A/N: All righty, here we go, time for things to get moving and Brass to get his detective hat on. It won't be long now before everyone begins to realize that things just aren't right…The Captain may even find his brain with a little help from his wife :) She wants to kick some serious butt very, very soon. Let's just hope it isn't too late for our favorite couple!

All my thanks to SSC. Not only for your beta but for your support and friendship through this past month. It hasn't been the best of times for either of us but you just being there, means the world to me :) You are indeed a diamond!

Chapter 58

Grissom arrived home just before nightfall. He'd only stopped once en route; in order to allow Dante to drink from a stream they passed by.

Cantering up to the house, he saw Hodges sweeping the porch. The young worker immediately looked up upon hearing someone approach and looked rather surprised when he saw who it was.

As Grissom dismounted, Hodges gawked at him. "Grissom, what are you doing here?" he fussed.

Pulling off his gloves, the rancher threw them down onto the porch steps. "Wonderful welcome, David, thank you."

"Oh, I eeer…" Hodges flustered now. "Sorry, I just…you didn't…I didn't know you were coming back. You said you would be gone, like gone, so…"

"Do you find it a problem that I am back?"

Hodges quickly shook his head. "No, sir, I'm just a little surprised. How long are you back for this time?"

"Indefinitely," Grissom replied, walking up the steps and onto the porch.

"Ohh…um, why?"

Dropping into the wooden rocking chair, the rancher closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it, I'm tired."

The curious look on Hodge's face betrayed his inquisitiveness as to the details, but Grissom stopped him as soon as Hodges opened his mouth. "I said I don't want to talk about it, David." he snapped.

The younger man jumped. "Alright…I'll pack my things and go back to Mother's then if you're staying."

"You do that," Grissom responded.

A look of sadness passed over the worker's face as he reached for the door but he stopped when Grissom spoke.

"I can see you have been working hard, David, and I thank you for that. You can take the rest of the night off and update me tomorrow, alright?" His eyes popped open as he looked to his second.

Now Hodges smiled, obviously grateful for the comment, "Yes, sir."

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Hodges packed his things and quickly left the cabin, putting Dante to bed before riding away.

Grissom walked into his house and strolled into his small kitchen. Reaching into the cupboard, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon on the bottom shelf. He stared at it for a few minutes before filling a glass with the umber liquid and downing it in two swift gulps.

It felt good.

Refilling his glass, he slipped the bottle under his arm and headed back onto the porch. He sat back down and hoisted his legs up onto the rail, crossing his feet. Raising his glass to the sky above, he mockingly toasted, "Health and happiness," before laughing sardonically and quickly draining the glass of its contents.

He would more than likely get drunk again.

He didn't care.

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The next day…

The wedding plans were put on hold for a day, much to Sara's relief, as the memorial for Sam Braun took place. She managed to avoid discussions about dates, dresses, cakes and a million other things she didn't want to hear from her fiancé. Unfortunately she couldn't avoid him and he stuck by her side throughout the entire day.

Of course, during the gathering at the now 'Willows' estate, people couldn't help but ask questions and make statements, both to her and Hank….

"So when is the big day?"

"Sara, you are so lucky…"

"Your father must be very proud…"

"Going to make an honest man out of him, huh?"

"You are such a lovely couple."

Sara couldn't help feeling nauseous every time they were approached. Trying to constantly act wasn't as easy as she thought. She chose the tactic that had worked for her the previous evening allowing Hank to do most of the talking. A false smile and lots of nodding was all she seemed to require, for that she was thankful.

It wasn't all happy though. She heard whispers and grumbles in regards to Hank and his uncle and the circumstances surrounding Sam Braun's death, also about their engagement and her father's sudden partnership. They too didn't seem to sit well with some and it made Sara feel even more uncomfortable about her feelings towards both Hank and the marriage.

But should she even be paying attention to the whispers?

