by Jan Watson
Hopefully hidden by the desk, Cara felt in her bag and slipped the poke of money to Ace. He held it up as if it had been in his possession all along. “We’re here to pay Dimmert’s fine,” he said with no little authority. “We aim to take him home today.”
The lawyer rolled his chair backward and put his booted feet, crisscrossed at the ankles, on the edge of the desk. “Well, now, there’s a problem.”
Cara’s heart sank. She clasped the arms of her chair so tightly she could feel the rounded tack heads pressing into her palms. She looked at Mr. Thomas. His eyes were black as chips of coal. There was no sympathy there.
“What do you mean?” Ace asked. “Give it to us straight.”
Darcy moved to stand behind Cara. Her touch was warm on Cara’s shoulders.
“The law’s taking Mr. Whitt to the penitentiary at Frankfort today. He got two years.”
Cara gasped. Tears streamed from her eyes. Darcy handed her a handkerchief. “But we brought the money,” Cara said through sobs.
“It’s too late,” he said. “The fine was supposed to be paid last week.”
“But you weren’t here,” she said, disbelieving the turn her life had taken. “We came and you weren’t here.”
Mr. Thomas had the grace to drop his feet as well as his eyes. “I’m sorry. I did all I could.” He cleared his throat and stood, whisking his palms together as if he was ridding himself of nothing more significant than a little dust. “There’s the matter of my fee. Do you want to settle up now?”
Cara shook her head. What had he just said? Surely he didn’t expect payment for letting Dimm get sent to prison? “I don’t understand how you let this happen. How did this happen?”
“Miz Whitt, we don’t have the benefit of a sitting judge in this town but instead have trials and clear up other legal matters whenever the circuit judge comes around. He was here yesterday and heard Mr. Whitt’s case. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”
“What do we owe ye?” Ace said.
Mr. Thomas named a fee and then added in the fine which was still owed. “It would be best if you settled this so there won’t be interest charged,” he explained. “That way when Dimmert’s served his time, he’ll not be beholden to the court.”
Ace peeled off bills and laid them on the desk. “I can’t rightly thank you for this half-baked job, but we’ll pay what we owe.”
Mr. Thomas strode to the door and held it open. “Call on me if I can be of other service,” he said as if he hadn’t just put a stamp of misery on Cara.
She stepped across the threshold, turning slightly to look back, trying to think of something to say—something to convey her loss to this heartless man. She saw he had a self-satisfied look on his face, like a cat at the cream pitcher.
“If you hurry, you might see Dimmert before they take him away,” he said.
A few steps down the sidewalk, Ace stopped. “Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute,” he said, marching back into the office.
Cara and Darcy hurried along behind him, but Ace shut the door in their faces.
They could hear words hot as baked potatoes being tossed back and forth, but soon enough Ace was outside again. He took one of Cara’s arms and Darcy took the other.
“Come along, Cara,” he said. “Let’s go around to the jailhouse.”
Surely I’m trapped in a dream, Cara thought when she saw the deputy leading Dimmert, shackled by a chain to two other prisoners, out of the jail. A man waited on the seat of an odd-looking buggy that reminded Cara of a hearse. It was like a long black box, all enclosed except for the driver’s seat. The tailgate hung open, and she could see narrow benches along each side. Big metal rings protruded at intervals from the floor. She reckoned the prisoners’ chains would be fastened to them.
Dimm shuffled along, tripping over his bindings, his head hung low. Cara wished she hadn’t seen and thought Dimm would hope so too. No man would want his family to see him thus shamed. She thought to turn back, but it was too late.
“Dimm!” Darcy called out. “Dimmert Whitt!”
He shook the hair that had fallen over his face and looked their way. Confusion crossed his features until his eyes rested on Cara. He straightened his shoulders and stood tall; a smile lit his face. “Cara-mine,” he mouthed, words meant only for her.
Ace walked up to where the deputy and sheriff marched the prisoners toward the buggy.
“Back away,” the sheriff said, and Ace did as he was told.
