and
began to rock her baby.  The child watched the porch full of standing 
men with big eyes.  Maggie soon pulled a second chair beside Sarah's and
took her own seat.  The last chair remained unoccupied.

Sheriff, deputy and doctor were in the house about five minutes before 
reappearing on the porch.  Jeff's shotgun dangled from the sheriff's 
hand, a billfold clutched in the other.  He glanced around at the 
segregated women but said to the doctor, "You need to see anything else
in there?"

"No.  My report will identify the cause of death as two loads of 
buckshot, fired close enough to burn the shirt, centered on the sternum
and destroying the bronchial passages and the right cardiac atrium.  The
diseased suffered severe abrasions and contusions over the face, 
shoulders and arms prior to the gunshot wounds."

"Would an autopsy be useful?"

"Not materially."

"Very well."  The big man nodded to the ambulance attendants.  "You may
remove the body.  Take it to Wellesley's."

They waited while one of the white-coated men retrieved a folded 
stretcher from the ambulance.  Both entered the house.

The doctor asked, "May I check on Mrs. Martin?"

The sheriff frowned.  "Are you badly hurt, Sarah?"

Her hand went to her cheek.  "I'm sure to have a black eye."

"Yes, you are.  Can you wait, doctor?"

"Of course, if that's her only complaint."

"I'm okay," she declared.

The sheriff's glance swept around the porch.  "Who witnessed everything
that happened in the kitchen with respect to ..."  He glanced at the 
open billfold.  "Mr. James Dillard?"

The crowd was silent.  At last Sarah sighed and said, "I guess I'm the 
only one, sheriff."

"All right.  Will you please come into the parlor with me?  You too, 
Kindle."

Sheriff and deputy followed the woman inside.  "Sit down," he told her,
taking his own seat in an overstuffed chair beside Sarah's perch on the
couch.  Carefully he stood the shotgun between his knee and the chair 
arm.  The deputy remained standing in the door to the hall.  The woman's
arm encircled little Joe in her lap.

"Tell me about it," the sheriff said kindly.

"I did on the phone."

"I want to hear it again with Ray as my witness."

"Well, ah ..."

"Start at the beginning."

"I was in the kitchen, listening to the rain on the tin roof.  This man
... Dillard? -- come in through the back door."

"Go on.  What did he say?"

"He said ... for me to get my baby -- little Joe was asleep in his crib
-- and get out of the house.  He meant to burn it down."

"Did he say that?"

"He said he was going to slop kerosene all over the kitchen till my cook
stove set it alight."

"Did he say why he wanted to burn you out?"

"No.  But we figured it out."

"You can tell me that later.  Did he get started on it?  I noticed some
kerosene spilled on the floor."

"I wanted to clean that up but Daddy wouldn't let me.  He began to 
unscrew the lid but I went to the sink and got a butcher knife."

"Did you!  What happened then?  We didn't notice any cuts."

"That's when he popped my eye and knocked me down."

"By the way: there were two other adults here, along with your older 
son, who is no little boy.  Where were they?"

"Doing some work in the barn."

"They didn't see or hear Dillard?"

"It was raining.  The gunshots was all the notice they had."

"Okay, he knocked you on the floor.  What next?"

"I thought he would kick me."

"Did he?"

"N-no, I guess not."

"Go on.  What happened?"

"Well, I ... I ..."

"Were you dazed from being knocked down."

"I guess so."

"Stick out your hands."

After setting the baby on the couch beside her, she thrust them out.  He
took them in his, turned them over, studied them thoughtfully and looked
up into her eyes.  "You didn't put all those abrasions and contusions on
Dillard, did you?"

Sarah had already considered her response to that.  "You mean cuts and 
bruises?"

"That's what the doctor meant."

"Yeah, I did.  Well, some of them.  With a limb from the wood box."

The sheriff nodded.  "We found one on the floor."

"That's the one."

With shuffling feet the ambulance attendants passed up the hall, bearing
between them the stretcher containing a body wrapped in oil cloth.  The
dead man's boots had been removed and laid atop his legs.

The sheriff waited until the screen door slammed behind them.  "So you 
got up from the floor and went at him with a bat, is that it?"

