Autumn Sage

by Genevieve Turner

  McCade might even threaten Señorita Moreno again. Sebastian suppressed his reaction to that, focusing again on the scene before him.

  “Perhaps Mr. McCade hasn’t been charged before,” the judge allowed. “But he did run after the alleged attack.”

  “Your honor,” Alder said in appeal, “this sheriff murdered two men himself. That’s certainly not in dispute. Mr. McCade feared for his life after being attacked by the sheriff. No one in that town would have believed in my client’s innocence. He had to run, to save his life.”

  “Hmm,” Hess said. “Mr. Halstead,” he called to the prosecutor. “Do you have anything you’d like to add?”

  Halstead merely shook his head. It was clear he did not want to argue this case. What man with hopes of a civic career in Los Angeles would want to argue against Edwin McCade’s son?

  Edwin McCade. He was in the courtroom, watching the proceedings with a melancholy air, his mouth turned down. But he didn’t appear in the least bit defeated—an air of wealth, of command, clung tightly to him.

  And resolve. A terrific resolve lit his gaze.

  That worried Sebastian. If McCade meant to fight to the utmost for his son—hiring Alder on as a lawyer indicated that he did—things would not go well for the prosecution.

  Especially if Halstead decided to roll over and show his belly to preserve his own future interests.

  “Very well,” Hess said. “Given Mr. McCade’s previous flight from authority, bail is not granted. He will remain in custody.” The judge snapped the gavel down as he rendered his decision.

  For half a moment, Edwin McCade’s features twisted into something savage. A man didn’t become that powerful by being pleased when thwarted.

  Halstead looked as if someone had walked over his grave, taking no joy in his victory.

  The only one who did look pleased was Cole McCade, a queer little smile twisting his lips as he was led away.

  A chill ran through Sebastian at the man’s uncaring air. It was unnatural, that smile of McCade’s.

  Sebastian put that last image of the man from his mind. Time to inform Judge Bannister of what had happened.

  Judge Bannister’s chambers were only a few floors above the courtroom, and Sebastian made the journey in less than five minutes.

  “I still can’t quite believe how you brought him in without a hitch,” the judge said as Sebastian settled into a chair across from his desk.

  Still trim well into his sixth decade, in a suit of blue wool, with a close-cropped white beard, Judge Bannister carried his air of prominence as securely as Edwin McCade had.

  “After all these years of slipping through our grasp”—the man squeezed his fist for effect—“we finally got him. What happened at the hearing?”

  “No bail,” Sebastian said, allowing himself a small bit of pleasure. A small bit couldn’t hurt.

  “The witness, this Mexican girl, she’s coming today?”

  “Not Mexican—she is of old Spanish stock. And yes, she is.” Why he’d corrected the judge, he couldn’t say. He’d never yet met an Anglo who could distinguish between a Spaniard, a Californio, or a Mexican. Or least one who bothered to attempt the distinction.

  “Spaniards,” the judge grumbled, thumping a newspaper on his desk. “All I read of in the papers these days is the arrogance of Spaniards. They won’t make peace, though we handily won the war, and there’s talk of abandoning the Philippines. Those poor people need our civilizing influence. It would be un-Christian to leave.”

  Sebastian forced himself to blink, rather than roll his eyes. All this hand wringing over the Philippines was infuriating. Or would have been, had he allowed himself to care—fury was too dangerous an emotion for him to allow it purchase.

  He sat still as stone, his face carefully blank, waiting for the judge to return to the matter at hand.

  Bannister thumped the paper one last time and harrumphed. “Spaniards,” he muttered again. “A Spanish woman murdered my brother, you know.”

  Sebastian did know. All of Spanish California knew that story, although he suspected the one he’d heard at his mother’s knee would be quite different from the one Judge Bannister might tell about the Black Widow Alvarado.

  But they were here to discuss Señorita Moreno, not old stories. “You were asking about the witness?” he prompted.