Sam's killer had never been found…

Finally Hank had left her side in order to visit with his Uncle and several other well wishers, McKeen supporters no doubt.

As Sara stood with her mother and Catherine, sipping tea, she found her eyes looking her fiancé over, from head to toe and then his uncle.

Sam's killer had not been found…..

The fact ran through her head again and she couldn't help thinking of all the suspicion Grissom had regarding McKeen. But it was just suspicion right? If he or Hank had anything to do with what had happened, then Michael would not be in a cell, right? He could have even been involved in Sam's death.

She scathed herself then, realizing she was just trying to convince her own brain into accepting something she really, deep down, didn't believe.

She was becoming more and more doubtful. With every second that ticked by.

About herself.

About Hank.

About everything.

Tick…tock…tick…tock…

But then she saw her father as he joined in McKeen's conversation. He looked so much brighter, so much happier…He had a future again…

Could she take that away from him? Even if giving her father a future meant sacrificing her own…

She had to give this just a little while longer and be absolutely sure…

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Brass attended the memorial for a short time; it was appropriate for him to stop by and pay his respects, he knew that. But the visit was a frustrating one.

He once more offered his condolences to Catherine and even more so his regret that they had yet to capture her father's killer. He did ignore several whispers and jibes directed towards him in regards to that fact throughout the course of his stay. Well….for the most part anyway.

Sadly, when the colonel pulled him aside for a chat, things got a little heated and the sheriff found he was unable to ignore the comments any longer…

The two men walked outside, accompanied by one of McKeen's goons, who hovered in the background. Brass sniggered to himself; the colonel needed the comfort of a protector even at a funeral? It was sad really….

As they lingered outside the main entrance, the colonel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two cigars. He offered one to the lawman but Brass shook his head.

"No thank you, Colonel," he said. "I'm trying to quit."

The older man smirked but shrugged his shoulders, slipping the cigar back into his pocket. "As you wish," he responded, nipping the end from the cigar with his teeth and spitting it onto the ground. "So, tell me, Sheriff," the colonel continued, "When do you intend to charge the Sidle worker?"

Brass felt his eyes narrow as he was asked the question.

McKeen carried on. "I thought you would have prosecuted by now, I mean, it is pretty cut and dry isn't it?"

"It isn't quite as simple as you would think, Colonel," the sheriff replied. "And, I really can't discuss it with you."

Snorting, McKeen took a match book from his pocket, struck a match and lit his cigar. He took several, satisfying drags, blowing the smoke in Brass's direction and then he sighed contently.

The sheriff waved his hand through the air in an attempt to get the smoke out of his face and glared at the land owner.

"Come now." The colonel stepped closer to the lawman, a smile forming on his lips. "Take a little friendly advice while it's still on offer. Get it sorted, get him charged and then everyone can move on and get on with their lives."

"It's not your business, Colonel," Brass shot back, feeling agitated as the rich man's words were spoken more as a threat than a help. "I don't need your advice and I will do just fine without it."

McKeen's smile faltered and he took another drag on his cigar. "Three unexplained deaths, two fires, cattle theft and the unfortunate beating of the now departed Grissom? Not very good is it, Jim? And you don't need advice? You don't seem to be able to solve much these days and it may start to affect your position as sheriff you know? The town's folk may begin to lose confidence in you as well as those who contribute towards the town's funding and payment of its employees."

Feeling his nostrils flaring, Brass cleared his throat, battling not to react to what he knew, was a threat. And it bothered him in more ways than one. McKeen was very keen to ensure Michael was out of the picture very quickly. There had to be a reason for that and he was going to find it.

His gut told him even more now that Grissom was right.

"I will leave you to your thoughts, Sheriff," the colonel said as he turned back to the house. "I can see you have lots of them now," he then chuckled.

Brass didn't respond and just started at him.

"Just don't forget what I have just said," McKeen warned, "For your own sake." He grinned and disappeared inside, his man quickly following.

