Author's Ledger: Hello my fair readers. It's been awhile since my last update, I was busy. Oh so very busy. I thank my reviewers, you all know who you are, and those of you who don't review but read it anyway. Thank you for at least reading it. I do hope you enjoy this chapter, though it may be a little short. Without further ado, and because I'm not feeling my best, here's the next chapter.

Your faithful Author,

Danbamina

Helen looked up at the sky, the sun hung low in the pale lavender sky. She wiped a dirty hand across her forehead, pushing back the few strands of ebony hair that had been shaken loose from the loose bun on top of her head and clung to her damp forehead, unintentionally leaving a streak of dirt across it. She'd been outside all day just weeding the garden and she wasn't even half-done yet. Helen straightened up on her knees and stretched her cramped back experimentally. She winced as the muscles strained back into their regular places.

"Much better…." She breathed out as she got to her feet and surveyed her work one last time.

Michael Roberts came cantering up the road towards her as she planned out her activities for the next day's work in the garden. He pulled his white horse to a stop and hopped down.

"Good evening, Michael! Whatever has brought you all the way out here?" Helen inquired as the young Doctor strode purposefully towards her.

"Actually, Helen, you do." Michael admitted taking his hat from his head and wringing it anxiously in his hands.

"Oh? To what do I owe the honor?" Helen brushed a lock of hair from her face, leaving yet another streak of dirt on her pale skin.

"Well. You see…." Michael glanced up at Helen quickly before looking away; he paused and looked back, "You have an awful lot of dirt on your face."

"You came to tell me I have dirt on my face?" Helen thought for a moment and then gasped, "I have dirt on my face! Oh my! You must think me so very poorly raised. Come inside and after I clean up a bit you can tell me the real reason why you came." Helen said hastily, blushing as Michael's eyes lit up with delight.

"No. No. No. It's quite alright. I think it very humble of you to be working in your garden and getting dirty. It says a lot about your character." Michael reached out and grabbed her wrist, "Here." He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, "May I?"

"Of course." Helen consented and let him wipe the dirt from her features gently.

"There, now your face is dirt free." Michael told her but his hand still remained on her cheek, softly rubbing the skin with his thumb, "You know….this may sound very cliché….but you have the most amazing eyes I've ever seen. Like stars." He whispered quietly, taking a step forward.

"Thank you." Helen replied in the same hushed tone looking into his crystalline blue eyes, was this desirable man really going to try and kiss her? Should she step back? Would that be rude? Was he being rude? Helen's mind was racing as fast as a hummingbird's wings.

"You're quite welcome." Michael took another step forward and stood within less than a foot of her, his hand gently guiding her face towards his. Helen prayed to God that this wasn't a sin. Helen caught a breath of whisky as his face loomed above hers; he was really going to kiss her. She could barely breathe and it seemed her heart was about to jump out of her throat.

"Doctor Roberts!" Icabod's voice came echoing down the path leading to the big house on the hill, "So kind of you to stop by!"

Michael withdrew from Helen quickly and stepped backwards, "Icabod! How are your investigations coming?" He asked politely.

Helen glared at Icabod as he walked over to stand next to her; she moved and stood between Icabod and Michael. Icabod had done that on purpose! She didn't know how she knew it, she just did. And it infuriated her; it was if in that instant of denial she had grown to loathe Icabod and wanted nothing more than to see him gone from the Hollow. She stood glowering, refusing to meet either pair of eyes as they prattled on about the weather and Icabod's investigations.

No. He hadn't had any more breaks.

Well yes, there was that small out break of influenza but other than that everyone was in perfectly good health and not about to die.

The Horseman hadn't been seen in a good two weeks.

Why?

Icabod didn't know and he could only assume that the person controlling the Hessian had returned the Hessian's head to its resting place.

It was getting dark.

Would Doctor Roberts like to stay for dinner?

No he really mustn't, old Mrs. Crowley wasn't feeling very well and had called for him.

Helen perked up and really paid attention now. Something didn't feel right. Was that the sound of a distant scream? She strained her ears, struggling to hear over Icabod's and Michael's voices.

"Oh, do tell the old girl I said thanks for all the useful information, will you?" Icabod was saying.

"I'll be sure to." Michael mounted his horse and tipped his hat to them both before cantering away. The night was silent once again as Icabod and Helen watched the doctor turn around the bend. Maybe Helen had just been imagining things.