  The judge shifted in his chair. “This girl is the entirety of the case. She folds and McCade walks free.” He sent Sebastian a probing look. “Do you think she will?”

  Sebastian remembered the steel in her spine, and a curious sensation tugged at his chest. No, she wouldn’t fold.

  “She went with me to apprehend him and didn’t flinch once.”

  She’d been like the warrior queen California had taken its name from—fierce, resolved… compelling.

  “I can’t imagine that a courtroom will frighten her,” he finished.

  If anything, she would be too controlled, too strong in front of the jury. A more… pliant lady would play on their sympathies better.

  Sebastian had been thinking of her often. Remembering her throwing her story right in his teeth, remembering her by the fire at night, talking of novels—and remembering her in those final moments, holding her fear at bay and standing tall before McCade.

  Only, he didn’t want to be thinking of her. He’d been so certain that once he was back in the city, among his familiar things, she would fade from his mind. His notebooks were full of memories of her, full of the sensations she evoked that he was trying desperately to eradicate.

  Trying, and so far failing.

  As for the dreams… She came to him at night, forced him to admit that he desired her, that his emotions ran deeper than simply admiration—and then demanded that he act on those emotions.

  He wasn’t certain what to do about the dreams. Thoughts of her he put into his notebook, since he ought to be able to stop thinking of her—but the dreams…

  He’d no control over his dreams. Was it a sin even when one didn’t intend to sin?

  He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, bringing himself back to the matter at hand.

  “Hanging this entire case on one girl makes me uneasy,” the judge admitted. He rubbed a thumb across his chin. “The sheriff—the one who was shot—are you certain we can’t bring him here?”

  “The doctor advised very strongly against it.” Given Obregon’s state when Sebastian had seen him, he’d no doubt the trip was likely to kill the sheriff.

  “I suppose if the doctor said no…” The judge didn’t look at all perturbed by the thought of a man dying for his pet case. What was one crippled sheriff against bringing down the son of a man the judge thought too powerful for the public good?

  Of course, the judge wouldn’t actually risk Obregon’s life. His previous skirmishes with Edwin McCade had never involved anything extralegal. If Cole McCade was found not guilty, Bannister and McCade would return their fight to the pages of the newspapers, gallons of ink spilled rather than blood in their battle to be the most prominent man in Los Angeles.

  Not that it would be of much comfort to Señorita Moreno if McCade walked free.

  “The lady will do quite well,” he assured the judge.

  Bannister fell silent at that, but Sebastian sensed he wasn’t finished. The older man fingered a scrap of paper on the desk, gazing at it thoughtfully.

  “I suppose she looks like her sister,” the judge finally said.

  Why would Bannister assume that?

  “No,” Sebastian said, “she doesn’t.”

  Her sister’s beauty had been of a sly sort, the kind she wanted you to stop and take notice of. Señorita Moreno’s features, on the other hand…

  He sighed, resisting the urge to rub his hand across his face. He must stop thinking of her.

  Sebastian caught sight of what the judge was looking at.

  A wedding photograph, his son and daughter-in-law standing stiff and formal for the camera. None of the vitality, the affection of t
he couple, had made it to the picture, all of it pressed flat by the eye of the camera.

  Sebastian didn’t think a camera would fail to capture all of him—he already felt quite two-dimensional at times.

  “I suppose you saw my son while you were there,” the judge said with false carelessness.

  “I did.” Sebastian looked into the blue eyes so like Mr. Merrill’s, speaking of resemblances. “He owns a ranch in Cabrillo.”

  The judge’s lip curled. “A ranch. I give the boy every advantage, and he runs off to play in the dirt. And marries a Mexican to boot.” He peered more closely at the photograph. “She looks a bit familiar, actually.”

  Do we all look alike to you?

  “If only he’d been like you,” the older man continued, “stayed in Los Angeles, had a law career…” He stared off at some imagined reality, then back at Sebastian. “Now, you, you’re a son a man could be proud of.”

