California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  During the first five days Esther lost all appetite and ability to sleep. Tossing fitfully despite the detective Alex had hired to act as a watchman when she was at the house, she was plagued by expectations that Mosby would kill Alex or have him killed, come climbing through her window to murder her in her bed. As each day passed, her hatred for Mosby rose to the levels it had reached in the years before Alex returned from the war. Yet each day she grew more certain that Mosby would not strike at them during the trial. He knew there was no need to as he demolished every claim Sharon made, thwarted every one of his strategies in the certainty that the banker would never bring a scandal down on Ralston's best friend by calling Alex to the stand.

  By the time the second week of the trial opened, Sharon had turned his case over to another attorney. Alex had not been asked to testify, and Sims had remained in his seat at the rear of the courtroom. Ralston was nowhere to be seen. Mosby had never even glanced up toward where Esther sat. There had been no mention of her, no suggestion that anyone but Alex knew she was sitting in the gallery, and there had been no word of a subpoena being delivered to her home in Sacramento. As the clerk called the court to order, she wondered if Sharon would take a new tack. But then his lawyer stood up and intoned, "The prosecution calls Judge Alexander Todd."

  Esther glanced at Mosby. He had his hand on Katherine McDonnell's arm—Esther could never think of her as Marcy—as Alex was sworn in. There was a look of shock on his face, then wrath as he pulled his hand back and let it drop beneath the conference table strewn with notepads. It was clear from the sequence of expressions that Mosby never dreamed his own efficacy in the courtroom would push Sharon to approve this costly, desperate move; and that he fully understood Alex's testimony would seal the case against the woman he loved and make the two of them the laughingstock of San Francisco.

  "You are acquainted with the plaintiff, Marcy Lovell?" Sharon's lawyer began.

  "Yes."

  "Would you please state to the court under what circumstances you met her, and what that acquaintance led to during the year prior to your departure for service in the Union Army?" Sharon's lawyer turned, placed his fragile-looking fingertips together, and started slowly toward Mosby and Katherine McDonnell. Even before Alex began his answer, there was a look of knowing superiority written all over the lawyer's face.

  Alex cleared his throat. "I was introduced to Miss Lovell—she called herself Katherine McDonnell then—by a friend who was slightly acquainted with her. Within the space of a month, Miss—McDonnell instituted a fraudulent—"

  "You mealy-mouthed, lying son of a bitch!" Mosby shouted at the top of his lungs, lifting the conference table in front of him and flipping it over on its side with an earsplitting crash. "You'll never have the chance to foul this woman's name." The crazed sound of Mosby's voice paralyzed Esther. He rushed forward, hurdling a leg of the table and bowling Sharon's diminutive attorney over as he ran straight at Alex. She caught sight of the bowie knife, and gasped as two marshals finally stopped him a yard short of the witness chair.

  Alex recoiled involuntarily.

  "You sniveling, cowardly bastard!" Mosby screamed as the marshals wrestled with him and locked tightly on the hand holding the knife. "I'll kill you for this!" Freeing his left arm, Mosby leaned forward and reached out, grabbing Alex's shirtfront and pulling him forward. "You're not worthy even to look at a woman like Katherine McDonnell!"

  The crowd, silent after a shocked, audibly collective intake of breath, broke into an uproar that drowned out the judge's startled gaveling. The marshals dragged Mosby away from the witness box and struggled to pull the knife from his hand. For a moment Esther was immobilized by fear and rage. Then she jumped up and ran down several steps to the gallery railing, looking for a way to climb down into the courtroom. It was impossible. She looked at Mosby, saw him spit at Alex and then almost break loose again as one marshal tried to pull his arms behind his back. She turned and raced up to the gallery exit, rushed down the hall and the stairs, and pushed through the door to the courtroom.

