by Sandra Jones
He ran a hand across his brow, feeling a flush of guilt. He’d only given Cora a few minutes at the ranch to gather her belongings. Of course she’d need more necessities from her home.
Bernadette lifted a shoulder, then walked with him back up the steps to the door. “She also wanted some advice. We have an event scheduled, our annual Fall Social, and Millie’s filling in for the boss. But…nobody knows how to run the club like Cora.”
Yes, he was inclined to agree. Last year, his own brothel had started bleeding money until he’d been forced to search out new jobs for his employees. It had been one of his biggest fiascos, made worse by Uncle Bart’s unvarnished disappointment. Kit had argued at the time that it wasn’t his fault. The brothel had been mismanaged by its former owner, a malicious gambler, and Kit had only inherited its problems when he’d taken the reins. But his uncle had argued that he should’ve been able to fix things. Instead, he’d failed in the worst way possible, spending his days in gaming halls and his nights with whores.
Now he was failing the judge, his uncle’s former friend. And worse, he was failing Cora.
Why should anyone ever count on him? He was good for nothing except killing.
No wonder Cora had never left the Willows. These girls of hers were adrift on an endless ocean, lost and unable to guide themselves safely. If she’d truly wanted to help them, she should’ve taught them to be more independent.
He removed his hat and moved for the door.
“Wait,” Bernadette murmured, blocking his way, “didn’t you say you used to run a brothel?”
Damn, she must’ve read his thoughts.
“I did.” He moved inside, carefully avoiding the sultry brunette. Whatever was on her mind, he was in no mood to hear it.
She closed the door and followed him into the foyer. “I know you’re a sheriff now and all, but you could advise us, take a look at the books, help Mill—”
“Hell, no!” He half-strangled on his own tongue, trying to reject the idea as fast as possible. “I’m not the right person for advice on running any business. Least of all another club.”
“Caught with your hand in the cookie jar!” His uncle’s graveled voice echoed in his head. Half-dreading, half-missing the sound, he allowed the memory to continue. “When will you ever learn your lesson, boy? You can’t run a business with your cock. Just do the right damned thing for your employees, the rest will follow. Happy employees, well-paid employees, you understand? The boss can’t be the only one getting any damned rewards for the work!”
Kit sighed and massaged his temples. The old man had loved to spread his wisdom with a touch of righteousness, but Kit had learned through the years that Bartholomew Wainwright actually was right on most occasions.
If he let Cora’s club get in trouble too, he would disappoint Uncle Bart yet again, and more importantly, the one woman who’d somehow put the spark of life back into his heart.
There was no way he’d be able to get any rest this night anyway. He folded his arms over his chest. “Where are the books?”
Cora’s ledgers kept him up half the night. After reading her elegant script in tidy columns—items purchased, paid bills, credits, sales, salaries, etc., he realized the Willows ran like a well-oiled machine. By the time Millie arrived less than an hour into his perusal, he could already see Cora’s organized bookkeeping made the club quite easy to manage if one only followed her lead. He and the piano player poured over the accounts for hours more.
The business wasn’t in the red yet, but if they lost customers due to Cora’s arrest, they would soon get there. The Fall Social, according to the past year’s records, raised enough cash to get them through the holidays—lean times for bordellos, especially in frontier settlements, when men had less money and philandering husbands spent more time with their wives. According to Millie, crates of liquor had already been delivered, and they would need dozens of paying guests to break even for the order.
Something about holding Cora’s books and seeing her handwriting made his chest constrict with guilt and worry for her wellbeing. Damnation, he had to find the real killer and sooner, not later.
The other women seldom ventured from the club, so their interactions with Deputy Hazen had been limited—probably for the better. The bastard had cornered them all and tried to force himself on them every chance he’d had, but the ladies had dealt with him successfully with jabs, slaps and punches. Even Andrea had once stopped his unwanted assault with a cup of hot coffee in his lap. No pay, no play—that was Cora’s rule. No one in the club mourned Hazen, but neither did they seem to hate him enough to want him dead. Thankfully, the ladies could vouch for each other’s whereabouts on the night of the murder too, since they shared rooms in the Willows.
