by Kaki Warner
Lips pressed in a thin line, he whirled and walked out.
Lottie wasn’t a praying person—at least, not since Grandpa’s death. But this June morning, as she walked to the train station between Ty and Ranger Millsap, with manacles locked over her wrists and the stares of curious townsfolk tracking her every step, she offered up her first prayer in over three years. A simple chant that circled around and around in her head.
Help me get through this. Help me get through this.
God must have heard and taken pity. From the moment she boarded the train in Greenbroke until she stepped off the stagecoach in San Angela the following afternoon, she was numb to thought, to sound, even color. The world was reduced to an endless, silent, sepia vista rolling past the window beside her seat.
She functioned. She did what she was told, ate when food was set before her, slept when she could. She didn’t complain about the handcuffs, or being locked in a cell overnight in some small railroad town before boarding a stagecoach bound for San Angela the next morning. It was as if she moved through knee-deep mud. Even breathing was an effort. The only thing she remembered about those exhausting hours was that Ty was there beside her or within sight.
Thank you, God.
The journey seemed to take forever, yet ended too soon with their arrival early in the afternoon the day after she’d left Greenbroke. When the stagecoach rolled to a stop outside the Overland Stage office in San Angela, a small, dapper, white-haired man with thick spectacles, a kindly smile, and a satchel bulging with papers came forward. He studied Lottie as if they might be acquainted. But after being stared at so often throughout the trip, it seemed everyone looked at her in speculation, as if word of the infamous Weyland Murderess had raced ahead of her across the wires.
“Miss Weyland?” he asked, doffing his bowler as she stepped onto the boardwalk.
Lottie drew back, fearing he was one of those scandal-hungry newspapermen Ty had warned her about.
“Stand aside,” Millsap ordered, resting his hand on the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip. “Don’t approach the prisoner.” Positioning Lottie between him and Ty, they started down the street.
The old man pulled a small card from his suit pocket, handed it to Millsap without looking in his direction, then fell into step with the three of them.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Weyland,” he said, leaning forward to speak across Ty. “My name is Ridley Sims. I received a wire that you would be arriving and might need my assistance?” He had to hurry to keep up with Ty’s long strides.
Lottie relaxed enough to smile. “Oh, yes, Mr. Sims. I’m so happy to meet you.”
“Actually, we met many years ago. I attended the same church you and your grandfather frequented whenever you were in town.”
“Yes, I recognize you now.” But Lottie hadn’t known he was a solicitor. “Thank you for meeting us. Are you accompanying us to the jail?”
“I am. We will say no more for now, but be assured, Miss Weyland, I will do everything I can to straighten out this mess as quickly as possible.”
“I hope so.”
The next few hours went by so fast Lottie hardly knew what was happening. Thank goodness Mr. Sims was there to get her through the legal procedures. As soon as they arrived at the San Angela jail, Millsap and Ty left to complete the paperwork relating to her arrest and transport. The San Angela sheriff searched her belongings for weapons, told her the circuit judge was in town so she would probably go before him that afternoon, then took her to her cell. Another dim, dank cage.
After locking her in, he set a chair for Mr. Sims outside the bars then retreated to his front office so they could discuss her case in private.
“The trial is today?” Lottie thought she would have more time to ready herself. Everything was happening so quickly.
Sims shook his head. “Only the arraignment. All you have to do is enter a plea of guilty or not guilty after the judge reads the charges against you. I will handle the rest.”
“The rest?” Lottie wanted no surprises. Knowing what to expect would keep her from panicking.
“I will ask for bail, which he will deny. Then I will request a preliminary hearing to be held at a later date, which he will grant. The hearing is similar to a trial—open to the public, with lawyers and witnesses and a judge. But instead of a jury deciding your guilt or innocence, the judge will decide if there is enough evidence against you to take you to trial. I’m hoping there is not. But I’ll be better able to assess the situation after you answer a few questions. Shall we begin?”
Things became muddled for Lottie after that. Exhaustion, fear, and lack of sleep had begun to take their toll. Most of his questions centered around what she remembered about that awful day. Especially after she admitted she didn’t know for certain if Grandpa was dead when she lit the fire.
“I know that sounds improbable,” she added, remembering Ty’s reaction when she’d told him the same thing. “But the shed was locked. And since I couldn’t get inside, all I could do was call to him. Which I did for a day, maybe two—I don’t remember exactly, but it seemed a long time. When he didn’t answer or eat the food I brought or move, I assumed he was dead and lit the fire.”
Should she have waited longer? Would she ever know?
He wrote everything down then gathered his papers and shoved them into his case. “I was aware of your grandfather’s situation,” he said, surprising her. “He came to see me soon after the hound died. I’m sorry he chose to involve you this way but I understand his reasoning.”
Lottie didn’t. But before they could discuss it further, the sheriff returned to escort her to the arraignment in the courtroom next to the jail.
Apparently Mr. Sims was well acquainted with Judge Yarborough—another older man, with a hairless dome of a head and a curling, lacquered mustache permanently stained with tobacco along his top lip. After they argued for a minute about which of the two forks of the Concho River had the best fishing, Judge Yarborough read the charges and entered her plea of not guilty into the record. He then ruled against Mr. Sims’s request for bail since she had run off once already, but agreed to a preliminary hearing, which he set for first thing in the morning two days hence.
