The Coffin Maker: A Silverpines Companion Tale (Silverpines Companion Tales Book 1) Read online

  The Coffin Maker

  A Silverpines Companion Tale

  The Coffin Maker

  A Silverpines Companion Tale

  Secrets won’t stay buried for long.

  Christine Sterling

  The Coffin Maker

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  The book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. All rights are reserved with the exceptions of quotes used in reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without express written permission from the author.

  Scriptures quoted from the King James Holy Bible.

  The Coffin Maker ©2018 Christine Sterling

  Cover Design by Josephine Blake of Cupcakes & Covers https://coversandcupcakes.wordpress.com/

  Editing by Carolyn Leggo and Amy Petrowich

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ who resides in my heart. I try to be like you every day. I love you, Lord. #lifer

  To my beautiful daughters, Rebecca, Nora & Elizabeth. You are everything I could wish for and more. I love each of you so very much.

  Thank you, George McVey, for believing in me as a writer. I appreciate your faith in my talents and I’m so glad I’m along on this crazy writing journey with you!

  To the members of my reader’s group – Chat, Sip & Read. You are a fun bunch and I appreciate every single one of you cheering me on as I write. I love getting notes telling me how much my books mean to you. It is the best part of being an author!

  To my beautiful mindset coach and soon-to-be business partner, Britny, because accountability rocks! Thank you for believing in me, sister! I love you!

  Thank you to my editors, Carolyn & Amy, and especially for turning this around so quickly. #editorsrock

  Thank you to my writing partner for making writing so much fun. I love you, Marianne!

  For Daniel

  Thank you for loving me. I love you to the moon and back.

  Table of Contents

  A Note for my Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  A Note for my Readers

  I was writing Wanted: Gravedigger, which is my next release in the Silverpines’ series, slated for publication in a few weeks, and I realized there was a story within a story.

  I was discussing Tess Daniels’ backstory and how Dawson Elliot came to be in Silverpines under an assumed name, when it became all too apparent that this would be a story that would take a full year in Silverpines’ time to tell.

  So, my very wise mentor, George McVey and I put our heads together, and he said “You need to revisit Wanted: Medicine Man.”

  So, we are. As that is where Tess & Dawson’s story truly begins.

  Chapter 1

  April 18, 1899

  Dawson Elliot crested over the top of the mountain that would take him down into the small town of Silverpines. The rain was starting to slow, and he could make out movement between the trees. People were moving between the fallen limbs calling out names and trying to remove branches to get to anyone trapped underneath. He recalled a stranger at the inn last night mentioning that this area was hit by two natural disasters back-to-back.

  The first being an earthquake that collapsed a mine at the base of the mountain, trapping many members of the community in its depths. The second being a second quake, the very next day, that uprooted trees and avalanched them down the mountainside in a wave of water and mud. Weeks of strong heavy rain had softened the ground, which increased the damage done from the earth shaking. Not a building was spared – houses, businesses and a small saloon were now in the pile of rubble laid before him. The tremors were felt as far away as New Hope, which was about four hours northeast. But there they were simply tremors. Here they were so much more.

  It would be a perfect opportunity for someone with less than desirable motives to take advantage of the town while it was in this state of chaos. Several ideas immediately flashed through his mind: inflation of goods and services, faulty repairs, peddling fake medicinals. Yes, people were apt to take advantage of this situation as soon as they could.

  His eyes shifted from left to right, taking in the scene. No one noticed him as he backed his horse quietly through the trees, returning to the path he was once on. He clicked his tongue to guide the black stallion towards another path, with hopefully less people.

  Blackjack whinnied as his hooves sunk into the mud. The horse pulled them out with a great suctioning noise before placing it back down to have it sink in the muck again. Dawson silent cursed. Turning up the collar on his oil-skin coat, he hopped down from the horse, he too, sinking in the mud. He managed to get himself out of the muck and mire and onto the grassy area just a few feet away.

  Clicking to Blackjack he tugged on the horse’s reins, gently pulling the horse towards him, until it, too, was on the wet, but stable ground.

  He walked the horse past the area where he heard the voices before he remounted and began his trek down the mountainside again. The rain had picked up a bit and the sky was turning darker, even though it was only early afternoon.

  Dawson needed to find shelter for himself and Blackjack for the evening and then he could start asking questions in the morning. Leading the horse into town he noticed it was spookily quiet. Not a soul could be found on the streets. He walked Blackjack through the back streets and alleys until he came to a building with what looked like a horse stable, or large lean-to built against the side. The door was open, and pools of water and mud mixed with straw, gathered at the door.

