***
Gerald Hayes nodded to Bess as she led him to the front door. He stopped there and looked down at the young waif Alan Radcliffe had hired out of his own garment factory. The man had a habit of doing that and then letting young maids go after a while. He always claimed he found better jobs for them, but Hayes always wondered if there was more to it than that. He’d run in the man’s gambling circles, knew him well enough to see something in those dark eyes of his, something seedy and evil. He’d never liked Alan Radcliffe, but he’d also never been able to find any proof that the man was anything but a wealthy, philanthropic citizen of New York City. Men like Alan were difficult to catch doing anything wrong.
“Bess,” he said quietly. “Were you here the night Mr. Radcliffe’s wife fell down the stairs?”
A quick look of fear flashed in her eyes. “N-no, sir. I mean…I was way upstairs in my attic room, asleep.”
Gerald studied her intently. “Bess, I know when someone is lying to me, and you’re lying.”
She looked around like a panicked, caged animal, glancing toward the hallway that led to Alan Radcliffe’s office. Gerald put a hand on her arm, feeling sorry for the thin, pale, quiet Bess, who’d probably never known a decent life.
“Bess, I don’t want you to be afraid to tell the truth. Alan claims Emma killed her own mother, that she was in love with him and wanted him for herself, that she pushed her mother down those stairs. I don’t believe any of it, but I need proof of what really happened, and now Emma has run off, so I can’t question her. You liked Emma, didn’t you?”
Bess blinked back tears. “Yes, sir.”
“Then tell me what really happened. You witnessed it, didn’t you?”
She backed away. “No! It’s just like I said, sir. I was asleep in my room.”
Gerald sighed. “Did you ever see Emma flirting with Alan, trying to seduce him? Did she ever tell you she was in love with her own stepfather and wanted to marry him? Surely you heard or saw something!”
“I…yes, she did those things. She wasn’t as nice as you think she was.”
Gerald frowned. “You’re afraid of Alan Radcliffe, aren’t you?”
“Please go, Mr. Hayes. I have no power, no say, no family, no anything. Men like you and Mr. Radcliffe can make life good for me or destroy me. I just do my job and nothing more. Please go!”
Gerald shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Help me, Bess, and I’ll help you. You needn’t fear me, I promise.”
“Please go! He’ll come out of his office any minute and know we’ve been talking!”
Gerald nodded. “You remember what I just told you.” He walked out the door and Bess quietly closed it, squeezing her eyes against tears. She felt sorry for Emma, understood why she’d fled. She knew the ways Alan Radcliffe had of making life miserable for those beneath him.
The man didn’t know she’d witnessed what happened the night his wife died, what had really happened to Mary Radcliffe, what he’d done to Emma. She’d stayed in the shadows and seen all of it, but she knew Alan Radcliffe, knew she didn’t dare tell the truth. He’d told her more than once that if she ever betrayed him in any way, he’d accuse her of theft and prostitution and have her thrown into prison. He’d said no one would believe a poor orphaned girl off the streets, and he was right.
He was Alan Radcliffe, businessman, philanthropist, respected gentleman. She had no hope of winning a battle of right and wrong against him, and she needed this job…needed the extra money he’d bribed her with, to take care of her grandmother so the poor old woman didn’t end up starving in the streets. She couldn’t tell the truth. She just couldn’t. She would continue putting up with the man coming to her bed at his whim and keep her mouth shut, hoping poor Emma had escaped someplace where Radcliffe would never find her.
“Bess!”
She jumped when Alan spoke her name from the hallway.
“Yes, sir?”
“Why are you still standing there at the door?”
“Oh, I noticed the doorknob needs polishing. It’s getting tarnished.”
“Then polish it, but get me some tea and a newspaper first.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walked back down the hallway, and Bess breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he’d not seen her talking to Prosecutor Hayes.
