If the man hadn’t sent someone to murder her yesterday—and hadn’t produced such a foul creature as his son—she might have been moved by the picture he made.
The judge continued on to the matters of true import—the testimonies.
McCade testified first.
He settled loosely into the witness stand with a kind of blank assurance, as if all this were a mere formality and he could return to his life of mayhem any moment.
She stared at those hard eyes across the room. How dare he sit there so loose-limbed, when he’d left Joaquin a twisted wreck who couldn’t rise from his bed?
Bile rose in her throat and she tightened her stomach to keep it down. The phantom pains in her throat, the headaches that attacked her, the fear that paralyzed her—he could see none of that. That animal would never know how he still affected her. She clamped her hands together, pressing them hard against her thighs.
The commotion of a spectator arriving late was only a dim happening in her periphery. Until a weighted heat settled at her left shoulder, spread along her back—someone’s gaze.
She turned to see who was staring at her so.
Marshal Spencer.
He’d left her at the courtroom door, apologizing for the duties that claimed his attention. His presence on the journey to the courtroom had been so steady, so silent—she’d found the space to bolster herself for the coming ordeal in that quiet.
He’d said nothing of returning, so she’d assumed he wouldn’t, that she would be entirely alone.
But he’d come back.
His collar was high and tight, his tie forming a perfect right angle to it, his waistcoat free of any embellishment. He looked a perfect gentleman, even as large and scarred as he was. He set his hat on one knee, his gaze never leaving hers.
Something tight unwound within her. Her hands unclamped and her chest eased.
She wasn’t alone—Sebastian was here.
The lawyer was already speaking by the time she turned back, asking the outlaw why he’d been in Cabrillo, where he’d met the Careys—questions that didn’t interest her.
“On the day of the alleged attack, what were you doing on the road?”
That question from the prosecutor snared her attention and held it fast.
The man wasn’t any more inspiring in front of the court than he’d been at Don Enrique’s house, his suit carelessly pressed and his manners hesitant. But the jury—all men wearing stern expressions of utmost respectability—attended his words quite closely.
In spite of her efforts, she began to breathe much too quickly, her stomach twisting as her heart raced. She concentrated on forcing the air in and out.
Stone. She was made of stone.
“We were out for a ride,” McCade said.
“You were riding with your friends, the Carey brothers?”
“Yes.” His voice was as flat as his eyes.
“And you came across Obregon and the woman on the road?”
Her hands tightened into fists. She had a name, and Joaquin was Sheriff Obregon to the likes of them. Not that anyone else here noted the slight—the only glances she received when he mentioned her were unsympathetic.
“We did.”
“What happened then?”
“Obregon said we were up to no good, that he had his eye on us.” McCade’s tone went affronted, that he should be treated so. “But we weren’t up to any trouble.”
That last was spoken with bright innocence—and it was a lie. Her head began to throb as if someone had taken a chisel to it.
Or the butt of a pistol.
McCade leaned forward, concern knitting his brow. “Then Obregon pulled his gun on us.”
She blinked hard. Her protests clogged her throat, trapping the breath in her lungs. She’d known he was going to lie, but hearing the falsehoods spoken so easily, McCade’s gaze coming every so often to rest upon her without a hint of shame—it was more difficult to absorb than she’d expected.
What happened to you doesn’t matter. I have an endless store of lies—you only have the truth. And no one here cares.
That was what McCade was telling her with every careless untruth he tossed off.
“You’re saying that the sheriff drew first?” the lawyer asked.
“He certainly did.” Aggrieved now. “Pulled his gun without warning and started firing.”
The jurors’ expressions shifted to match his indignant tone.
She nearly leapt out of her chair. Lies, lies, lies. She concentrated on keeping her thighs on the chair, her hands in her lap—her body hummed with the effort toward stillness.
The men in the jurors’ box were nodding, faces open, considering. She ground her teeth together at their stupidity.
She’d refute all this rubbish later, when she took the stand.
“You returned fire at that point?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes, sir.” The outlaw’s eyes widened earnestly. “That woman of his started firing too.”
Her breath left her in a rush as he stared straight at her, the spark within his eyes dark, menacing. After only a moment of those eyes boring into her, her nerve broke like a frayed rope and she had to look away, cursing herself as a coward as she did. Almost without thought, she sought out the marshal.
There he was, the large black bulk of him a steadying presence. He was watching McCade the way a cat might watch a mouse hole, patiently waiting for any excuse to strike.
She found the courage then to look back at the witness stand.
Stone. She was made of stone.
“What happened after the sheriff began shooting?” the lawyer asked.
“Well, he killed both of the Carey boys straight off. They never even fired.” The regret in his voice was as shallow as a drought-dry stream. “I was frightened for my own life, so I fired at the sheriff. I was hoping to only scare him off, but I accidentally shot him.”
Accident? It had been no accident. The outlaw’s eyes had sparked with deadly intent as he’d leveled that gun at Joaquin, the only time they hadn’t been as flat as river stones. Like when he’d reached for her…
It was coming. The part she dreaded the most.