  It isn’t much of a livery, Dawson thought, leading his horse into the cramped space. But it was dry and clean and that is what they needed right now. He dismounted, his boots crushing the straw beneath its soles and he landed with a thud. He walked to the front of the horse and using his rope, he cross-tied the horse’s halter to the beams at the front of the stall.

  Noticing the oil lantern hanging on a peg next to a match safe, he removed the lantern, feeling for fuel in the base. There was some. He grabbed a match from the safe and struck it against his boot, the sound of it igniting filling the small space. The smell of sulfur tickled Dawson’s nose. He quickly lit the wick before replacing the chimney and hanging the lantern back up on the peg.

  Rubbing the horse’s face, Dawson clicked twice, and the horse whinnied in response before bobbing its head.

  “Good boy, Blackjack. Let’s get you unsaddled and see if we can find you some water and hay.”

  Dawson looked around the cramped space for a place to put his tack. He spied a saddle table in the corner, along with brushes and other grooming tools hanging on nails above it.

  He made quick work of the cinches and removed the saddle, followed by the now wet blanket. Taking his rifle from the scabbard, he leaned it up against the door. Although he had a six-shooter on his leg, he didn’t want
the rifle too far from him.

  There was a tiny alcove in the far corner of the room and Dawson found a wooden box that contained hay. He pulled some out. It was slightly soft, which meant it had been there for a while, but it would do for the night. There was a bucket, signifying that there must be a water source nearby. Not seeing it in the room, Dawson went outside and noticed a water pump on the backside of the structure. He filled the bucket and returned to Blackjack, shutting the door behind him. The light from the lantern left a warm glow in the dark space.

  After feeding and watering his horse, Dawson removed his hat and oil coat, shaking the rain that had clung to the garments to the floor. Blackjack neighed, telling Dawson he did not appreciate being sprayed. Laying his garments across the saddle, he grabbed the brush and picks and began the chore of removing the mud from his horse’s coat and hooves.

  He hummed a tune while he was working. It was one of his wife’s favorites. He didn’t like humming it as it reminded him that he and Luella were no longer together, but it was the only tune that seemed to relax Blackjack when having his hooves worked on.

  When he was done he patted the horse on the flank and retrieved his items. He found the door into the building was unlocked and he entered holding the lantern in front of him. He was in a large room piled with wood. If he was on the outskirts of town he might have thought he was at the sawmill, but he knew he wasn’t. He continued past the wood stacks to the workbench.

  There were carpentry tools laid out. Dawson picked up a wooden mallet and looked at it before placing it back down. Next to it laid a planer for smoothing out wood. There was also a hand-drill and several clamps rounding out the tools. Wooden pegs were scattered between them.

  Running his finger along the countertop he stirred up a bunch of dust. He could tell the room hadn’t been used in a while. Since well before the disasters just a few days prior.

  At the end of the bench a small leather tome caught his eye. It was black leather with gold lettering. He flipped through the book and stopped when he stumbled on the floral script: To Poppa, love Tess. Carrying the book, he moved to the front of the shop where long wooden boxes, like the one he pulled the hay from in the stable area, were piled to the ceiling.

  Dawson chuckled. No, he wasn’t in the sawmill at all. He had to be in a carpentry studio. He would have expected to find household furnishings, however, not a dozen coffins waiting to be used. Maybe the undertaker’s office was close by.

  It would make sense then as to why the tack room and horse stall were so small. It was only meant for short-term use, such as shelter for a horse before hitching the beast to the wagon to carry the dead. The horse, or horses, must stay somewhere else.

  He opened a few of the cabinets. Inside were baskets containing bits and bobs – buckles, buttons, sewing materials, some additional books, and there was an entire cabinet filled with brown jugs. Pulling one out he uncorked it and took a sniff before taking a small sip. The liquid burned as soon as it hit the back of his throat and he knew immediately what it was – rotgut. Homemade liquor that would burn you from the inside out. There were also several opened, partially full bottles of liquor in the cabinet. Whiskey, gin and a small bottle of brandy.

  Dawson smiled appreciatively. This man had exquisite tastes. He brushed the dust off the bottle and removed the cap, taking a swig. Smacking his lips, he allowed the liquid to warm his insides before taking another gulp. Capping the bottle, he put it back on the shelf and closed the cabinet.

  Eyeing a stack of blankets, Dawson grabbed two and settled down in the corner. He laid on one blanket and pulled the second one over him. It smelled musty, but all he cared about was warmth. He adjusted the lamp making it brighter in the room. Pulling the book out from his pocket he opened the first page and started to read.

  3 May. Bistritz. - Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.

  Tess Daniels hadn’t been in her Poppa’s studio since he passed nearly a year prior. Doc Hamilton ruled it an accidental death due to a fall. He said that her father was inebriated to the point where he couldn’t walk and must have fallen, hitting his head and causing the fatal damage. Her mother didn’t argue, but Tess knew her father didn’t drink, especially after watching his own father pass by drinking his liver away.