The first prisoner was a short, round man with stumpy legs. When he tried to step up, his foot missed purchase and he nearly fell on his face. The deputy bounded up into the bed and grabbed the fellow’s hands while the sheriff hoisted him by the waistband of his britches.
The second man seemed just a boy. His face was all pimply, and his Adam’s apple stuck out sharp as a knife blade. He tried a brave swagger, but his binding forced short, jerky steps. “I’m heading to the Rock Hotel,” he yelled. “A sledgehammer will be my new sweetheart.” He looked at Cara and Darcy. “Can you tell my mommy where I’m gone?” All bravado gone, his voice cracked on a high note. “She’ll be worried if she don’t know where I am.”
“Get on up in there, Lemuel,” the deputy said. “Stop bothering the ladies.”
Cara wanted to ask his mother’s name, but fear stopped her tongue. She didn’t even call out her own husband’s name. Didn’t say good-bye. Didn’t say, “I love you.” Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird’s wings.
Before Dimmert could step up into the wagon’s bed, Ace took a small black Bible from his pocket and held it aloft. “I’m a minister of the Lord,” he said to the sheriff. “Can I have a word?”
Dimmert’s chain pulled taut as Lemuel took his seat.
The sheriff leaned against the buggy. “Hurry it up.”
“This here’s for all you men,” Ace said. “God don’t forget you just because you’re behind bars. Take this Scripture with you and it will give you comfort. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’”
Before the sheriff could stop him, Ace reached out and pumped Dimmert’s hand. “God be with you.”
Cara heard a rattle of chains, a man’s heavy sob—not Dimmert’s, no, not Dimmert’s—a horse’s impatient whinny, a creak of a wagon’s wheel, and then her life rolled away as quick as that.
CHAPTER 4
HENRY THOMAS CROSSED his lean but muscular arms and with narrowed eyes watched Dimmert Whitt’s family walk toward Spring Street and the county jail. Ace Shelton’s angry words rang in his ears. Who was Ace to rebuke anyone? Henry had wanted to smash Ace’s face in. But he tamped down his temper, for an angry man was a man who had lost control, and Henry strove to be in control.
He walked to the jailhouse to watch the action. There they were, the whole lot of them, Ace strutting around importantly, Cara and Darcy with their heads together. Henry stood behind a tree and looked on as a string of prisoners was led out of the jail toward the waiting transport. He could tell Dimmert’s wife was wiping tears.
He supposed he should feel a smidgen of pity for Cara. She seemed a nice enough sort and pretty, he’d admit, but not his type. Now Darcy—there was something about that girl. He’d made it his mission to watch for her to come into town. They’d had a few pleasant conversations thus far. She always blushed prettily when she was in his presence. Obviously she was ripe for the picking. A snap of his fingers and she’d fall right into his arms.
It didn’t take long for the prisoners to be dispatched, alt
hough Ace had held things up by prissily bringing out his Bible and preaching the Word, as if that was going to help anything. Henry bided his time until Darcy said good-bye to her family and headed up the street alone.
“Darcy,” he called.
She looked back and smiled. “Henry,” she said.
Just the sound of her voice calling his name filled him with a joy he’d never felt before. “I’m real sorry about your brother,” he said.
“Thank you. It’s just about killed my mammaw and Cara.” Darcy’s eyes filled with sorrow. “Poor Dimm didn’t steal that mule, you know.”
Henry dared to cup her elbow in his hand and walk alongside her. “I tried every way in the world to help him. I want you to know that.” If Henry had been a child, he would have crossed his fingers behind his back—canceling the lie, so to speak. But lies slid smooth as molded butter from Henry’s mouth.
“I know. I’m sorry Ace was so mad at you. We’re just all upset about Dimmert.”
“Sure you are,” he said. “Why, I’m upset myself. Dimmert Whitt’s a good man. Say, could I interest you in a little lunch over at the inn?”
Darcy paused on the sidewalk. “Do they serve liquor? I couldn’t go in there if they do.”
“Strongest thing they serve at the inn is coffee.” His grip tightened slightly on her arm. “What do you say? It would do the both of us good.”