The sheriff swore under his breath as the colonel vanished. But at least McKeen had just done one thing…spurred Brass into action, to get to the bottom of exactly what was going on. So much had happened lately; he just found it hard to get anything done. He'd spent most of his time the last few days collecting evidence and taking statements but he hadn't actually spent much time examining any of it.

Then, as he thought, something suddenly clicked…what McKeen had just said. The deaths…fires…cattle…but Grissom's beating? How did the colonel know Grissom had been attacked? As far as Brass knew, Grissom had told everyone it was an accident and that he had fallen from his horse. So how come the colonel knew otherwise?

There was only one way…he had to have been involved…

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Brass said his goodbyes to Catherine and quickly returned to town. When he got back to his office he pulled out every piece of so called evidence that he had. Every scrap of physical evidence, every note…every statement in regards to the events at Providence Grove just a few short days ago…

The fire…

The murder of Warrick Brown…

The cattle theft…

First he went through all the statements, but he couldn't learn anything new from any of the paperwork. Michael had said he was asleep in his room until he was awakened due to the fire. This couldn't be proven or disproved. McKeen had declared that he too was at home in bed, Hank also and several of the colonel's men had backed up these facts, stating they were up playing poker and at no point during the night did they see either their boss or Hank leave the house or return.

And even though Brass didn't trust Hank, or any of the McKeen clan for that matter, he couldn't refute their sworn statements unless he had some shred of evidence that suggested that they were lying.

Brass threw the papers onto the desk and fiercely rubbed his chin. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the other items on his desk…The bloody blanket…The boots, the spur and the letters apparently sent between Michael and Pritchard.

His eyes flicked across the room and to the cell which still housed Michael and then he realized, the evidence actually was sitting right in front of him. But whether he had the right man in cell was a completely different matter.

There was only one way to find out.

Standing, he walked over to the cell and Michael quickly pushed himself up from his lying position on the bed and got to his feet. The young man swallowed hard as the sheriff looked him over and then he took a step back as Brass pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. The keys jangled as they were slipped into the small oval hole in the door and then a clunk, confirmed the lock had been released.

Opening the door, Brass stepped inside the cell and slipped the keys back into his pocket. He held up a finger to his prisoner. "Now…" he began, "…I'm not going to shackle you but I swear if you try and run, I will chain you down and you won't be getting up again. Do I make myself clear?"

Michael was quick to nod his understanding, "Yes, sir."

"Good." Brass backed out of the cell and gestured into the office, with a guiding hand, "Out," he commanded, but softly.

The young inmate's legs worked quickly and he scooted from his confinement. He stopped in the center of the office and waited nervously as he heard Brass close the cell door behind him. He jumped as metal crashed into metal.

The sheriff rounded him and approached his desk. "Sit down," he instructed, without even looking back at the younger man behind him.

Again, Michael swiftly followed his commander's orders and quickly moved to the chair by the desk and slipped into it.

Brass sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at Michael. The prisoner looked up at him with uncertain, anxious eyes. A cold blooded murderer would never be this obedient and afraid and Brass knew it.

Michael had only been in the cell for a little over a day but he already looked pale and defeated. His only so called hope had left town and when the young man had been told the news he was devastated. He had refused any food or drinks since his confinement and still continued to do so in protest of his innocence.

"Are you hungry?" Brass asked, entwining his fingers.

The young man shook his head.

"Thirsty?"

"No," Michael whispered.

Sighing softly, Brass reached across the desk, "Take your boots off for me please," he requested.

Looking to his feet in confusion, Michael shuffled uncomfortably. "Why?" he asked.

Holding up the boots, Brass grinned, "Because we are going to play dress up."

Michael gave Brass a quizzical look but he did as he was told and pulled his boots off.

Leaning forward, Brass held out the evidence in his hands. "Put them on."