"A limb like a bat.  Yeah.  For a while."

"Is that how the furniture got knocked around?"

"Yeah.  And the kerosene spilled."

"Then what happened?"

She sighed but raised her chin with determination.  "He pushed me down 
again.  In the corner.  Where Daddy's shotgun was standing."

"Ah, the shotgun!"

"I got it up and told him I'd kill him."

"Go on."

"He didn't believe me.  He grabbed for the gun and I ... I guess I 
pulled both triggers."

"You used a shotgun before?"

"Yeah.  Once or twice.  My husband would laugh when it knocked me down."

"Your husband is dead, I understand."

"That's right, from an accident two years ago."

"Okay.  Go on."

"Umm.  That's about all.  Daddy and the others came in from the barn.  
My baby was crying.  I took care of him."

"When did you call me?"

"Oh.  I ... I soothed the baby then called you."

"Doc Spencer said Dillard had been dead about an hour when he saw him."

"Ah hour.  Well ...  Maybe the doc was wrong."

"Maybe.  Did Dillard go anywhere else in the house?"

"Huh?  Oh, no!  He stayed in the kitchen."

"Then explain something for me, Sarah."  He took a shotgun shell from 
his pocket and turned it over twice, showing that it had never been 
discharged.  "I found this in the hall in front of a bedroom door.  If 
you look through that door, you can see similar shells scattered all 
over the room."  He grinned slyly.  "Are you going to tell me you let 
your baby play with shotgun shells?"

Her hand went to her mouth.  "N-no.  It ain't true.  I wouldn't tell you
that."

"I thought not."  He took up the shotgun, opened its breech and withdrew
an expended round to show her.  Aside from the hammer impression, the 
end blown open and a few powder stains, it was identical to the unfired
one in his other hand.

"What was Dillard doing while you were scratching up shells to load into
this shotgun?"

"I don't ...  Uh, I, uh ..."

He turned to the waiting deputy.  "Get the rest of them in here."

"Yes, sir."

The screen door yawned and shortly the hall rumbled with boots.  The 
porch crowd spread out in the room.  Maggie and the two Martins sat with
Sarah on the couch, the doctor in the remaining chair, while the 
deputies and the banker stood near the door.

They all looked expectantly at the sheriff, who said, "I've got some 
questions for you, Jeff."

The old man's eyebrows rose.  "But I was in the barn till we heard the 
shots."

"So I understand.  Did the Martins recently get themselves an 
automobile?"

"A car?  No, sir."

"Then who owns that Model-A sitting just off your driveway?"

Jeff blinked.  "Model-A?  I didn't know --"

Sarah said, "That's how he got here.  Didn't think he walked, carrying 
that kerosene from town."

"You think it was Dillard's car?"

Jeff answered for her.  "Sure as hell ain't ours."

"I'll check it out.  Another question, Jeff: is this baby walking yet?"

"Oh, yeah."  Jeff's expression brightened.  "He's spry as a billy-goat."

"Then I refuse to believe you left your shotgun standing in the kitchen
corner.  Where do you keep it, Jeff?"

"Ah, uh ..."  The old man stared in dismay at Sarah, who blushed and 
looked away.  He took a breath and said in a low voice, "In my bedroom."

"The one that's littered with loose shotgun shells from an open box on 
the bed?"

"Littered?"

"Somebody was in an awful hurry to load his -- or _her_ -- gun.  Another
thing: Sarah, you say you beat off Dillard with a stick until he pushed
you down.  I found the limb from the wood box you mentioned.  It 
could've made all those marks on his head and arms, I guess, except for
one thing: no blood or skin on the stick."

Sarah gulped.  "Maybe it was another one."

"The one I found was the only one loose and it did hit somebody.  It has
a little tuft of hair stuck to a knot near one end.  Funny thing: that 
hair is a lighter brown than Dillard's, quite a bit lighter.  You got a
dog, Sarah?"

"N-no, sir."

The sheriff stared at her for long seconds.  She fidgeted, not meeting 
his eyes.

He looked up, cocking his head toward the door.  "Where'd you come from,
Percy?"