  A sheriff was assisting the marshals now as they hauled Mosby toward the door to an anteroom. She saw Katherine McDonnell moving slowly toward Alex with her hand hovering over her partially open purse. Esther shoved through a half-dozen people, eluded the clutches of another peace officer, scrambled, then fell over the railing separating the crowd from the bench and the witness chair. Katherine McDonnell had almost reached Alex as Esther regained her footing, rushed forward, and caught up with her.

  "You no-good bastard!" Katherine McDonnell shrieked. She shoved her right hand into her purse and grasped something just before Esther threw herself into the woman and drove her back against the judge's bench. Moving fast, Alex climbed over the rail in front of the witness chair and pulled Esther up off Mosby's dazed lover. A marshal raced over to them as the judge continued to pound his gavel and call for order.

  "Marshal, this woman is a friend," Alex said quickly. "She acted only out of concern for my safety. Please take her, carry her if you have to, back into chambers, and stay with her until I join you."

  After they had locked up Katherine McDonnell as well as Mosby and the trial had been recessed, Alex collected Esther and insisted on driving her home.

  "That was a foolish thing to do," he said when they had ridden in silence for ten minutes. "You could have been hurt."

  "I wanted to kill her."

  "My God, what a temper." He laughed. "You would have done that just to save me a lump on my head?"

  "She had something in her purse. A gun. Something."

  "Perhaps you're right. She did request that a woman friend take her purse just before she was removed."

  "I hate them. Hate both of those vile—"

  He reined the carriage to a halt. "Wait a minute, wait a minute! Take it easy, Esther."

  "I'd like to kill both of them."

  "Easy… easy." He put his arms around her, and she pushed her face into his shirt as she finally began sobbing.

  "He… he… he… might have killed you."

  "They'll take that into account at his trial."

  "They… they'll put him away? Lock him up?"

  "No doubt about it."

  She wiped her nose with the handkerchief in his breast pocket. "And her?"

  "Contempt, at least. Assault for Mosby."

  "They should both be put in prison for the rest of their lives."

  Alex brushed Esther's hair out of her eyes. "Well, I doubt they'll do that. But I'm sure he'll be convicted and given a stiff sentence."

  He leaned over and kissed at her moist cheeks, then her mouth. "You really must love me to do something like that."

  "Have you ever doubted it?"

  He looked at her and smiled. "Doubted?" He thought carefully for a moment, then laughed again. "No, I've had a few questions. But I guess I've never really doubted it. In any case, if I had, the doubts would be over now."

  She pulled close to him again, grateful that she could feel his warmth, the strong beat of his heart. "I know what some of those questions might be, Alex. Someday—not now, not anytime soon—I will answer all of them for you. And when I do, you will understand many things and love me just as though we were never apart."

  He kissed her softly. "But I do now."

  "Then perhaps you'll even love me more."

  "That's not possible," he whispered, cradling her head in his hands. "Not in this life, anyway."

  Seventy-three

  Mosby represented himself when he was brought up on charges of aggravated assault and contempt. Held at the courthouse jail without bail during the hours court was not in session, he proposed, then arranged to be married to Katherine McDonnell in his cell. Newspapers seized on the romance and argued profitably over the merits of leniency for Mosby. The trial took only two days. Mosby pleaded loss of his senses under the provocation of defending the woman he loved. There were four Southerners on the jury. To them he pleaded additionally, "on the basis of his record in
the late war." The rest of the panel he wooed with reminders of his years of creditable service as a Supreme Court Justice and U.S. Senator. In terms of gaining sympathy, the marriage had been a masterstroke. Additionally, there was rumor that two of the jurors had been bought off. Out of greed, compassion, allegiance, or a combination of all three, he was found guilty of only simple assault and contempt. Under existing statutes, the maximum sentence was six months in the Alameda County jail.