  Sebastian’s waistcoat tightened about his ribs, but he said nothing. The Bible might command children to honor their parents, but Sebastian’s father had earned nothing from his son, not even the appearance of respect.

  Besides, Judge Bannister’s continuing devotion to Judge Spencer was why the man more often than not chose Sebastian as his appointed marshal. When Bannister needed a man he could trust, who better than the son of the man he’d trusted the most?

  So Sebastian ignored Bannister’s praise of his father and concentrated on his duties. As long as Sebastian served justice, what did it matter whose hands he served it at?

  Justice is more than simply what the courts serve.

  There she was again, intruding into his thoughts. Making him question his path in life.

  It would not stand. He must work harder to eradicate such wayward thoughts.

  “I still miss him, you know,” the judge mused. “Other than myself, he was the finest judge in Los Angeles. Lady Justice lost an exceptional defender all those years ago.”

  Sebastian’s hand twitched before he could still it. His father may have defended justice all those years ago, but who had defended his mother and him from his father?

  Sebastian realized Bannister was waiting for him to say something appropriately reverent about the late Judge Spencer.

  “He did love being a judge.” That at least was true.

  “We’ll not see his like again,” the judge said.

  Sebastian sincerely hoped not, as the arms of the chair pressed hard against him, trapping him.

  “But I always know I can count on you,” Bannister said fondly. “Just as I counted on your father.”

  Suddenly everything was closing in on him, his waistcoat, his tie, his chair…

  He snapped to his feet, sending the chair screeching across the floor.

  “I’ll just get back to my duties then.” He clenched at his hat, reminding himself not to crush the damn thing. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  The older man’s smile was warm, as if he had bestowed a great compliment by comparing Sebastian to his father, instead of the gravest insult. “Keep an eye on this witness while she’s here. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”

  A chill seized him. He already thought too much of her; spending more time with her would no doubt prove dangerous to his hard-won equilibrium. But what could he say? Protecting witnesses was part of his duties as a marshal.

  “No,” he said, “we wouldn’t want that.” God help him, he meant it. Deeply meant it.

  Sebastian couldn’t leave fast enough.

  Chapter Nine

  Isabel had loved Los Angeles from the very first time she’d seen it—it was more alive with people and horses and noise than dusty little Cabrillo could ever hope to be.

  Her legs itched to pace the aisle of the train, but her mother’s staid posture in the seat next to her commanded her to sit as still and calm as Señora Moreno.

  But the thought of being in the city electrified Isabel’s anxiety, made her muscles twitch.

  Every revolution of the wheels brought her closer to McCade.

  And the marshal.

  Any lady might wish to pace when faced with such a prospect.

  They were off the train, through the depot, and onto the streetcar with hardly any time for Isabel to take in their surroundings. But once they were settled on the streetcar, the familiar urge she always had in the city—to be active, exciting, smart—took hold of her.

  People were crowded into the streetcar, the sidewalks more so, a cacophony of voices, wheels, and the rattling cough of a consumptive ebbing and flowing around her. She pressed her heels hard against the floor to push it into going faster.

  “Isabel,” her mother chided, “stop fidgeting.”

  Isabel pulled herself to stillness. A grimness had stolen over her mother the closer they had come to Los Angeles. No doubt she was thinking of Judge Bannister and how best to keep evading the vengeance he might take upon her for murdering his brother.

  It was clear from her mother’s description of her first marriage that if she’d not shot her husband, he would have murdered her.

  The coroner’s inquest had agreed with her mother’s view and cleared her of all charges.

  Judge Bannister—although he’d not been a judge then, only a young man—had not seen it that way.

  “You don’t have to attend the trial with me,” Isabel assured her mother in an undertone.

  “Of course I won’t,” the Señora replied evenly. Her breathing was unnaturally steady, the product of a concerted effort.