The banker started, swinging his gaze from the woman to the sheriff and
answering smoothly, "I saw your procession and fell in behind it.  I was
coming here anyway."

"What for?"

"I've got some papers for Miss Sarah."

"What kind of papers?"

"Notice of foreclosure."

"On the Martin place?  This is obviously a prosperous farm."

"They haven't made their loan payments."

"Well, you don't have to do that today."

"All right, sheriff.  I'll just be going then."  Percy smiled 
disarmingly.  "I'm anxious to get home and check on my other car.  I've
got a Model-A with a missing spare tire cover just like one on the 
Martins' driveway."

"That's right, you have.  Stick around, Percy.  Since you're here, you 
can answer a question too."

"Of course I'll cooperate however I can."

The sheriff opened the billfold retained in his hand and withdrew a 
sheaf of currency.  "Dillard had 500 dollars on him: these ten fifties.
Did your bank allow such a withdrawal any time recently?"

"Uh, n-no."  Percy squared his shoulders.  "No, sheriff."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure I would have heard about one that large."

"Huh!" snorted Sarah with a sneer.

The sheriff subjected the banker to the same lingering study previously
visited upon Sarah.  He said finally, waving the bills in his hand, 
"This much money suggests a motive for Dillard, released from Grissom 
just last week, to burn the Martins out.  Do you know anything about 
that, Percy?"

"Of course not!"

"Of course yes!" declared Sarah, eyes glaring.

One corner of the sheriff's mouth twitched in an ironic smile.  
"Coincidences and discrepancies: seed for a detective's mill.  We have a
few of them here.  For coincidences we have the would-be arsonist with 
ten nearly new 50-dollar bills in his pocket and very possibly our 
banker's car used by him and parked in the driveway -- said banker being
Johnny-on-the-spot with hateful foreclosure papers."

He paused, narrow eyes studying the banker, who took out a handkerchief
and wiped his forehead, holding his breath until the sheriff turned 
away.

"Sarah, I believe the gist of your story that Dillard came here to burn
you out and you shot him dead for his trouble.  The discrepancies are in
the details.  I don't believe you put those cuts and bruises on him with
no more to show for it than one black eye and a wrong color tuft of hair
on your supposed cudgel.  And I don't believe your shotgun was sitting 
conveniently in the kitchen corner when you needed it so desperately.

"You had help, Sarah.  Was it you, Jeff?  Or Jack?  Both of you, let me
see your knuckles."

Old and young held out their fists.

"Not a mark," noted the sheriff.  "All right."  He leaned forward toward
the wide-eyed woman.  "Who else is here, Sarah, and why are you 
protecting him?"

"I, I ..."  She stared at the sheriff.  Suddenly her hands covered her 
face and she burst into tears.

Maggie put an arm around her, murmuring, "Take it easy, honey."  She 
glared at the sheriff.

Little Joe clambered into his mother's lap.  "Don't cry, Mama."

Percy Gilroy stepped forward and declared, "There's another man here, 
sheriff.  I don't know what they call him, but he's a mean one."

"How do you know this?"

"I, uh ...  I saw him here last week."

"Did you!"  The sheriff's eyes narrowed.  "Kindle, go see what's in that
room behind the closed door."

"Oh, no!" muttered Sarah as the deputy left the room.  She looked up 
through streaming eyes.

They waited expectantly, listening to the deputy's boots in the hall.  A
door unlatched.  After a moment the deputy asked someone, "You okay, 
fellow?"

They strained to hear a weak voice reply, "I've been in a fight."

"You look like it!  Come on in the front room.  Sheriff Bates wants to 
see you."

Feet clumped in the hall.  Bud appeared in the doorway, the deputy 
following and grasping one arm.  Bud looked around and winced, a hand 
with skinned knuckles pressed to the side of his head.  The skin around
one eye was yellow, soon-to-be-black.  Scabbing cuts showed on his cheek
and forehead.  He was barefooted and wore a man's dressing gown over his
underwear.

"Oh, god, Bud!" screamed Sarah.  She pushed the baby into Maggie's lap,
surged to her feet and closed on her beloved, throwing arms around him 
and pressing her cheek to his.  After a moment she withdrew enough to 
look at him.