Unfortunately, the women had nothing to offer that would help him to help Cora.
If he couldn’t prove Cora didn’t kill Hazen, he’d have to save her another way.
At daybreak, he went to the courthouse to speak with Judge Murtagh, but a trial was in session. While he waited at the back of the courtroom, a clerk walked past him with a stack of files.
“All guilty,” the man offered in a lowered voice. “Mostly for murder and horse thievery.”
Kit sat uncomfortably, unable to sleep, too anxious to relax. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the outcome of Cora’s trial would be guilty as well.
He tightened his hands on the rim of his hat as the bailiff announced the end of the session. Now to finally corner Murtagh and see what he could do.
He followed the judge to his office and waited outside the open door as Murtagh removed his robe and settled behind his desk to light a cigar.
He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Judge.”
“Come in, Christopher.” The old man’s eyes squinted in what might’ve been the best smile he could manage. “I saw you in my courtroom today. Eight trials, most of them Indians. Were you interested in seeing the law from another perspective?”
“It’s enough to sober any man, I’d imagine.” He hated that the defendants had so little to say to defend themselves. Some of the supposed criminals could barely speak English, let alone share anything to help their cause. He moved closer to the desk and took a seat opposite the judge. “Makes me feel more responsible for apprehending the right criminal. I wouldn’t want an innocent man hanged on account of any mistake I made.”
“Sure.” The judge set his cigar on the edge of his desk and reached for a stack of envelopes. Thumbing through them, he culled the mail into two piles. “I hear you’ve got the sheriff’s murderer. Congratulations. I know the town will rest easier. Can’t say I’m surprised though. Thorntree and I both knew you’d make a great lawman.”
Kit leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he played with his hat. Guilt gnawed him raw inside. “Judge, I didn’t apprehend Cora. I just brought her in when the posse came for her. You see, I already knew she shot Sidlow. It was self-defense. She told me herself, but about Hazen—”
Murtagh glanced up sharply. “You’re sympathetic to Miss Reilly. I can understand that.” He paused, picked up one envelope and then continued as he took a letter opener to the missive, “I know you have an affinity for prostitutes and gambling houses. You wouldn’t be Bart’s nephew if you didn’t. But you’ve been spending too much time there for your position as sheriff. However, I’m willing to overlook that. What we mustn’t forget though, is that Jim Hazen wasn’t given a chance to defend himself.”
Kit felt a surge of anger. “That man stalked and harassed these ladies. I’ve interviewed them. There were countless incidents of—”
“Doesn’t matter. The law is the law. You cannot compare crimes and say one person was guiltier than the other. Jim Hazen can’t be put on trial. He’s worm fodder. What we have to be concerned about is punishing the one we caught. Cora Reilly was arrested for murdering two men. Ga
ther your evidence and let the court decide her fate.”
Blood behind his temple began to pound. “Judge, if you want to protect the people from whoever killed Hazen, you’ll hear me out on this. Cora Reilly didn’t kill that man. I aim to find out who did very soon, but in the meantime, you’ve got to allow her to go home. She doesn’t belong in that jail.”
“Surely you don’t want her here in the barracks with the male convicts?” He took a letter out of the envelope and held it at arm’s length to read.
“No. Of course not, but—”
“She’ll be safe enough in the cell. You can continue your search for a week. But don’t be surprised if all you find is more evidence incriminating Miss Reilly. That whorehouse is a shady business. The whole Row has been the bane of my career with the former sheriffs filling my prison with their customers—thieves, drunkards and the likes. That cathouse turns good men bad. I even suspect Mayor Thorntree is half in love with one of her ladies.” His lips twisted in his first smile of the day and he chuckled. “Not to mention the fact that my wife worries I might choose to hang my hat there one of these days. Yes, I’m sorry for the women who depend on the place for their livelihood, but I’ll rest easier when all those houses close their doors.”