  There wasn’t a need for an undertaker after her father’s passing, thank goodness, until Charles Little came to town. The outlaw wreaked havoc in a short period of time causing the death of several good men, including Doc Hamilton. The townspeople gathered to bury them in the pine coffins made in the back of her father’s studio. Several of Little’s men were killed as well. They were buried in sheets and a shallow grave.

  Now, this. A disaster had shaken Silverpines to its core. Back to back earthquakes caused a collapse at the Pike Silver Mine and a landslide in Timber Town. The large town was now reduced to one-tenth of its original population. Everyone in town was affected by the disaster, either losing a loved one or being injured themselves participating in the rescue. Tess didn’t know many of the people in the town, as she tended to stay indoors reading her books, but death did visit her home as well. The Daniels lost Kitch, one of the two house servants who had been with her family for over twenty-years.

  Her mother insisted on bringing Kitch and his wife Milam from Boston when they moved West. Milam was their cook and maid and she had yet to grieve her husband’s death. Tess’s Momma was making sure of that. Tess shook the thoughts away from her mind. It was just too much.

  Tess was paralyzed by the thought of dealing with the sickness and death brought on by the earthquakes. Her best friend appeared to be handling it as well as she could. Hattie Richards was an Indian healer and the only doctor in town who could care for the surviving victims. She knew Hattie had some schooling, but the folks in town only listened to Doc Hamilton and called her a healer, so the moniker stuck. She was hopeful that taking care of the people of Silverpines would give her the courage she needed to reclaim her rightful title – Doc Hattie.

  Tess took a deep breath and turned the key in the lock. She pushed the door opened and heard small bells ringing. He had the bells to let him know when someone entered the front part of the building while he was in the back working.

  She smiled. Pastor Bates told her that bells were God’s way of signaling angels were around. That the bells were the sound of their harps all playing at once. She would like to think that her father was with her right now.

  The outside window was cracked where the quakes shook the foundation. The inside walls showed cracks as well. Papers were scattered everywhere, and cabinet doors were open with the contents spilling on the floor. The back of the building appeared untouched. That was her father’s workshop. He made it from bricks brought in from New Hope and it was one of the strongest structures in town.

  She was grateful there wasn’t more damage.

  Tess wanted to help her town, but she was overwhelmed by the prospect.

  She wanted to provide comfort, but she didn’t know how.

  She wanted to help, but she didn’t know where to begin.

  Tess wanted to run away, but she couldn’t.

  The roads were blocked, so the only way in or out was on horseback, and Tess didn’t want to go anywhere near one of the big animals. She wasn’t afraid of them, they just made her nervous.

  So, she ran to the one place where she knew she could find solace. Here in her father’s office. It was where he used to go to escape when dealing with Charlotte became too much.

  Tess closed the door behind her and walked through the office to the back room. A small supply closet led into a larger workshop where she and her father would spend many hours together. He would be woodworking and she would read to him from one of the gothic novels she sent for from back east. She tried to stifle her tears as she walked towards the workshop.

  An eerie glow emitted from under the doorway. It was still early in
the morning, but there was nothing that would emit such a light.

  “Hello?” she called. “Is anyone there?”

  She swore she heard the soft nicker of a horse. Her mind must be playing tricks on her.

  She entered the room and noticed the oil lantern on the floor. That was the source of the soft glow. But who had lit it?

  “Hello?” she called again.

  This time she was greeted with the sound of soft snoring coming from behind a stack of lumber.

  Tess paused, tilting her head to listen again.

  The snoring was a little louder this time. Whoever was there coughed, and Tess heard him shift positions.

  What to do? Should I run for the Marshal? she thought.

  Racing back into the supply closet, she pulled the linens from the top shelf and reached until she felt the strongbox her father kept up there. Opening it, she grabbed two shells and left the rest on the floor. The rifle was in a trap shelf her father had built above the door. She felt for the trip mechanism and the door dropped open. Quickly loading the gun, she tiptoed back to the room.

  Peering around the pile of wood she noticed the figure sleeping in one of the partially made coffins her father built.

  She inched closer, the rifle leveled where she thought it would do the most damage.

  His leg was hanging over one side of the wooden frame.

  A bit closer.

  She could see that his hair was a light brown streaked with blonder strands throughout. Both his hair and his skin conveyed that he spent a lot of time in the sun.

  Just a bit closer.

  He was using one of the blankets her Poppa used to wrap the bodies in before placing them in the casket as a blanket. She giggled at the thought – how easy it would be to take care of him as he had already wrapped himself up and was here in the casket ready to go.