He blinked at her but his eyes twinkled.  "I sure do hope you're Sarah!"

"Oh, no!" she cried despondently, hands going to his bruised cheeks.  
Fresh tears flowed.

The twinkle vanished as his mouth fell open and his eyeballs rolled up.
His knees sagged and he slumped forward upon her.  Her arms caught him 
around the chest but she couldn't hold his weight.

"Help me, Ray," she demanded of the deputy, who caught Bud under the 
arms.  Together they bore him up.

Dr. Spencer stood up.  "Put him here."

The woman and the man shuffled Bud sideways and let him down into the 
threadbare chair, where he sat limply with head fallen sideways and legs
splayed wantonly.  Sarah pulled the gown halves together over his 
underpants.  The doctor took her place, one hand to Bud's throat, 
fingers of the other prying eyelids open.

The sheriff said, "Percy, is this the man you saw."

"That's him."  The banker issued what might have been a suppressed 
laugh.  "Looks like somebody beat him up."

Sarah hovered at the doctor's elbow.  "Please, doc, tell me he'll be 
okay!"

"Oh, I think he will, Sarah.  He may have suffered another mild 
concussion."

She took a breath.  "Dillard hit his head with that stick from the wood
box."

"Ah, yes!  Now the hair color matches."

"The hair?"

Sheriff Bates, on his feet, leaned near.  "Yes, it does match.  Sarah, 
is this the one who gave Dillard all the cuts and bruises?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"And while he was fighting with Dillard, you ran and loaded the shotgun,
right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who is he, Sarah?  What's he to you?"

"I ..."  She straightened up with a resigned expression.  "The fact is,
Sheriff, we don't know who he is.  All I really know about him is I love
him."

"How long has he been living here?"

"I guess ... a little over a month."

The sheriff's voice grew kinder.  "Why didn't you want me to know about
him?"

"I ... I ..."

The banker pushed closer.  "I think I can answer that, Sheriff.  I ran 
into him when I visited here last week, and I've given it a lot of 
thought.  Only four of the five guys who escaped from Grissom last month
have been found."

The sheriff cocked his head to study Bud's features.  "Jesse McCollum, 
the leader, is the one still at large.  He was also tall with light 
brown hair.  What about it, Sarah?"

Her eyes glinted.  "I don't believe it."

"Well, who did he _say_ he was?  Did I hear you call him _Bud_?"

"Daddy named him that.  He couldn't remember anything."

"He couldn't, eh?"

Dr. Spencer looked up from his inspection of the unconscious man.  "It's
true, Hailey.  I diagnosed him with severe retrograde amnesia -- what 
was it, Sarah, the next day after you found him?"

"That's right, Doc."

"A month ago?" said the sheriff.  "Hadn't he recovered yet?"

"That's not unusual," said the doctor.

"Well, we can't take any chances.  McCollum is a very dangerous man, a 
killer.  Kindle, put the cuffs on him."

"Oh, no!"  Sarah sprang erect, interposing her body between Bud and the
approaching deputy.

"Stand aside, Sarah," said Kindle, detaching the handcuffs from his 
belt.  "I've got my orders."

She addressed the sheriff.  "He _can't_ be a killer.  This is a very 
kind, smart and honest man, Sheriff Bates.  And he's sick!  You don't 
need any handcuffs."

"They're merely a precaution, my dear, to protect you and your family."

Her eyes flashed.  "We don't want any protection from him!"

The sheriff shook his head and said whimsically, "Doc, why is it the 
best women always fall for the worst men?"

"I don't know," said the doctor, "but if you wait a minute, Hailey, you
might be able to question him.  He's recovering consciousness."

Sarah whirled around and dropped to her knees.  The crowd was 
expectantly silent.

Bud's hand returned to his head.  He frowned and groaned, muttering, "So
that's how a tire iron feels!"  He raised his head.  Eyes fluttered open
and flickered around at the intent watchers, at last alighting upon the
sheriff.  "Where'd you find me?"

The sheriff said solemnly, "I am Sheriff Hailey Bates of Christian 
County, and I have a few questions for you."

"Am I ... charged with anything?"