And that was it.
Mr. Sims left to prepare for the hearing and a guard escorted Lottie back to her cell, where her valise, a ratty blanket, and a plate of cold stew awaited her.
But no Ty.
Sadly, she was too exhausted and discouraged to care.
From what Ty could see from the window of his rented room across from the building that housed the jail and courtroom, San Angela was a bigger, wilder version of Greenbroke—more brothels, more saloons, more gaming houses, although none so fine as Lady Jane’s Social Club. Like most Western towns, it had begun as a fort, charged with protecting pilgrims from hostile threats. And as he had learned while patrolling the Nueces Strip, wherever there’s a fort, a settlement will soon follow.
This one was founded by Bartholomew DeWitt and named after his wife, Carolina Angela. The name was later shortened to San Angela, which made little sense grammatically. Ty heard that the Post Office department was trying to correct that by changing the name to San Angelo. But no matter what it was called, the town was a fairly boring place unless you were a cowhand with a month’s pay to spend, a gambler, a drinker, or horny enough to try the local talent.
Which was probably why Lottie’s hearing drew so much attention. In addition to the scarcity of female murderers—especially pretty ones—and the gruesome nature of the crime, Lottie and her grandfather had been known around town, at least among those who attended the Concho Valley Pentecostal Church. Still, it surprised him that a half hour before her hearing was due to begin two days later, people were already lining up, waiting for the courtroom doors to open.
Ty tried to read their faces, hoping to see sympathy rather
than anger or ghoulish interest. It wouldn’t matter today, since there would be no jury at the hearing. But if the judge decided to hold Lottie over for trial, many of these curious onlookers would become the jury that would decide her fate.
That helpless, nameless fury that had plagued him over the last trying days settled into a hot knot in the center of his chest. He didn’t know how to get rid of it. Where to focus this anger. What he was supposed to do next.
He hated indecision.
All his life—ever since his brother had charged him with watching over their parents—he had felt driven to protect. That’s what had sent him into the ranger service. What had fueled his need for revenge against his parents’ killers. What now had him clenching his teeth so tight his jaw ached.
Despite his confusion and frustration about what she might or might not have done, he was desperate to protect Lottie. Because no matter what she thought, he still loved her. And because he didn’t believe she was a murderer. And because if he couldn’t keep her safe, it would be a worse failure than when he’d lost his parents. But mostly, because his life would have little purpose without her in it.
So he stood at the window and waited and watched and prayed like he never had before.
Ranger Millsap escorted Lottie to the hearing. Since she hadn’t seen him since they’d arrived in San Angela, she had hoped he had gone back to Austin. She had also hoped Ty would be the one to lead her into the courtroom. Despite the tension between them, she felt safer with him than with anyone else.
It shocked her to see the pews were full, with more people standing shoulder to shoulder along the back wall. Some faces she recognized. Most she didn’t.
Except for Ty.
He was easy to spot, standing a head taller than those beside him. He had his arms crossed and wore that shuttered expression she had come to dread. Even though he didn’t smile when she glanced his way, she could feel that intense blue stare following her down the aisle to the railed-off section in front of the judge’s bench. It strengthened her. Knowing he was there gave her the courage to keep her head high and ignore the stares and murmurs as she walked past the pews.
Mr. Sims rose to greet her when Millsap led her to one of the two tables set before the judge’s bench. At the other table sat the prosecutor, a short, round man wearing a garish plaid suit and a strip of false hair across his bald scalp that looked like a beaver’s pelt. As she took her seat, he played to his audience by making a show of studying her with an expression of horrified disgust.
Lottie gave no indication she noticed and somehow managed to keep her expression calm, even though her heart drummed so loudly she could hear little else but the fast hard pulse of it in her ears.
At her attorney’s insistence, Millsap reluctantly removed her manacles before taking his place in the first pew, directly behind her chair. She could feel the heat of his animosity against her back, and was thankful Ty was near.
“All rise,” a uniformed guard ordered as Judge Yarborough entered with a flourish, the hem of his long black robe whipping around his legs. After stepping onto the raised platform and taking his seat, he frowned at the many faces staring back at him, apparently not expecting such a turnout for a simple hearing. “Bailiff, read the charges.”
When nothing happened, Yarborough glared down at the guard who had earlier given the all rise. “I’m talking to you, Chester.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.” Stepping forward, the nervous man read from a paper that court had been convened to determine if there was enough evidence to hold one Charlotte Weyland over for a trial for the murder of one William Franklin Lofton. Judge Herschel Yarborough presiding.
“Step back, Chester.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yarborough waited until the bailiff had returned to his post, then addressed the onlookers in a stern voice. “Here’s what’s going to happen. If any of you folks gasp, snicker, pass wind, or even yawn too loud, you’re out of here. If you shout out, or act up in any way, you’ll be carted off to jail. You’re here to observe, not participate. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Then let’s begin. Ramsey, you’re first.”