The blood-red explosion of the buckwheat blossoms. Thousands upon thousands of his fingers wrapping around her throat. The gray blur creeping at the edge of her vision as she realized this was it. She was about to die.
The cold, hard stock of the rifle under her fingers.
Her gaze found the marshal again. Her heart leapt when she saw he was looking directly at her, so steady, so sure.
She knew that if he were close enough, he would take her hand and give it a squeeze, just as he had yesterday after the shooting.
But he couldn’t. So he gave her his gaze instead. And it was enough.
She took a steadying breath and turned to face the worst.
McCade went on. “Then that woman”—he pointed straight at her—“shot me. Right in the shoulder.” His expression was the same as when he’d reached for her throat, no longer pretending at blamelessness.
Lord, she was going to be sick, she couldn’t hold it in any longer, had no more control over her body—
He looked away before she embarrassed herself, the sourness coating her tongue a reminder of her near miss.
“I hid out in the mountains after that,” McCade went on. “I figured those folks would lynch me for defending myself against the sheriff. They nearly would have too, when they caught me, if the marshal hadn’t warned them off.”
She was sure she looked a fool, with her mouth hanging open, but she could hardly believe what she’d just heard.
He wasn’t going to mention his assault on her. Nothing about dragging her off that wagon seat, lifting her by her throat and carrying her to the brush, nothing about the rapine intent of his hands as they’d clasped her thighs. Nothing about the pistol whipping he’d given her.
The throb in her head became a full-on wave of pain, swamping every one of her senses.
&nbs
p; He’d lied about everything else—why not that as well?
You don’t matter.
Some of the jurors were nodding along as McCade told of the planned lynching, and her heart sank. She swallowed down a bit more pain, a little more bile, and set her jaw. It wasn’t over yet.
McCade moved on to describing his capture. “They tried their best to kill me when they caught me.” He looked at someone in the spectators’ gallery and put on a chilling half-smile. “But the marshal saved me.”
Marshal Spencer stared back impassively, his stillness perhaps the most menacing thing she’d ever seen. The darkness within him was bearing down on the man in the witness stand.
The image of him pummeling McCade bloomed in her mind. Her ears recalled the sound of his fist landing on the outlaw’s jaw, flesh and bone crunching wetly.
He’d done that for her.
She was snapped out of her reverie by a strange choking noise coming from the judge’s bench.
The judge leapt up in a flurry of black robes, running to the spittoon with a hand across his mouth.
The sound of retching erupted from him, followed closely by the horrified gasps rising from the spectators.
Judge Bannister was not pleased.
Not that the judge was ever truly pleased, Sebastian thought, but he was especially displeased at the moment, rigidly sitting behind his desk, his fingers worrying at a pen.
“I understand the trial’s been delayed three days because of Hess’s stomach upset,” Bannister said, with a cruel twist to stomach upset. It was clear he would have simply vomited on McCade in the witness stand and then gone on with the trial.
Not everyone could be made of such sternly vindictive stuff.
“Hess claims he ate some bad fish.” Sebastian was unruffled, going calmer, stiller, with each fidget of the judge’s.
Bannister raised an eyebrow. “Fond of fish, is he?”
Sebastian shrugged. “It does happen.”
“You don’t believe that.” Halfway toward a question.
“A random shooting one day, a violently ill judge the next? No, I don’t believe it was coincidence.” Neither did Bannister, but he’d never admit that. No, he would force Sebastian to voice the suspicions he wouldn’t, to preserve his facade of impartiality.
“Mmm.” Bannister scratched his chin before bringing up what he’d obviously wanted to all along. “Edwin McCade has turned another councilman. One more vote, and the city water supply stays in private hands. His hands.”
The business of water and politics was beyond him, so Sebastian kept quiet. He’d done his duty in bringing in McCade; he was sheltering Señorita Moreno in his own home. Giving his opinion on the water supply wasn’t part of those duties.
“I got a look at your girl today,” Bannister went on.
She’s not my girl.
Even if he was forced to kiss her when she used honorable words such as protect and defend when describing him—it didn’t give him ownership of her.
If she knew half the things he’d done, she wouldn’t use those words. But for now, she thought him only an ordinary sinner and didn’t hesitate to say so.
He took the opportunity to adjust his collar, the edges of it razor sharp against his neck.
“She’s entirely unsympathetic looking, isn’t she?” the judge asked.
Sebastian ground his teeth together, the rasp of it echoing in his ears. “Am I supposed to make her look different somehow?”
The other man laughed. “Not unless you have hidden talents!”
Sebastian resisted the urge to flex his fists. He hadn’t always found the judge this irritating—usually he could shrug off his political obsessions as being of no concern to himself.
But this particular obsession concerned Isabel—and anything involving her was proving difficult to treat with indifference.
Today in the courtroom, watching her suffer McCade’s lies—he’d been a hair’s breadth away from vaulting out of his seat and removing a few more of McCade’s teeth.
Having her so close was making him wax dangerous. But he could—would—control these violent urges. He’d been practicing exactly that for over a dozen years.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to drain away the tension. “As I said before, she’ll do quite well on the witness stand.”