"That depends on your answers."

"Can I tell you something important first?"

"Go right ahead."

"I've been overpowered by five escaped convicts who stole my car and 
left me for dead.  I don't know how long I've been out.  No doubt 
they're in the next state, but they're probably driving a gold 1938 
Packard convertible sedan with a Loop parking sticker."

"Your car?"

"Yes."

"And your name?"

"Loomis Douglas Ronfield, Junior, of the Chicago Ronfields."

"Who are they?"

The injured man grinned wryly.  "That question proves we're not in 
Chicago."

"You don't know where you are, Mr. Ronfield?"

"Near the highway to St. Louis, I hope.  The last event I recall was 
seeing the one they called Jesse swinging a tire iron at my head."

"Then how did you know to call this young lady 'Sarah?'"

The man blinked at the kneeling woman and smiled slowly.  "Then you 
_are_ Sarah?"

"Oh, no, Bud," she said huskily, a tear overflowing one eye.  Her hand 
slipped out and caught his.

"Mrs. Sarah Martin," said the sheriff, "this is Mr. Loomis Ronfield.  He
seems to have forgotten again."

"Typical amnesia recovery," advised the doctor.

"I'm beginning to wish I _were_ Bud," said Ronfield, smiling despite a 
cracked lip.

"You _are_," she declared softly.  "You always will be."

The sheriff chuckled.  "It seems you didn't totally forget this past 
month."

Ronfield looked up and sighed.  "Yes, I did.  But apparently I 
anticipated it."

"You what?"

"When I first awoke, hearing voices in another room, I found myself in a
soft, clean bed.  On the bedside table was a notepad covered in what I 
recognized as my own handwriting.  I had time to read it before the 
deputy came in.  It was the story of Sarah rescuing me.  It said I had 
fallen in love with her."  He smiled warmly at the woman.  "Now I 
understand perfectly."

She smiled tremulously in return.

The sheriff said, "I'll want to see that notepad."

Ronfield shrugged.  "Why not?  I'm certainly not ashamed of it."

Percy sneered.  "What a far-fetched tale!  You've already said he looks
like, ah, McCollum, Sheriff.  Why don't you arrest him?"

"McCollum?" asked Ronfield.

"Jesse McCollum," answered the sheriff, "perhaps the man who cold-cocked
you with a tire iron."

Ronfield blinked.  "You think I look like Jesse?  That's easy to 
disprove.  I saw him naked when he stole my clothes.  He has an awful 
gunshot scar on his back and a smaller one on his chest."

The sheriff nodded.  "That's true, where he was shot through the chest 
in a bank robbery."  His glance swept to the two deputies.  "Stand him 
up, slip off that gown and turn him around."

"I think I can manage," said Ronfield.  He stood wobbily, slipped the 
gown off his shoulders and rotated to bare his back.

"Bruises but no scar," concluded the sheriff.  "You can sit back down."
He glanced at the banker with a sneer of his own.  "What's your real 
interest in this, Percy?  Did Sarah tell you off?"

Maggie spoke up.  "Bud -- I mean Mr. Ronfield -- knocked Mr. Gilroy down
last week and bloodied his nose."

"Did he!  Why didn't you lodge a charge of assault, Percy?"

Blushing, the banker stepped to one side as if dodging a blow.

The sheriff said, "Kindle, keep Percy close by.  I think we almost have
enough to bring arson-related charges against him -- attempted arson, 
that is."

"Yes, sir."

The sheriff stood up and took a turn around the room.  "All right.  Mr.
Ronfield, we have other evidence that supports your story.  A couple 
weeks ago a gold, '38 Packard convertible was found wrecked near 
Springfield, where the fourth escapee was killed.  It had a stolen 
license tag.  Then this weekend a wire came in, saying a man was missing
on a trip from Chicago to St. Louis, driving a Packard of that 
description.  I didn't pay much attention to the man's name, but 
discounting your cuts and bruises, his description matches yours very 
well.  It offered a five thousand dollar reward to find you."

"$5000!  So that's all he thinks I'm worth!"

"He?"

"My brother.  He manages the money in Chicago."

"Do you remember why you were going to St. Louis, Mr. Ronfield?"