The man at the other table rose, tugged his vest over his bulging belly, then spun toward Lottie, arm extended, his index finger aimed at her face. “There she sits! A woman so depraved she chained her own grandfather in a filthy shed, piled brush against the walls, and set it on fire! Her own grandfather! Do you know what we call a woman who does that?”
“Murderess!” a man in the pews shouted.
Sims bounded to his feet. “Your Honor!”
Judge Yarborough’s gavel came down with a crack like a gunshot. “Bailiff!” he shouted over the murmuring crowd. “Remove that man!”
When the guard started toward Sims, the judge barked, “Not him! Him!” and pointed the gavel at the onlooker who had spoken.
After the bailiff took the protesting man out and returned to the courtroom, Yarborough glowered at the spectators. “One more outburst and I’ll clear the room. Understand?”
“It’s a public hearing,” someone called. “We got a right to be here.”
“Chester, take out that man, too.” As the bailiff led out the second protestor, Yarborough eyed those remaining. “Anyone else got something else to say?” When no one did, he nodded in satisfaction, waited for the bailiff to close the door and return to his post, then crooked his finger at Ramsey.
The prosecutor stepped forward. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“Are you aware, Mr. Ramsey, that this is a hearing and not a trial?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then address your remarks to me, rather than the rabble, or I’ll have you thrown out, too. Is that clear?” When Ramsey gave a red-faced nod, Yarborough waved him away and sat back. “Call your witness.”
Facing the pews, Ramsey shouted, “Jerry Krispin, you’re first.”
As the bailiff swore in the witness, Sims asked Lottie if she knew Krispin.
“He owns the tract of land next to ours. He would drop by now and then. He and Grandpa would play checkers for hours,” she added with a catch in her throat.
“When did you see him last?”
Lottie thought for a moment. “About a week before the fire. Grandpa didn’t want to see him, so I said he wasn’t home.”
Krispin told the judge almost the same thing. “I thought it odd, though,” he added, “that she said he was gone, since their only saddle horse was still in the paddock.”
Next, Ramsey called Curly Joe Adkins, one of Krispin’s riders. He testified that he had been hunting strays near the Lofton place on the day of the fire.
“Did you see anything unusual?” Ramsey asked him.
“Other than the fire?” When Ramsey nodded, Adkins said he’d seen Lofton’s granddaughter. “Heading east, hell-bent for leather, saddlebags flapping like buzzard wings. Figured she was going for help, or leaving, one.”
“What happened then?”
“I rode to tell Mr. Krispin about the fire. We gathered some boys and went back.”
“And what did you do when you arrived?”
“Not much we could do. But we seen a cloud coming up, and waited to see what it would bring. Turned out to be a real frog-strangler. The sound of the rain hitting those hot coals was like all Satan’s snakes hissing at once. Gave me the jumps. Didn’t last long, but it did the trick. When the fire died down to steaming smolders, we hightailed it across the creek before it busted its banks.”
“And where was Miss Weyland—Lofton’s granddaughter—during this time?”
“Dunno. Never saw her again ’til today.”
From there, Ramsey called other witnesses, starting with the land broker who had found Grandpa’s remains, the deputy who had ridden out to verify a crime had been committed, and the ranger who had come to investigate. One b
y one, witnesses came forth to tell the story of Grandpa’s death and her part in it.
It seemed to go on forever—damning testimony seen from a single perspective and manipulated by Ramsey to show her in the worst possible light. The tooth-puller describing how he’d added metal cuspids to Grandpa’s dentures because he kept breaking off the ones made from animal teeth. The jeweler who had repaired the hinge on her grandfather’s pocket watch, saying, “Yep, that’s the one,” when Ramsey held up the blackened timepiece. “Even got Lofton’s name scratched on the back.” The mercantile clerk verifying he sold Lottie the chain and two heart-shaped padlocks, and the sheriff affirming that he had found those items tangled with the skeleton in the burned shed. “Never seen the like,” he added with a glare at Lottie.
And Sims never objected or posed a single question of his own.
Battling nausea, Lottie tried to block the horrible images their words painted. It wasn’t like that, she wanted to shout. I didn’t do it because I wanted to. She could feel the hostility building at her back and wondered what Ty was thinking. Or if he was still there. She hadn’t the courage to check to see if he was.
After several hours, people in the pews grew restless. Lottie could hear them rustling about behind her and hoped the judge would call a break soon. She had been too nervous to eat the cold oatmeal sent to her cell before they’d left for the hearing and now her stomach churned and ached.
Yarborough asked Ramsey how many more witnesses he planned to call.
“Only one, Your Honor. Dr. Tillips.”
“All right, but make it quick. My ass is killing me.”
Tillips was the local doctor who also served as medical examiner when required. He was a kindly man who always had strings of rock candy for children who came to see him. Lottie had been to him only once, when she was twelve, to have an embedded mesquite thorn removed. It had surprised her that Grandpa would take her to a doctor for such a minor thing. But the true reason for the visit soon became apparent when Dr. Tillips began talking to her about monthly courses, wombs, bloody cycles, changes to expect in her body, bees and pollination, and how she needed to stay away from boys until she was married. She remembered it had been embarrassing and confusing. But the rock candy had been tasty.