Again, Michael followed the lawman's orders. He took the boots, dropping the left one onto the floor before slipping the right one onto his foot. Brass watched as he pulled on the footwear but then he noticed as Michael grimaced and looked to him with a little panic on his face.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff…" he said, "…um…it's a little small, I can't…get my foot…in…" He tugged on the boot again in an attempt to force his foot right inside and he winced as he crushed it into the small space. He sucked in a breath "…it's in," he groaned, obviously in a little pain.

Brass chewed heavily on his bottom lip as he witnessed the young man attempting to put the other boot on. "It's alright, stop," he said as Michael struggled to get the second boot on just like he had the first.

Michael's face had quickly turned from pale to reasonably rosy, a small band of sweat clinging at his forehead at the obvious discomfort the boots were causing him.

Kneeling on the floor by Michael's feet, Brass looked the boots over, the right one, completely on and the left one, just hanging off. He ran a hand through his hair. "Do you think you can walk around in those?"

In an instant, the young prisoner shook his head. "Hurts too much but…if…you really want me to, I can try…"

"Not necessary," Brass returned. The boots were at least one size too small for Michael that was simply obvious. So there was no possibility they belonged to him and had been planted in his room.

Brass now had one piece of reasonable doubt but he needed more.

"You can take them off now," he said pushing himself back to his feet.

Sighing with relief, Michael was quick to pull the boots from his feet, his face again contorting in pain as he desperately fumbled to pull the footwear off.

The sheriff sat back at his desk and waited patiently until the young man had made himself more comfortable. "Better?" he asked as Michael finally freed himself from the tight footwear and sat back in his chair.

Michael nodded but still looked confused. "I don't understand what's happening, here, Sheriff. Why would you want me to put these on?"

"As a good friend of mine, who believed in you, would say, I'm following my instincts." He pointed to the boots. "The boots you just tried on have been tied to the murder of Warrick Brown and were found in your room. I can see now that they don't belong to you and you couldn't have worn them the night of the murder."

A look of relief washed over the younger man's face and he sat forward eagerly. "You believe I didn't do this now?"

Fumbling around his desk, Brass smiled. "Let's just say I'm trying but we have a little work to do yet."

"I'll do anything you want," Michael returned in a shot, obviously keen to clear his name.

"I thought you might," the sheriff replied grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. "I just need you to do one more thing for me and then you are going to eat something." He held out the paper and pencil and raised his brow, "Alright?"

A bashful smile passed over Michael's lips but a smile nonetheless and it was a welcome sight for Brass considering it was first time he had smiled in days. "Alright," he agreed pulling his chair closer to the desk, taking the paper and pencil. "What do you want me to do with this?"

"I want you to write."

"What do you want me to write?" Michael asked with a frown.

Picking up his notes, Brass scanned over the documents. "I want you to write…I need to know when you want to get moving with the plan but we need to be careful. There is so much suspicion around here lately. Oh…and sign it also."

The workers frown deepened and he cleared his throat. "Um, alright, I can try."

Now Brass looked confused but kept quiet and as Michael began to write, a look of deep concentration very evident upon his face. He stopped after a few seconds and asked the sheriff to repeat what he had said. Brass kindly did so and Michael continued.

After a minute or so Michael looked up and shrugged. "Done, I think." He scratched the back of his head. "I'm not…really great at writing so, sorry, it's a bit messy." He sounded embarrassed.

As Brass held out his hand, Michael leaned forward and handed him the paper. "Not a good writer huh?" the sheriff asked as he looked over what Michael had done.

Michael shook his head and watched as the sheriff took another piece of paper and seemed to be comparing the two.

Fiddling with his fingers, Michael sighed. "The captain did try; well he does with all his workers. He likes them to be able to read and write but…I was never really all that good at it but I guess I just about get by."

Brass nodded his understanding as he carefully examined the two pieces of paper, his eyes narrowing at what he saw before him, although he kind of expected to be seeing what he was. Michael's handwriting was barely legible in comparison to the neat even script of the evidence letter. It did not escape Brass' attention that Michael had also misspelled several words.