"To straighten out the management of our ball-bearing plant.  We have a
new government contract."

"That's about what the wire said too.  I'm convinced of your identity, 
Mr. Ronfield.  Doctor, should he go to the hospital?"

"Well ...  He has no broken bones except possibly a small crack in the 
left temporal, which will heal untreated if not subjected to further 
attack.  What he needs is a healthy diet and bed rest for a few days."

"He can certainly get that here," declared Sarah firmly.

"Yes," Ronfield agreed.  "If you don't mind, I would much prefer to stay
here."

"Your wounds do need some attention," said the doctor.

"All right," the sheriff announced in decision.  "Doc, stay here and 
take care of that.  You can get me your report on the killing tomorrow 
or the next day.  Obviously Sarah shot Dillard in defense of her home 
and family, and deserves only praise for so doing.

"Percy, you are under arrest on a charge of soliciting arson.  Will you
come quietly?"

"But Sheriff -- good god --"

"Cuff him, Kindle.  He can call for a lawyer when we get back to 
Taylorville.  Boylan, bring along that can of kerosene in the kitchen 
and let's go.  You can drive Percy's LaSalle."

Percy squawked, "What about my Ford?"

"Oh, you admit it's yours, do you?  Kindle can drive that after he puts
you in my back seat."

"Let me leave the foreclosure papers with Sarah.  They're in my brief 
case."

"What brief case?"

"In the car."

The sheriff chuckled derisively.  "You can deliver them, Percy, after 
you get out on bail."  He gestured.  "Let's go."


* * *


Sarah hovered near while Dr. Spencer painted and patched the stranger's
nicks and scrapes.  When the baby, now restored to her hip, became 
fretful, she pulled her blouse aside and put his mouth to the nipple.  
Ronfield blushed and ostentatiously looked away.

"Oh, Bud!" she moaned.  "You truly don't remember me!"

"No," he said with a sigh, meeting her eyes, "but I wish I did."

"Hold still," said the doctor, "while I wrap your head."

"Sorry."

Sarah shook her head.  "I got to quit calling you Bud...  _Loomis_."  
She seemed to be tasting the word.

"My friends call me Lou," he suggested.

"_Lou_."  She brightened and smiled shyly at him.  His eyes lingered on
hers as he returned the smile.

When the smile faded, he said, "Could I ask you a question, doctor?"

"Of course."

"That notepad recorded medical attention furnished for me when Miss 
Sarah first brought me here.  Was that you, sir?"

"Yes, sir, it was: Hiram Spencer, at your service."

"My pleasure, doctor.  You have a gentle touch."

"Thank you."

"I'll give you a Chicago address to send your bill, sir, for both 
occasions."

"Don't worry about that now, Mr. Ronfield."

"I insist, Doctor."

"As you wish, sir.  I'll take it down when I finish."

"Good.  May I ask you a question, Miss Sarah?"

"_Miss_ Sarah!" she repeated with evident distress.  "Just Sarah, 
_please_."

"Very well, Sarah."  He smiled at her.  "I gather I've suffered another
beating.  I don't believe you did it."

"Oh god, Bud, I could _never_ hurt you!"

Dr. Spencer, delicately painting the abrasions on Lou's face with 
mercurochrome, answered, "In fact she fought to defend you.  And her 
home."

"Her home?"

"Of course you recall nothing that happened here.  Our jilted banker 
dispatched a man this morning to burn the house down.  He found --"

"Because of me?"

"Partly, I gather.  In defending Maggie -- this young lady -- from his 
attentions last week, you bloodied the banker's nose."

"I did?"  Lou's eyes widened in bemusement.

"Yes.  And this morning you fought with the would-be arsonist.  He 
knocked you down with a club and incidentally cured the amnesia you had
suffered from the convicts' assault.  How did that happen, by the way?"

Lou frowned impatiently, causing the doctor to withdraw his cue tip.  
"Did Sarah help me fight?"

"She finished it.  She killed the man with her shotgun."

"Did she!" Lou stared at her in awe.

"Oh, Lou!" she cried, tears streaking her cheeks.  "I'm so awful.  I 
killed a man.  But he had just hurt you."