The judge tossed the letter at Kit. He picked up the paper and instantly recognized the hand-drawn trees at the top of the page, followed by the words, An Invitation to the Willows for the Fall Social.
“My wife and I always have roast beef on that night at our house. It’s our tradition. She wants to invite a few friends over this year, including our new sheriff. She’s eager to meet you.”
The event was a week away. He’d hoped to be done with Fort McNamara by then, able to return to his ranch…with Cora if she was free to accept his invitation.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” Even if he was still in town, he was obligated to Cora to help with the club that night. He stood, passing the invitation back to the judge.
“I won’t take no for an answer. You’re coming to dinner that night. My wife’s frail. She has a bad heart, so I don’t like to disappoint her,” he murmured the last, his voice softening with what Kit assumed was pain.
He put his hat on, feeling utterly defeated. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.”
The judge rolled a shoulder. “I used to take her to the therapeutic springs. Now she can’t make the trip. The shock of the travel would kill her. She’s been a good wife to me, and I look forward to the two of you meeting. ’Bout time you looked for a good, decent woman for yourself.”
Kit muttered a goodbye and left the old man’s office.
The only woman for him was Cora, but the judge’s uncanny resemblance to his uncle in both looks and words left him feeling bewildered and unable to voice a decent argument. He rubbed the badge on his chest as he exited the courthouse, pondering what on earth he should do now. Perhaps he would canvas the town, interview more citizens.
So far, the day had been another failure.
He couldn’t afford failures anymore. Not when his worthlessness could cost Cora her life.
Chapter Fourteen
After a day and a half in the jail cell, Cora realized her plan wouldn’t be as easy to manage as she’d hoped. There were lawmen stationed outside the building every hour of the day, leaving her unguarded only long enough for them to relieve themselves behind the bank.
Dammit all, where had these paragons of service and protection been when she, Andrea and the other townswomen had needed them weeks ago? How could her neighbors feel threatened by her, of all people, when far more dangerous men freely roamed the streets of Fort McNamara?
Jupiter had taken up shifts outside, as well as Deputy Buchanan. Even the mayor had left city hall to keep an eye on the jail for two hours after his usual trip to the saloon. Yet the organizer of all this protection hadn’t shown his face all day long, and his absence made her feel miserable.
Apparently, Kit was intelligent enough not to hitch his wagon to her. Why should it surprise her he wasn’t guarding her? She felt lost without him, and her insides were tied in miserable knots. Only her plans for escape gave her purpose, a reason to not think about him. And the longer she stayed in town as Kit’s prisoner, the longer her friends at the Willows would suffer the humiliation of being connected to her.
Watching the street outside her jail window, she studied Buchanan. Of all the sheriff’s men, he was the least watchful. His lack of attention had allowed Millie to pay her first visit to the jail. He’d taken the nine o’clock shift tonight, sitting on a bench outside the mercantile two buildings down the block. His thirsty stare followed after passing cowboys as they entered the saloon. If anyone left her unguarded, she believed it would be Buchanan.
That morning, she’d managed to whisper a message to Logan Dix, the thief Kit had shot, asking him to come back tonight with Simon Cotter to make plans for her escape. A few months ago, Cotter, the dangerous drifter rumored to have robbed a stagecoach in Missouri, had asked to buy a token for one of her ladies, but Sheriff Sidlow had intercepted him before he could use her establishment. Now Cora prayed she might be able to bribe these lawless men to help her out—with the one condition that no one would get hurt. If Jupiter or anyone else got shot on her account, she’d never be able to live with herself.
Buchanan stood as a tall man in a hat approached him. In the darkness, it was difficult to make out the newcomer’s identity, but when he turned toward the jail, the metal star on his chest caught the light and her heart stopped with recognition. Kit.