“She’d better. With the way his testimony’s going, it’ll be his word against hers.” The judge’s voice hardened. “In fact, his story is a fair sight different from hers. You don’t think she’s lying, do you?”
“Obregon’s story matches hers.” At least the parts the wounded man had remembered. “And we know McCade’s been involved in other crimes, even if he can’t be brought up on charges. He never mentioned attacking her, but someone did. She had the marks at her throat and temple to prove it.”
“Did the prosecutor bring that up in cross-examination?”
“No. Judge Hess took ill before he could.”
The judge’s eyes were sharp. “What did the jury think?”
Sebastian hesitated. “They believed McCade,” he admitted. “But she has yet to tell her story.”
“Well, if you believe her, then,” Bannister said. “It’s hopeless to expect any more help from the prosecutor. You’ve got three days—make sure no one harms her. And try to soften her up. That surly puss of hers is going to look terrible on the witness stand.”
Sebastian squeezed the arms of the chair, enjoying the creak of the wood, before rising with a quick nod and heading for the door.
He didn’t bother admitting he liked her hard edges. They matched his own so well.
Chapter Fourteen
As soon as she awoke, Isabel knew there would be no library for her that day. The evidence was in the dull pressure building in her skull, the push of an enormous hand from inside out that would eventually develop into bewildering, blinding pain.
It was to be expected after the tensions of yesterday—hearing McCade lie so easily about everything, followed by the collapse of Judge Hess. Fortitude under such conditions would exact a price in the end, which would be a vicious headache.
It remained merely a light pressure at breakfast, allowing her to hide it from her mother.
“Are you certain you won’t be too lonesome?” her mother asked.
Isabel pushed a bit of egg into a triangle of toast, her stomach rebelling at the thought of putting it into her mouth.
“I’m certain I’ll be fine,” she told her mother.
She wouldn’t be—this headache would have her bedridden soon. But she desperately craved solitude, even if she would be forced to suffer alone when the attack hit.
“Sebastian is here,” Señora Vasquez pointed out. By here, she did not mean the table—apparently supper was the only meal that he pretended to eat at. “He will make certain Isabel is well taken care of.”
Doubtful, since she’d be spending most of the day in her room.
“The library will provide more than enough stimulation,” she said with a smile to Señora Vasquez. “The marshal won’t need to exert himself for me.”
“It will be no exertion.”
She held back her instinct to flinch at his voice behind her. And the impulse to turn to him. Held them back just as he’d restrained that dog of his.
“See?” Señora Vasquez’s smile was wide and true. “It’s no bother.”
Isabel rose, setting her napkin by her untouched plate.
“You two enjoy your day out and about,” she said to her mother. “I’ll be fine.”
She purposefully did not meet the marshal’s eyes as she passed him, but the great black hulk of him could not be missed. The hairs on her arms lifted as she passed, as if reaching out for him.
She escaped to her room, where a shelf full of books waited for her. Remarkable, that this house had not only a fine library, but books in the bedrooms as well.
It was about two hours later, as she was reading with the door open, that the staves round her head tightened to pa
infulness.
She set aside the newspaper, the crinkling of it almost unbearably loud, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her breathing. With each exhale the pain receded, but every inhale brought the pain flowing back in.
The light. It was too much, stabbing against her eyes. She stumbled toward the curtains, her ears filling with the piercing pure tones of pain. Her stomach rolled hard, nausea flowing throughout her, until it seemed her very joints might cast up their accounts. Oh Lord, she mustn’t vomit, how would she explain such a thing?
She went for the floor, setting her jaw to keep the sickness inside her, her fingers finding the cool hardness before she set her forehead there. She rolled her forehead back and forth—yes, just that. She needed that. The wood soaked up some of the pain, just enough to allow the nausea to retreat into her belly.
Back and forth, back and forth, so blessedly cool and firm.
Her knees came to her stomach, her palms flat against the floor, and she waited. Waited to be something more than pain and nausea.
She moaned when someone’s hands slid under her arms, lifted her up from the floor.
“Shh, shh,” a voice murmured as she was cradled in strong arms. “I have you.”
Oh, his voice. It was bright as gold, soft as fur. She wanted to drape herself in it. The scratch of his woolen suit was nearly unbearable against her cheek, but thank God he smelled of nothing. Her stomach for certain would have turned inside out if he’d been wearing cologne. Or pomade. She kept her eyes shut tight as he gently set her on the bed.
He ran a hand along her hair. She caught it up and pressed it hard against her eyes.
Oh, heaven, the heavy weight and coolness of that.
He tugged his hand free and she whimpered, turning in search of it.
“Shh. I’m only going to close the drapes. I’ll return,” he assured her.
Thank the Lord—he wasn’t leaving her alone in this.
Darkness. Sweet, sweet darkness, once the curtains were closed.
She was dimly aware of him moving through the room. The bed sagged after a time, her poor brain spinning into vertigo with the motion. A cool, damp cloth was placed on her forehead. Utter, utter bliss. A fingertip trailed along her cheek.
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