"Pardon me, Doctor."

Lou leaned toward Sarah, arms extended.  She rushed to stoop beside him
and slipped within them, pressing cheek to cheek, tears mingling with 
mercurochrome.

"Oh, Bud -- Lou!" she moaned.

The doctor stood back, smiling benignly.  "I was about finished anyway."
When the faces parted, his hand caught Sarah's chin and turned it 
towards him.  "Let me look at that eye...  Any blurring?  
Double-vision?"

"No, Doc."

"Roll your eyes."  He nodded.  "Typical orbital contusion.  My dear, I'm
afraid it will look even worse tomorrow."

She said resignedly, "I know."

"But it'll be gone in two weeks.  Put on heavy makeup."

"I'll send Jack for some this afternoon."

"Good."  He glanced around at the others, leaning forward with interest
from their seats on the couch.  "No one else injured?"  He began to 
close up his bag.  "Well then, Mr. Ronfield, bed rest and tender care 
for a few days.  No violent exercise.  Here are some pills for the 
pain."

When the doctor had departed, taking with him a note, signed by Lou, 
containing a billing address and authorization to pay, Sarah smiled 
again at Lou and said, "At least nobody kicked you this time."

"Kicked me?"

"Last time the doc was afraid you had a broken rib or two, had to tape 
up your chest."  Her eyes turned to Jeff and Jack.  "Let's get him back
into bed."

Lou smiled and raised his hand.  "Could I just sit here for a few 
minutes and enjoy your company?"

"Of course," Sarah agreed, smiling.

"I suppose I've been a lot of trouble to you this month."

"You've been a big help," declared Jeff stoutly.

Lou's eyes leveled on him.  "I'm Lou Ronfield, sir.  Don't believe I've
had the pleasure."

"Yes, you have, but that's okay.  I'm Jeff Thompson, Sarah's father.  
This young lady is Maggie Thompson, my niece, and the young buck is Jack
Martin, Sarah's son.  Maggie's holding Joseph, Sarah's youngest."

Lou glanced at each.  "I'm pleased to know you all.  Have I truly been 
of some help?"

"Yes, sir!"  Jeff's eyes twinkled.  "You've got the makings of a good 
farm hand, Mr. Ronfield."

Lou smiled.  "Please call me Lou.  I believe I hear a touch of irony in
that statement, sir, but I accept it with thanks.  I hope I've at least
earned my keep."

"You have and then some.  And you fought for both our women.  I think 
Sarah agrees: you're part of the family."

"Oh, yes, Lou!" the woman exclaimed.

"I consider that a great honor," Lou said seriously.  "If had amnesia 
until now, I must have answered none of your questions."  He shook his 
head.  "You all are very generous people.  What can I tell you about 
me?"

Jeff was the first to respond.  "The doc raised a good question.  What 
happened 'twixt you and them convicts?"

"Two of them hid in my car when I stopped for a sandwich.  I'm afraid 
they overpowered me, but not without a fight.  Their leader cold-cocked
me with my own tire iron."  He looked at Sarah.  "Where did you find 
me?"

She opened her mouth to respond when the telephone rang in the kitchen.
She said instead, "Jack, get that."

The youth jumped to his feet and scampered down the hall.  They heard 
him say, "Hello," followed after a moment by, "Ain't nobody here by that
name.  You got the wrong --  Oh, yeah, Miss Mabel!"

A moment later he appeared in the doorway, face alight with awe.  "It's
for Mr. Loomis Ronfield.  Chicago is calling."

Sarah nodded.  "The sheriff must've called _them_.  Come on, Jack, let's
help him into the kitchen."

Pressing on the chair arms, Lou rose to his feet.  "I can make it -- if
you'll show me to the kitchen."

Sarah took him under one arm and bore some of his weight down the hall.

Behind them the old man said to the lad, "You didn't recognize the 
name?"

Jack chuckled shamefacedly.  "Not till Mabel said, 'He is too there!'"

Jeff grumbled, "Everybody in town's heard about it by now."