Buchanan headed into the saloon as Kit walked her way. She ducked down with a gasp. He was finally here. She couldn’t let him see her watching.
Her cheeks heated with indignation. By the time she heard his key turn in the lock and the chain fall away, she stood in front of the door, flexing her hands in righteous fury.
Entering the cell, he doffed his hat and then lifted his gaze. “Cora.”
“Hello, Kit.” She took a deep breath, struggling to keep from crying or launching at him with her fists. Her mouth, however, had a mind of its own. “After I’ve sat in this building for the past twenty-four hours alone, you dare come here now? I hope you’ve at least been to the Willows like I asked.”
“Of course.” He stepped into the moonlight from the window and dropped his hat. “Are you all right?”
Her resolve crumbled when she caught his unguarded expression and reading the honest worry in his eyes. “I’m wonderful.” A sob suddenly choked her, giving away her true emotions. “The bat and I are doing just fine, Kit.”
“Bat?” he echoed, incredulous. He moved forward and cupped her face in his hands. “Ah, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
His hands were warm and gentle as his thumbs grazed her cheekbones. She leaned into him, all the fight in her whisking away with relief. Oh, she’d missed his touch. He put his mouth to hers and kissed her again and again with the soft persistence of a moth’s wings as it sought light from behind glass. Then he kissed her cheek, her temple, even her nose. “You’re really all right?”
She sniffed back a tear and lifted her gaze to his, smiling. “Yes, silly. This place feels like a dungeon, but I’m no princess. I’m fine.”
He ran his hands down her arms to catch her fingers and squeezed them firmly. “The deputies say they’ve been vigilant. Have they kept people from bothering you?”
“Yes.” Suddenly afraid he might sense something amiss, she averted her eyes. She couldn’t let him discover that her plans for the night had been thwarted by his presence. “I just sit and think most of the time. What else can I do in here?”
He backed up as if to have a better look and stumbled over her bedding. “That’s it,” he growled. “I’m taking you out of here. You’re not staying in this damned hole another minute.” He jerked the badge from his chest, and she heard a ping as it hi
t the stone floor.
He would quit on her account? She gasped in surprise.
He reached for her hand, but she dodged him. “No, Kit. I’m okay here. Honestly.” She located the star and picked it up. “Put this back on. Please.” She took his hand and folded his fingers around the metal.
He exhaled impatiently. “But your being here’s not right. The judge won’t listen, and I don’t care what he thinks anymore. I’ve wasted a day already trying to get enough evidence to get you out.”
She remembered Judge Murtagh was his uncle’s friend, and Kit would do anything he thought would please his beloved uncle. Yet here he was, ready to ignore his guilty conscience for her.
Suddenly bolstered by joy and love, she stood on her toes and threw her arms around him. “I’m just glad you believe me.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I told you I believe you. I even found another witness in town who says he saw a man, not a woman, leaving the alley after Hazen was shot. That’s enough proof in my opinion that they never should’ve accused you.”
“A man?” Easing back a step, she recalled the events of that night. “I looked in the saloon for McGruder, but I don’t remember passing anyone. I could’ve, but I really wasn’t worried about who might recognize me. No one had any idea I was Velvet. I hadn’t done anything wrong to be hiding…yet. I’ve always put the cloak and hood on when I actually found the man I wanted to scare.”
“Cora, do you have any enemies? Anyone who would want you arrested?”
“No. There are a few wives who hate the Row, but they usually just come by and collect their men. They don’t blame us working girls.”
“What about the mayor? He sent Buchanan to search your belongings. Does he have a grudge against you? The judge says he thinks Thorntree is in love with one of your ladies.”
“Ray?” She thought for a moment. The mayor wouldn’t be the first married customer who’d fallen hard for one of the girls. “If he cares for any of them, it would be Millie. Ray always sits with her at the piano. Come to think of it, he never asks to sleep with anyone. But he’s always been kind to me. Why would he kill Hazen or want me to hang for it?”