Six
Men’s shouts woke Elizabeth. She peeked out a window, and by the light of a just-rising sun she saw that the two outlaws Mitch had left behind were now being herded down the street, still in their long underwear and nothing more. They looked haggard and terrified.
“Let’s hang them right now!” some of the men were yelling. “We already know what happened!”
“We are going to do this legally!” came a shouted reply. The voice sounded familiar, and Elizabeth glanced over at a saloon just two doors down and across the street to see none other than Mitch Brady standing there trying to keep order.
“What on earth!”
How could the man already be up and dressed and outside trying to handle a hanging mob? He should still be resting! Elizabeth turned away from the window to retrieve a watch from a front pocket on the dress she’d worn yesterday. It was just a little after seven o’clock in the morning. After a wonderfully warm and sudsy bath, thanks to Lee Wong and his wife, she’d drunk some tea and slept much more soundly than she’d thought possible for a stranger in a wild town, surrounded by danger. She supposed it was from pure exhaustion.
She went to the door to peek into the outer room to see that the other patient who’d been there yesterday was also gone. Doc Wilson sat bent over his desk writing something. Elizabeth called out to him. He straightened his shoulders and turned to look at her.
“Well! You’re awake! How do you feel?”
Elizabeth noticed he wore the same faded, wrinkled suit he’d been wearing yesterday. He’d likely slept in it. She kept the door to her room just slightly ajar so the doctor couldn’t see her in her nightgown. “I feel much better so far. What is going on outside?”
“Oh, there will be a trial, of course. They’ll turn the Antelope Saloon into a temporary courtroom and make sure the hanging is done legally. Mitch will see to that.”
“Shouldn’t Mitch still be resting?”
The doctor grinned and leaned back in his chair. “You don’t keep Mitch Brady down for long. He was up and dressed and out of here about six this morning—wanted to make sure that bunch out there didn’t hang those two without a trial. I tried to keep him down, but he wouldn’t have it. He said to tell you to get dressed as soon as you were up in case you have to testify to anything. He’ll try to keep you from having to go through something like that. At any rate, I’ll bring you some fresh-heated water for the washbowl in there and some soda to scrub your teeth with.” He rose. “You strike me as the type who doesn’t go out unless she’s properly clean and has every hair in place. Will you need help? Lee Wong’s wife is good at pinning up a woman’s hair and such things. She can even heat a round iron on the stove to curl your hair more, if you need to freshen up those pretty locks.”
Elizabeth put a hand to her hair, realizing it must be a tumbled mess. Last night she’d noticed a bruise on her right cheek. She wondered if it was any worse. “I…no, I’ll manage.”
She closed the door and walked over to her biggest carpetbag, pulling out a dark green dress that would be considered quite fashionable back East. She wondered if it was possible to find anything like it here in Alder, where everything was so uncivilized. She would have to ask the woman who ran the boardinghouse. Ma Kelly. Even the women here were referred to with nicknames. What was her first name? Should she be called Mrs. Kelly?
Whoever she was, Elizabeth hoped the woman could help her find a seamstress to make more dresses for her. She’d left home in a hurry, forced to sneak away with as little baggage as possible, which left her with on
ly four day dresses, one fancier evening dress, a nightgown, and a robe, and two sets of petticoats, one of which had been thrown out after she ripped it up to bandage Mitch Brady. She had a couple pairs of stockings, two pairs of shoes—one pair for day and one fancy pair—a handful of jewelry, and a couple of hats. She was in sore need of expanding her wardrobe, although she could already see that being properly dressed probably meant little to the rowdy mob of miners gathered just outside her window.
She hoped she could avoid getting involved with the melee in the street. All she wanted now was to get a room of her own where she could gather her thoughts and plan what she would do next. One day of peace and quiet would be so welcome. The journey here had been a nightmare of fear and noise and filth…a loud, smoky train part of the way, followed by a riverboat ride, then the bouncing, dusty stagecoach and the accident and the attack, and now this—a lynch mob in the street, some members of which might insist she step forth and identify the two men outside.