“I suppose it would be all right, seeing as we’d be in public.”
Henry had to stop himself from putting his arm around her waist and drawing her close. “Darcy, there’s not a thing wrong with a man taking his best girl for a bite to eat.”
They were seated at a table near the window where a dusty fern hung suspended from a chain. Darcy perused the limited menu as if she had done this many times before. Henry was surprised. He figured she’d never been off the creek.
“Goodness,” she said, “it’s been a long time since I ate out.”
Henry leaned on his elbows and stared at her. He felt a prick of jealousy. Had she been here with another man? “So, what did you have last time you were here?” he asked ever so casually.
“Oh, I’ve never eaten here,” she said, slowly pulling her gloves off one finger at a time. “I don’t get the chance to eat out except when I’m in Lexington, but Mammaw’s been too sick for me to go there for a while.”
He studied her face. She had a smattering of freckles across her pert nose and a generous mouth. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, which was often. Being in her presence was like walking in sunshine. She unrolled the napkin from her silverware and placed the knife, fork, and spoon correctly around her plate. The napkin she placed on her lap.
“Lexington?” he said.
She sipped her ice water. “I like to get there twice a year, look at fabric, buy patterns, and take measurements, but like I said, Mammaw’s been sick.”
Not long after they ordered, a girl placed Darcy’s chicken salad and Henry’s ham steak in front of them. Darcy took a dainty bite.
Henry waited for her to swallow before he commented. “You have a business? Up here in the hills?”
Darcy buttered a bite of bread. “I do. I’m a seamstress. I sew pretty gowns for society ladies.”
Under the table Henry pressed his knee against Darcy’s. She put her bread down and looked at him with wide eyes. Brazenly, he traced the blue vein up her wrist. It was all he could do not to bring it to his lips. “What’s your middle name?”
“Mae, after Fairy Mae Whitt,” she stammered.
He captured her eyes with his own. “Someday, little Darcy Mae, you’ll be wearing pretty gowns of your own.”
Spots of color stained her cheeks. “Did you mean what you said back there?”
He busied himself with his knife and fork, meticulously severing a bit of gristle from his ham, drawing out the moment, playing with her like she was a fish on the line. “What would that be?”
She dropped her eyes. “You said I was your best girl.”
“Best and only,” he said with his most disarming smile. “If you’ll have me, that is.”
After Henry saw Darcy to her horse and buggy, he returned to the office. He sat in his chair, turning it toward the many leather tomes lined in alphabetical order behind the glass doors of two walnut bookcases. The classics he had read filled one case while the other held leather-bound books on law. It seemed to him that those books held all the knowledge one could ever hope to find, and Henry had studied each one. Yet he couldn’t reason out why he was falling for a simple mountain girl. It was like his heart called out to hers, like it had a mind of its own.
Henry swiveled the chair and faced the desk. He wanted Darcy. He did. But he wanted to want her on his terms, not because of some hold she had over his emotions. Propping his feet on the corner of his desk, he leaned back, then rested his head on his crossed fingers. She had a killer smile, though. And the way she looked at him—he’d give a pretty penny to see that look again.
Maybe he could have it all if he was careful. What was it Darcy had said over lunch, her grandmother was doing poorly? How long could she last anyway? Bait the trap, reel Darcy in, have the woman he wanted and that beautiful land she would inherit when the old lady died at the same time.
He smiled. Life was beautiful.
CHAPTER 5
CARA WOULD HAVE SWORN she was all cried out, but watching her dear sweetheart, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, being hauled off to prison proved her wrong. She’d given Dimmert no comfort other than perhaps her presence.
Now riding home, she wished she’d run to him and thrown her arms around him even if the sheriff and his deputy had to drag her off. The picture in her mind of her husband bravely stepping up into what Ace called the jailbird cage caused a storm of fresh tears.
“I’m sorry,” she cried and hiccuped. “I can’t seem to stop.”
“That’s all right, girl,” Ace replied. “I feel like bawling myself. Poor Dimmert.”