"It's late, Helen. Let's go inside." Icabod stated matter-of-factly. The sudden break of the silence caused Helen to jump, "Did I scare you?"

"No. I just wasn't prepared for that. There's a difference." Helen took Icabod's proffered arm and allowed him to escort her back to the house. Completely forgetting about her mud streaked hands.

When they got inside and Helen relinquished her hold on Icabod's white sleeve she looked down at where her hand had been tucked securely around his forearm. It had a perfect hand-print on it. She smiled to herself as Icabod set about stoking the fire and quietly went up the stairs.

As she stood at her bedroom basin, washing her hands free of mud, she heard Icabod's shout of momentary surprise. She snickered and began to dry her hands. Just as she was folding the towel up Icabod came into the room, his dirty shirt hanging from his hands. Helen noted he'd changed his shirt before coming in, and suppressed a laugh as he looked from her clean hands to the hand print on his sleeve.

"Did you…?" Icabod pointed at the hand print, letting his question hang.

"Well look at that. You have a hand print on your sleeve. Want me to wash that for you?"

"But…didn't….you….the garden….yes. Please wash my shirt for me." Icabod held the dirty garment out for Helen to take.

"Of course, I'll wash your shirt for you." Helen told him, taking the garment from his out-stretched hand, "Will that be all, Mr. Crane?"

Icabod looked at Helen for a second before replying, "Yes, Ms. Williams, that will be all."

"Then would you mind kindly leaving my room? I wish to freshen up before supper."

"Of course." Icabod turned and walked from the room. Helen waited until the door was closed before throwing the shirt on a small pile of clothes on one of her chairs and began to get ready for supper. She'd take care of the shirt along with those other garments.

***

Michael Roberts walked into Mrs. Crowley's home, the place was gloomy as always, but the customary, low burning fire was out. A bit odd for the crazy old loon, but then again. She could just be asleep and it had burnt out on its own. Michael scanned the room, seeing no one he went into the adjoining bedroom. He sighed as he noted the state of confusion within the large room; it looked as if a tornado had swept through it.

He ran a hand through his hair and called out for the old woman, "Mrs. Crowley? This is Doctor Roberts. Are you home?" He waited a moment, silence, "Mrs. Crowley? Are you in here?" Michael took a hesitant step forward; the eerie silence of the room was very unsettling to the young doctor's nerves. He wasn't used to this. "Mrs. Crowley!" He demanded sharply, stopping when he was about ten feet into the room, "Now this isn't funny. You come on out and let me look at you. You can't refuse to take your medicine. You'll die without it." Michael paused and squinted at the bed, there was a large, woman-shaped thing laying on it. Either it was pillows or an actual person. He couldn't tell but he was willing to find out. That and the bed was only a little way further into the ominous room.

As Michael drew closer he could make out feet and hands, it appeared her head was buried beneath two pillows, "Mrs. Crowley." Michael said relieved, "Wake up." He reached out and grabbed the shoulder and rolled her over. Michael drew back and dashed from the room. He barely made it outside before he vomited. He stood up and leaned against a column, a doctor should never get sick at gruesome sights. But something about the headless old Crowley disturbed him deeply.

He couldn't place his finger on the feeling but it was almost like guilt mixed with shame and nausea. Yes, it was definitely nausea, but there was something else there too. As he examined his conscience further he ruled out guilt and shame and settled on regret. Though he had no idea what he regretted. But that's the other emotion he felt besides nausea.

Michael steeled himself to go back inside and remove the body and take it to the funeral home. And then he'd go and tell Icabod about it. Icabod should know. Michael thought about Icabod and his investigation as he picked up the stiff body of Mrs. Crowley, and headed for the funeral home with her tied to his horse's back. Did he really want to tell Icabod? Did Icabod even really need to know? Was it important enough? No. He didn't want to tell Icabod. Icabod didn't need to know. And seeing as Mrs. Crowley had no living relatives it wasn't important enough. Best to keep it between him and the mortician what had happened to Mrs. Crowley. After all, who would deny a doctor's say in the cause of death?

***

Author's Ledger: Well, it seems that I have nothing to say on the chapter. I'm really far more interested in what you all have to say about it. Do let me know by reviewing. Thank you. Until next Wednesday, when I'll be feeling better and more like myself.

Your Obedient Author,

Danbamina