She shuddered at how horrible a hanging must be, yet the men outside seemed excited about it. She remembered Mitch saying something about a hanging being a reason for a picnic, of all things! His attitude about it left her wondering just how “good” Mitch Brady really was. Did the man have any true feelings for anything, or did he just go around shooting lawbreakers and drinking in saloons and visiting the whores? He’d been disappointed to learn she wasn’t a prostitute, and the painted women who’d greeted them yesterday obviously knew Mitch well.
Perhaps she should have stayed in Virginia City. It was nothing like New York, but it was certainly much bigger and more civilized than any other town she’d seen west of Chicago, with more of the amenities a woman needed. Still, she had to find a place where she was absolutely unlikely to ever be found by Alan Radcliffe. From what she’d seen of Alder, Montana, so far, it certainly fit the bill.
She hurriedly dressed, missing the help of a maid and wincing with the deep pain lingering in her shoulder. She’d have to learn to stiffen her resolve and do a lot of things on her own now, ignoring pain and other difficulties. She carried her grandmother’s blood and her mother’s blood, and both women were strong and resilient. One thing was sure, from what she’d seen of others in Alder, no one would much care if she wasn’t properly dressed or coiffed. She leaned into the rather faded mirror and removed what was left of the combs in her hair. Piling it on top of her head would be impossible without help, so she brushed it out, then pulled back the sides with combs and let the rest hang down her back. Her face and body were clean from last night’s bath. She pinched her cheeks a little, sat down to pull on shoes and button them. Just as she finished with that she heard someone come into the outer office.
“Is Miss Wainright up and dressed?”
She recognized Mitch Brady’s voice.
“I’ll see,” the doctor answered.
There came a knock at her door, and Elizabeth opened it to see Mitch standing behind the doctor, still wearing the bloody shirt from yesterday. Right now he wore only one gun belt, slung low on his hips but holding two pistols. Mitch looked her over, a bit of surprise in his blue eyes as he removed his hat.
“You look even more beautiful with your hair down like that.”
“I agree,” Doc Wilson chimed in, smiling. “You look well rested, Miss Wainright.” He frowned then and leaned a little closer to study the bruise on her cheek. “Too bad about that bruise. How do you feel?”
Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment. “Right now I feel fine. My ribs are sore and of course my shoulder hurts, but I’ll live.”
“I for one am damn glad of that,” Mitch told her with a handsome grin. He looked down at himself. “I apologize for the way I look, but I haven’t had time to clean up.”
“You shouldn’t be up at all,” she told him. “I hope you can go home soon, wherever that is, and get more sleep.”
Mitch frowned. “Right now I just want you to step outside for a minute and tell that bunch out there that the men they brought in are the ones who attacked the coach and killed the drivers and passengers. I won’t make you go over to the saloon. A proper lady like you doesn’t belong in a place like that. I promise this will only take a minute. Once we herd the men over to the saloon and get things over with, I’ll jail them and I’ll come back here and take you to Ma Kelly’s.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath for courage. “I…I don’t have a hat on.”
Mitch chuckled. “Nobody out there cares about that.”
I’m sure they don’t, Elizabeth thought. “Very well.” She walked past the doctor and Mitch to the front door, then stood aside, waiting for Mitch to open it. “You’ll stay right beside me, right?”
“Of course I will.” Mitch gently took her arm and opened the door, leading her out onto the stoop. Men cheered and whistled, and Mitch put up his hand and yelled for them to quiet down. The two prisoners glared at her, both looking haggard as well as terrified. Elizabeth wondered how the men got them here so early in the morning and realized that after she and Mitch arrived in town yesterday, the posse that quickly formed must have ridden hard to get to the site of the disaster before dark fell and left before daylight to get back to Alder. Such was their desire for retribution and, she suspected, for excitement.