In the kitchen Sarah stared aghast at the tumbled chairs, the bloody 
wall and floor, and whispered fiercely, "God, Maggie, we got to clean up
this mess!"  Nevertheless she pulled the table and a chair under the 
telephone and guided Lou toward the seat.  "Jack," she directed, "go get
his notepad and pencil."

But Lou had to stand to reach the wall-mounted telephone's transmitter.
He leaned tiredly against the wall and stated, "This is Loomis 
Ronfield."

They watched his face brighten with a smile.  "Yes, Dan, it's I, back 
from never-never land."  He listened for a long moment.  "The sheriff is
right.  It's a most remarkable story, Dan.  Apparently I was taken in by
some country people, the Martins, who found me unconscious, beaten half
to death, and wearing a prison suit --  Yes, indeed, a striped prison 
suit.  The Martins haven't mentioned it, but I remember being forced to
put it on.  They took me in despite that, got me medical attention and 
nursed me back to health without hearing a word of explanation...  
That's right, not a word...  For the same reason I never called home: I
had amnesia, didn't remember my name or anything else."

While he listened to the rattling receiver, Maggie said to Sarah, 
"Prison suit?"

Sarah snapped, "We burned it."

"Good for you."

At the telephone Lou was speaking.  "Tell Mama and Lucy I'm alive and 
well, will you?  That is, I got beat up again, though not as bad, and 
plan to recuperate here for the next week or two...  Yeah."  He 
chuckled.  "Seems I got entangled in a love affair here and had to 
defend a woman's honor.  Didn't do a very good job of it.  Need to join
a gym in St. Louis when I get back on my feet...  The trouble is I don't
remember that part.  I got slugged, which restored my previous memory 
but knocked out what I've been doing with the Martins."

He listened for a bit then continued.  "Okay, I'll call Jamieson next.
I want him to do a few things for me.  He can authorize a ten grand 
deposit, can't he?  In the --"  He looked around and spotted Jeff.  "Mr.
Thompson, what's the nearest bank?"

"I believe that would be the First National in Faresville."

"He can open an account for me in the First National Bank of 
Faresville...  Sure it's in Illinois!  Tell them to send somebody out 
here with the signature cards, checks and a couple grand in cash.  I 
also want him to replace my car.  The convicts wrecked it.  And send me
three or four suits of clothes plus accessories.

"In regard to the plant in St. Louis, I know old Paulson and intend to 
begin the investigation from here by telephone.  Jamieson can get 
Illinois Bell started on running some extra lines in here.  He can order
me a typewriter, an adding machine, a stock ticker and some office 
supplies.  I need two or three days' rest, which will give him time to 
do it.

"A secretary?  Hmm.  That could be a problem, unless --"  He smiled at 
Sarah.  "Can you type?"

"No," said Sarah sadly.

"I can," said Maggie.  "Take dictation too."

Jeff grinned at Sarah and said aside his hand, "Wonder how she spells 
that."

But Sarah smiled indulgently.  "She said her mornings used to be busy."

Lou was talking.  "I think the secretary problem is solved, at least 
tentatively...  Right.  If I think of anything else, I'll let you know.
By the way, Dan, was it you that offered the five grand award? ...  
Well, first, I'm worth more than that, a lot more!"

The receiver rattled and Lou laughed, looking around at his rapt 
audience.  "He reminds me it was the price on my head when we played 
cops and robbers as little boys."  Returning to the phone, he continued,
"Second, I think the Martins earned it, every penny and then some.  Make
the check out to Sarah Martin."

Sarah protested, "Lou, Lou, please --"

He raised a hand.  "You truly earned it, Sarah, you and your family."  
He smiled at her but heaved a sigh.  "Dan, I'm feeling ragged and I've 
got to call Rolf Jamieson...  Well, if you would, that would be easier 
on me.  Thanks again, brother!"

He hung up the receiver and fell heavily into the chair, announcing with
another sigh, "I'm thirsty and I don't feel so good."

"Good heavens!" cried Sarah, springing to her feet.  "It'll soon be 
dinnertime.  Jack, swab down that wall.  Maggie, mop the floor.  I'll 
warm up last night's stew.  Just keep your seat, Lou.  I'll bring you 
some ice water and Daddy and I will get you back to bed."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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