"Is there a reason I just did that?" Michael asked pointing at the paper.

Placing the two pieces down, Brass slid them across the desk so Michael could see. "The note on the right is what you just wrote; the one on the left is presumed to be a note you wrote and sent to Pritchard. It has your signature on the bottom, see?"

Looking over the two notes, Michael shook his head. "That isn't my signature and the writing is totally different."

Standing, Bras slipped his hands into his pockets. "Yes, I can see that. You didn't write the first note."

"I told you that before," the worker responded.

Blowing out a hot breath of air, Brass felt his shoulders slump. "I know," he said quietly, now feeling like a fool. "I'm sorry."

"So you believe me now?" Michael's tone was one very much full of hope.

"I didn't one hundred percent not believe you before but you need to understand my position and what is happening around us. I need to be sure, guilty or innocent and quite frankly, I think keeping you in that cell while I did my investigation, may very well have kept you alive."

Now, Michael's face paled a little and he slumped back in his chair. "You think… someone wants… to kill…me?" he questioned shakily.

Brass sat back down on the edge of his desk. "I think if you were still under suspicion but out in the open, it would be easier to pin the blame on you if you were dead. If you understand where I am going? A dead man can't talk or deny."

Swallowing hard the worker nodded his understanding. "Does this mean you are going to release me?"

"Not just yet, there is one more thing I have to do." Getting to his feet Brass brushed his hands over his suit and straightened his tie. "But we will talk about it when I get back."

Now Michael stood and was about to speak but stopped when the sound of the door opening caused him to jump and he spun around defensively, obviously a little edgy.

Vartann and O'Reilly walked in and Michael exhaled a relieved breath.

"Relax, Michael," Brass advised. "Sit down," he instructed before moving to his deputies.

Michael sat back down.

The two deputies looked to Michael before turning their full attention to their boss. "Is there a reason he's out of the…" Vartann began, kinking his neck back towards the cells.

"Yeah," Brass responded. "He doesn't deserve to be in there."

The two younger men looked at each other and sounded an "oh," in unison.

"Right…" Brass rushed across the room, grabbed his hat and slipped it on his head. "Anthony, you're coming with me, Lou, you stay here and look after Michael. Get him something to eat and drink. We won't be gone too long, I hope."

Suddenly Michael looked worried again and shot from his chair, causing both Vartann and O'Reilly to act defensively and reach to their holsters.

"Whoa…Whoa!" Brass immediately leapt in front of Michael and held up his hand. "Not necessary, boys, relax."

The two men stood down but kept their eyes on their inmate. Brass turned to Michael and placed his hands on his shoulders. "You, relax as well. I just have to go and check something out and then I will return. Hopefully then, we can talk about your release, alright?"

Michael looked over Brass's shoulder and still seemed a little uncertain but eventually, he nodded.

"Good. "Just eat something and I will be back soon."

The worker slowly nodded again and sat back in the chair.

Turning around Brass nodded towards Vartann. "Ready?"

"Sure thing, Sheriff," Vartann returned. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Brass walked to the door and his deputy followed but then the sheriff suddenly stopped as his hand reached for the door handle and he turned back to O'Reilly. "No one comes in here, Lou, you got that? Especially to see Michael. No one gets near him, no matter what the excuse, understand?"

"You got it," O'Reilly said, puffing up his chest in a protective manner.

The sheriff took one last look at Michael before he opened the door and disappeared through it. Vartann was quick to follow behind…

A/N: Well, well, well. It seems as though Brass has proved Michael's innocence but can he find the real saboteurs? And how will this affect the captain when Brass tells him? Will he suspect his new business partner or do anything about it? Will it affect the wedding or will the captain just be as clueless as he usually is? A huge thanks to all those who take time to review. It really makes my day when I get them and they do motivate me to write so the more the merrier! So, hit the button and give me your thoughts :)