“I only brought this woman out here to make a quick identification,” Mitch shouted. “I don’t want my word to be the only testimony to what these men did. Those of you who went to pick them up saw the wreckage and the other dead bodies. Late yesterday some others of you buried Billy and Juno. I caught these two in the act of dragging this woman out of the coach and trying to rob her. She was wounded and helpless.”
Mitch turned to a man wearing a black top hat, a silk morning coat, and a buttoned paisley vest underneath. When he moved his arm to write something on a tablet, Elizabeth noticed a gold chain pinned to his vest. The end of it was tucked into a small pocket, and she had no doubt it held a gold watch.
“Take your notes, Jackson,” Mitch told him. “I want it known there was more than one witness to this, and that I allowed these men proper representation.”
The man he called Jackson was of average height, with dark hair and eyes and mustache, a decent-looking man who was the best-dressed Elizabeth had seen so far. He glanced at her and smiled kindly as he nodded his acknowledgment. He held a small tablet and a quill pen. Another man with him who looked to be just another miner held out a bottle of ink, and Jackson dipped his pen into it.
“I’ll have this woman state her name,” Mitch shouted to the others. He looked down at Elizabeth. “Go ahead.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “Elizabeth Wainright,” she said louder than her usual voice but not shouted. Again she felt guilty for lying about her name.
Jackson scribbled her name on the tablet.
“And are these the two men who were part of the gang that dragged you out of the overturned stagecoach yesterday?” Mitch asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes.” In spite of what they’d done, part of her didn’t like having to testify against two men who would soon be hanged.
“And did you fear for your person and your life?” Mitch asked.
Elizabeth scanned the crowd. “Yes. The stagecoach drivers were shot and killed, as well as one of the passengers inside the coach. The other passenger died when the coach overturned.”
“Let it be known that Miss Elizabeth Wainright here has identified Hugh Wiley and Jake Snyder as part of the gang that tried to rob the Virginia City stagecoach yesterday of money meant for the bank here in Alder. These same men shot Billy Polk and Juno Martin and passenger Spittin’ Joe. They also caused the death of a passenger named Whiskers and caused Miss Wainright here to suffer a dislocated shoulder and great humiliation.”
Fists went into the air, and the outlaws hung their heads.
Jackson kept writing. “Where are you from, Miss Wainright?” he asked as he wrote.
Immediately Elizabeth was afraid. She didn’t like all this attention. For someone hiding and trying to keep a low profile, this was the last thing she wanted. “I’m from…St. Louis.” Another lie.
“And what brings you to a place like Alder, Miss Wainright? It is Miss, right?”
Elizabeth looked up at Mitch. “What does that have to do with what happened?”
“Nothing,” Mitch answered. He turned to Jackson. “This woman’s background and reason for coming here makes no difference in what these men did,” he told Jackson. “Suffice it to say, she has identified them as being part of the gang that attacked the stagecoach yesterday, killed three men, caused the death of a fourth man, and intended to rob and shame Miss Wainright, perhaps kill her, too. That’s all that matters.”
Jackson nodded. “All right, then.” He glanced at Elizabeth, looking her over curiously. “Sorry to offend, ma’am. Name’s Carl Jackson…Attorney Carl Jackson, if you should ever have need of my services. And I can assure you that this town is proud to have such a lovely lady as yourself grace our presence, whatever your reason for being here.”
“You’ll die for this, Mitch Brady!” someone yelled before Elizabeth could answer.
The words came from a man about Mitch’s age. “You’re bound to hang my brother vigilante-style, and I can’t let that go. And don’t forget that Hugh has friends. You’d better watch your back!”
“If you want to defend a murderer and robber, that’s your right,” Mitch shouted back. “But I’d think twice before I’d go threatening people, Sam. If you defend your brother by trying to murder me, you’ll hang, too.”
Sam fingered his sidearm nervously and then backed away. “We’ll see about that,” he said before turning to put a hand on the shoulder of one of the outlaws. He walked away then, and men jeered at him.
Desperate Hearts Page 5