  The night after the first attack, nightmares had plagued Isabel, her broken throat trying to force out an endless scream. As a consolation, her mother had told Isabel the story of her first marriage—a story Isabel had heard before, but never suspected involved her own mother.

  Her mother had been heiress to the Rancho Alvarado in the days of Mexican California. When the Americans had come to California, the Bannister family seized the rancho as their own, her mother married to the eldest Bannister son in an attempt to join the two families’ claims to the same stretch of land.

  But the eldest Bannister son had been cruel, so cruel, bloodying and beating her mother, breaking her bones. Her mother had no choice, no other means of escape—except to shoot him.

  Isabel knew the story, of course—everyone born into the Alvarado family did—but the identity of the Alvarado heiress had been mysterious, concealed.

  Because her mother was still hiding from Judge Bannister.

  Her mother had offered Isabel that story as both a comfort and a bolstering. For if her mother had survived such a thing, surely Isabel could survive what had happened to her.

  They had always been close, Isabel and her mother, sharing more than a few traits. But that story had forged a new bond born of their shared suffering.

  Just as Isabel feared to face her enemy in Los Angeles, so did her mother. Only Isabel had no choice in the matter—she had to attend the trial, had to see McCade again.

  At least the marshal might be present.

  Isabel sighed and stared at the passing scenery. Her gaze caught on a man in the crowd, the curve of his arm, the set of his head sending a sickening bolt of recognition through her, making her heart seize. She dropped her gaze to the floor, all of her wanting to follow along behind, to sink beneath the seat and hide from whom she thought she’d seen.

  Look again. Make certain. She forced her head up.

  There he was again… and he was nothing like McCade. Same age, same hair color, but there the resemblance ended. She dipped her head, let her breath release. It wasn’t him.

  Besides, shouldn’t McCade be in jail? Wouldn’t he be held there until the trial? She wasn’t certain, and she wished she’d thought to ask the marshal.

  Only… the marshal had done his duty in bringing in McCade—which meant she would no longer be of interest to him.

  Eventually they arrived at their stop, the pressure under her heels releasing to launch her off into the street.

  The
paved street. With actual sidewalks.

  The crowds pressed all about them, her mother following as Isabel led them forward. The energy of the people pressed close on the sidewalk pushed out all thoughts of the marshal and the trial.

  After a few blocks, they arrived at Cousin Enrique’s home, a multistory structure covered with carvings and curlicues painted the most sober shade of lavender. The strip of green in front was a riot of blowsy colors and scents, as Cousin Pilar’s roses expended themselves in one last bloom before winter came.

  Isabel had always envied those roses, but Catarina refused to plant anything that took so much effort for no return in edibility.

  When Isabel had a house of her own, she would surround it with rose bushes—and pay someone handsomely to care for them.

  The entire Jaramillo family came out to greet them. First Cousin Enrique himself: still short, still round, and still dressed like a don of old by way of a peacock. The amount of gray in his hair surprised her, although she’d seen him at Catarina’s wedding. Someone as effusive as the Don ought never to look so old.

  “Cousin Maria! Cousin Isabel!” Don Enrique spread his arms wide to embrace them. For all that the little man was quite ridiculous, he kept to the old ways of hospitality, and no one left his house without feeling the full warmth of his regard.

  Her mother’s smile was cordial, but restrained. Don Enrique might think it perfectly fine to embrace in the street, but she held herself to a higher standard. As did Isabel.

  “Cousin. We are most glad to see you.” Her mother sighed. “I do wish our trip were for a happier purpose.”

  Isabel stiffened. Their questions about the trial were certain to come next.

  Don Enrique flapped his hands. “A terrible business to be sure, but let’s not speak of it here.”

  Her throat prickled with relief. A reprieve—at least until they reached the parlor.

  “Come in, please.” Don Enrique gestured for them to enter.

  His three daughters followed behind, their dresses bedecked with as much folderol as the house. No work dresses for these ladies; they lived the life of refinement and ease Isabel had always dreamed of.