  Katherine McDonnell fared even better. She had dropped her charges against Sharon, and the silver baron decided it would serve his interests better if he let it all blow over quietly. A suit for fraud would only keep his name in the wrong columns of the papers. As a result, Katherine McDonnell could be tried only for contempt. A second jury, softened by a continuing series of sentimental newspaper articles, found her guilty but also recommended leniency. She was sentenced to ninety days in a cell at Alameda overlooking the exercise yard where Mosby strolled every day.

  Now, with McDonnell free and Mosby's sentence about to expire, Esther read an article quoting his reiteration of one thing he had professed in court:

  "The threat I made to Judge Todd was born of passion and the heat of the moment. I bear no malice toward Judge Todd, plan no retaliation against him. What I said should be taken in light of circumstances. My only wish is to return peacefully to society. I am a chastened man. I wish only to work to reverse my disbarment, and I once again offer Judge Todd my most sincere apology."

  Esther did not believe a word of it. She knew Mosby too well. Sooner or later he would attempt to gain satisfaction. He might wait for years, but as long as he lived, she knew Alex would not be safe. It didn't matter that Alex had arranged to have his tour of duty on the bench in Sacramento extended. There was scarcely a place on earth a man like Mosby could not reach to get at Alex if he wanted to. She was as certain of that as she was about the necessity to cut Mosby off first. She no longer cared how it was done—by her, by someone else—just as long as it was accomplished without implicating her. It was late March 1869. In a little more than six months she would be forty years old. She wanted to spend whatever years she had left with Alex. The railroad was due to be completed in early May. She glanced again at the front page of the Sacramento Bee and ran her finger down the list of those invited to ride the Pacific Union Express to the golden-spike ceremony commemorating the joining of the Union and Central Pacific railroads somewhere in Utah. She stopped tracing when she came to Alex's name.

  The irony of it made her smile. When Alex came back from the trip, he would be coming home to her. When Bull Carter returned, he would find only the legal papers requesting a formal separation, along with her note suggesting that she would sign over all their jointly held stock in the railroad if he did not contest a divorce. As embarrassing as that might be, she didn't think Carter would object, considering the extent of the benefits. All that remained to be dealt with was the threat Mosby posed. She did not know yet how she would go about it, but she guessed she had time enough to come up with a plan. Possibly, she thought, someone she might meet in circumstances that would not reveal her identity. Such a person might be persuaded by enough money to come up with a plan of his own. A quarter of the money in advance, the remainder would be too much to forego.

  She doubted Mosby would attempt anything for at least six months after he was released. He was too shrewd to risk that, too cunning not to take the time to establish an elaborate, watertight alibi for himself.

  She relaxed a bit, fairly certain she would find the proper person to do it. Methodically, she began making a list of the names of those who might be willing, even eager. She thought of going to the Sacramento courthouse to record all the defendants to whom Mosby's decisions had caused great damage. Then she remembered the man he had stabbed the day Murietta died. An auctioneer, he had been left mute by the wound, and she had heard he'd fallen on extremely hard times. She was pondering ways to reach and meet with the man covertly when events suddenly began pulling her in another direction entirely.

  She jumped involuntarily as the sharp sound of someone knocking on the front door reached the kitchen. Mosby had been free for almost a week, and as sure as she was that he would not attempt anything so soon, she had been quaking and trembling each time someone arrived at her house, each time Alex was even a few minutes late.

  "You stay here and finish your lunch, Todd," she said to her son, waving a finger. "No cookies until you've eaten that sandwich and finished that milk, do you understand?"

  The boy nodded obediently, then went straight to the cookie jar when he heard her talking to someone in the foyer.

  "My, what a surprise," she exclaimed, concealing her distaste. "I thought you… were out at the rail-head. I never imagined you'd be back in Sacramento before the ceremony next month."

  Charles Crocker seemed speechless for the first time in his life. He glanced at the mirrored seat-chest in the hallway. "You'd better sit down," he said, nervously revolving his hat by its brim. "I have some bad news."