Cara doubled over, burying her face in her lap. “What will happen to him?” Her muffled words gave voice to her greatest fear. How could her sweet, kind husband bear life in prison?
“I had occasion to visit a buddy once at Kentucky State Penitentiary,” Ace responded. “This was back in my wild days before I gave my life to the Lord.”
Ace settled against the buggy seat, letting the reins slack. Cara knew she was in for a story, for Ace loved to talk more than anyone she’d ever met. She mopped her tears and listened as the horse picked his way down the graded gravel road.
“You probably wouldn’t think it of me, but I used to make moonshine—had the best still for a hundred miles, I warrant. Men lined up to buy my shine whenever I made a batch, all of them dry as a lizard on a hot rock.” Ace took off his hat and set it on the seat between them, then shrugged out of his suit coat. The day was heating up.
In spite of herself, Cara was enthralled. Ace’s stories meandered like a rocky creek bed, but he always entertained.
“The secret to my liquor was the water. I found a run of the coldest, sweetest water you ever tasted bubbling out of a spring up the mountain from my house—”
“That is good water,” Cara interrupted. “Jay gave me a taste last week.”
“Dance wasn’t overly impressed with me taking the time to pipe that water downhill, I can tell you,” Ace said, shaking his head. “She was cross as a goose in a chicken house for two weeks.”
Absently, Ace rubbed the bruise on the side of his face. “Anyway, one of my friends back then was Lump Lumpkin. His grandma was Clary Lumpkin, God rest her soul. Clary was a saintly woman and her own children followed suit, but those grandkids . . . Man, something bent the twig there.”
The warmth of the sun, the sway of the buggy, and the sound of Ace’s melodious voice began to work on Cara. Her stomach unknotted, and she could feel the tension seep from her shoulders. Her eyes closed for just a minute. A dip in the road nearly sent her flying off her seat. Down and out the buggy’s wh
eel went and she was fully awake.
“. . . so then Lump and me started filling fruit jars with the stuff.”
Evidently Ace hadn’t missed a beat while she caught a nap. She guessed that was one reason he was such a sought-after preacher. Folks sleeping while he talked didn’t deter his enthusiasm.
“This one time,” Ace continued with a chuckle, “Granny Lumpkin chased me and Lump out of her cornfield. She was winding up like a baseball player, pitching green walnuts fast as spitballs. ‘Ouch,’ Lump yelled. ‘Granny, you’re killing me.’ ‘I’m a-trying to keep you out of hell, son,’ I heard Granny yell back, while walnuts pinged off trees and off Lump’s head. ‘A man who’d steal corn from his own family is sliding down a slippery slope.’ Lump earned his nickname that day, I reckon.”
Ace stroked his chin. “I’ve been sorry for stealing from that sainted lady ever since. I started growing my own corn after that.”
“So,” Cara asked, “why did Lump wind up in the penitentiary?”
“He shot a man. Shot him straight through the heart one night when he caught the fellow stealing some of our homemade brew. I never even knew Lump had a gun.” Ace’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as if tears clogged his throat. “I’ll never forget the smell of liquor mixed with blood and fear. Did you know you can smell fear, Cara?”
He covered his mouth with his hand. Cara could barely make out his next words. “Lump ran off, but I couldn’t leave a man to die all alone, so I stayed—crying and praying for hours like a woman in labor. The next morning I went to find the sheriff. I was figuring me and Lump both was through. But I got off and Lump got life. I ain’t never been able to forgive myself for that.”
“Oh, Ace,” Cara said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I didn’t pull the trigger,” Ace replied, “but I set up Lump’s stumbling block when I built that still.”
“I don’t understand,” Cara said. “Unless you gave Lump the gun, I don’t see why you blame yourself.”
Ace patted the empty seat between them, then reached down to retrieve the jacket that had fallen to the floor. He held it over the side of the buggy and gave a little shake. “Aggravation, now I’ll have to press it again.” Taking a small, well-worn Bible from the inside coat pocket, he handed it to Cara. “Look up Romans 14:13 and read it aloud.”