  She could not imagine why Crocker would be telling her of anything that might have happened to Alex. Her entire body suddenly felt empty. "All right, perhaps I'd better," she heard herself say. "What is it?" She clenched her hands, expecting the worst as Crocker started once, stumbled, then began again.

  "I'm not much good with words at a time like—I better just—your husband. There's been a terrible accident. We were laying track parallel to the Union Pacific bunch. Competing. I know that sounds crazy, but there's been no order about where and when we stop and join up. The pranks started about three weeks ago. They were trying to outdo one another, the crews. There's no love lost between them, and things got out of hand. Badly out of hand." Crocker Paused. "Someone from our gang set fire to their paymaster's car. They got angry as hell and buried bottles of nitro where we were scheduled to lay track three days ago. The whole damn thing went up when we set down the first two sections, killed a dozen men. I'm afraid Bull was one of them."

  She sat silently for a moment, letting it sink in. Then suddenly one part of her wanted to laugh, another to cry, and a third not to respond at all.

  "Will he go to heaven?" Todd asked from the doorway leading into the dining room. He was still munching on a chocolate cookie.

  She burst out crying then, not for Carter, although she did not wish him dead, but for the boy.

  "He's in heaven right now, son," Crocker said. He walked over to the child and rubbed his tousled hair. "He's up there right now building a railroad for Jesus."

  "Then he'll be happy," the seven-year-old said matter-of-factly. He turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen for another cookie.

  "You want me to stay while you talk to the boy?"

  Esther shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter. Really sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  She shook her head again, crying silently.

  "I'll have Mrs. Crocker look in on you. Will that be all right?"

  "Yes," Esther whispered.

  "Well, if you'll forgive me, I'd better be going. Got to get back out there. Trip'll take a few days, you know."

  "It's all right. I understand."

  Todd came back and put his arms around his mother. "Don't cry, mommy. You know what daddy always said. We all got to die sometime." He turned to Crocker. "It don't hurt when you die, does it?"

  "Doesn't, son. No, it doesn't hurt." He turned, walked to the door, then paused and turned around. "We'll be driving the golden spike next month, son. If you'd like to come, I'll arrange it for your mother and you to be there. I think your father would have liked that." He thought for a moment. "If you want, you can ride all the way to Utah in the locomotive with Mister Sam."

  The boy's mouth dropped open, and his eyes grew wide. "You mean that? In the locomotive?"

  "I certainly do, son. You know Mister Sam, don't you?"

  "Sure I do."

  Crocker walked back to Esther and placed his hand on her sho
ulder. "Of course, it'll be up to your mother… If you feel up to it by then, Mrs. Carter, I will see that my private car is at your disposal." He went back to the door and again said, "I'm sorry about all this."

  "Thank you," she said, wiping her eyes and getting up.

  "You're a brave woman, Mrs. Carter. I have to leave now. I hope I see you at the ceremony. It's true, you know. I think your husband would have wanted you to come."

  The reverberating, double irony of Crocker's words did not become fully apparent until a week later, when John Sutter called on her unexpectedly and asked her to accompany him to dinner. She was puzzled as well as delighted that he was back from Washington for an appearance at the golden-spike ceremony. She had seen him occasionally in Sacramento through the years, but rarely for dinner. When he had come to her house, it was usually to let her know he needed money, to refuse help when she offered it, and then to write back gratefully from the Hock Farm when she sent the funds by mail. He had paid back some of the money during the last two decades, but the last time he came to see her after the close of the Civil War, vandals had set the main house of the Hock Farm ablaze, and he was desperate. This time he didn't have the same woebegone look in his eyes. He said nothing to indicate he was hard-pressed. Still, there was a hint of urgency in his voice.

  "As usual, you're concealing something from me until the right moment," she said after they picked up Solana at the school and left young Todd with her. "What is it?"

  "I told you. I want to take you to dinner. After all you have done for me, my child, is that so strange?"

  "But there is more to it than that, isn't there?"