Trish sagged to her knees instead of sitting on the chair near the potbelly stove, utterly dejected. The hangman's noose would have satisfaction. She had fought the greatest battle of her life for the man she loved, placing everything she had on the line, even her life. It had unfolded without precursor or notice. Quinn had regained his freedom. She had stood before her potential executioners without flinching, fighting for truth and justice. The cry for help had come silently across time and space, and she had answered. Truth had won only a partial victory. She didn't dare hope for more. Doggedly, she had placed herself in compromising situations without thought of the consequences. She had come to 1887 to save a man's life. She had done so, but at what price?
She made her choice to defend another. A choice she almost regretted. But in her heart of hearts, she knew she would make the same choice again if given the opportunity. She had chosen years before to study law. A decision firmly rooted in her aspirations that justice and mercy reach to the accused, in spite of their respective innocence or guilt.
Trish didn't have a timepiece to measure how much time passed. The jail became stuffy, causing her to feel weak. She yearned for Quinn to hold her. If the jury found her guilty, would she have the opportunity to convince him of her love? She doubted it. Tuckett would never allow them even a minute of privacy. She had done what she knew she must, but fear of what might come mingled with fear of her uncertainty, choking any tears that tried to surface.
The bell tolled again, its tone deep and foreboding. Trish listened to the vibration on the stagnant air. The cold bars of the cell reverberated, echoing the hollow tone. She stood to walk to the courthouse for the final time. Sheriff Tuckett walked at her side, his expression that of wolfish anticipation. Jed and Milton Moore followed closely behind them.
The courtroom filled while Trish sat beside a man she had no respect for. She turned to the gallery, searching for the man she loved, had always loved, would always love, without finding him. She regretted her moment of weakness. Quinn's absence offered her little hope--he must consider her unworthy of his affection.
Tuckett smoothly released Milton Moore's handcuffs but seemed unable to do the same for her. As he looked up from his task to someone directly behind her, she followed his gloating gaze, swiveling her whole body. Quinn occupied the seat, returning Tuckett's glare with one of his own.
"The defendants will stand." Tuckett yanked Milton to his feet by his coat while Trish stood on her own, unwilling to allow him to touch her. The courtroom settled to ominous silence.
"Bailiff, bring me the jury's findings." Bailiff Powell stepped forward to retrieve a slip of paper from the jury's chairman. His spurs jangled, marking his steps as he returned to the bench and handed the neatly folded paper to Judge Fairbanks. A woman whispered behind her gloved hand, drawing the attention of those nearby. Judge Fairbanks seemed to require an indeterminable time to read the script on the paper.
Trish noticed her knees shaking but summoned her courage and stood tall. The jury had made their decision. It no longer mattered if one stood in opposition to the others. They had at last agreed. The time for debate had passed. The time had arrived to learn if truth prevailed.
She studied Judge Fairbanks’s features, knowing it useless to try to interpret his expression. He read the paper, looked up at the defendants, then at the jury. He shook his head and read the paper again.
“We the gentlemen of the jury find Milton Moore guilty of the murder.” Moore bellowed in disbelief and tried to sidestep away from Sheriff Tuckett, his angry words unintelligible. When Trish's knees buckled, a strong hand steadied her from behind. Without looking, she murmured, "Thank you." The courtroom erupted into chaos.
"Order! Order! Everyone sit down. The findings of this court are final and you will stay seated until this case is closed."
Trish let her knees buckle, dropping to her chair in relief. Muzzled silence descended on the room again.
"Mr. Moore, you are to be hung by the neck until dead, just as soon as the gallows can be built. Case closed." The gavel rang out again.
Moore became frantic in his struggle as Sheriff Tuckett handcuffed him. Mr. Moore's expression of guilt mixed with disbelief at what had occurred. He clearly had thought that he would get away with this murder.
Unwilling to watch Moore's continued battle, Trish pushed toward the door, winding her way through the crowd, ignoring derisive comments as well as kindly remarks. She burst through the outer door, inhaling deeply of the fresh air. She stared at the kindly woman watching her with pointed admiration.
"It's time to go home, dear. Rest, you'll need it." The woman Trish had seen before and recognized smiled and walked away.
Trish nodded at her, knowing the woman was right. She was free to live her life, free to love if given the chance, free to return home.
She descended the steps with more than one decision to make. And she would be wise to make it before tomorrow. She must choose where to live and what kind of life she wanted, one of continual adventure or one of a relatively slow pace. Had one adventure been enough? Or was she more like Grammy, craving the excitement of the unknown?
Hearing Quinn's voice in conversation behind her, Trish felt her countenance drop. He would remain here. She would go home alone with no way to contact him. Not that he would want her to. After all, she had skirted a direct question concerning him under oath. It didn't matter that her reason revolved around staying alive or protecting him. Her heart broke. She would walk alone through the portal of time and space with nothing gained except her experience. An experience laced with memories of love and murder. How could she push those memories away? If she could, would she really want to? Quinn was an intricate part of her time here. It was his silent call for help across time that had drawn her here. She needed a quiet place to examine her thoughts and feelings.
Maybe she could catch Pierre or Zelda and get a ride to her temporary home and the relative comforts of 1887. She hadn't noticed them in court, but Zelda had promised to come. Trish turned toward the gathering of buggies, threading her way through the remains of the crowd.
"Whoa, woman," a strong hand grasped her arm, spinning her around. "Where ya off to in such a hurry?" Quinn's expression wasn't that of a spurned lover, but a concerned friend.
"I'm going home."
"Without a horse?"
She touched her forehead in anguish. What should she say? The words tumbled out. "Zelda will be waiting for me with the buggy…"
"She already left. Why don't you let me give you a ride?"
Why shouldn't she accept his offer? Because she didn't have the heart to say good-bye. "But Tuckett saw to it that your horse's shoes were pulled."
"You really think that I don't know how to shoe my own horse?"
"Jackson, you're under arrest." Tuckett's browbeating demand interrupted them. He waved his six-gun at waist height. "Come along right peaceable."
Quinn and Trish both spun to face the interloper. "Arrested for what?" Trish asked, aghast.
"Old Curly's disappearance."
"You know Old Curly tends to go into the high country for months on end with no one nowhere seein' him," Quinn defended.
"Tell it to the Judge."
Quinn bristled, taking a defensive step in Tuckett's direction. "You'll do anything to see me hanged or imprisoned, won't you? Of course, a varmint like you can't fight yar own battles so ya gotta have yar uncle do it for ya."
Trish laid her hand on Quinn's forearm. "I'll come with you."
"Trish, there ain't no need for you to get involved in this. Tuckett and I's got a right ripe grievance. Don't we, Tuckett?"
Trish didn't wait for Tuckett to answer. "I want to come."
Tuckett cackled with an ugly sneer. "You're a gamblin' man. Might as well add the skirt to the pot, aye, girlie?"
"I won't be your prize. Not now, not ever." Trish slid her arm over Quinn's.
"Two fer the price of one." Tuckett waved his gun. "Get movin'."
"Put
the gun away or I, for one, will not join you in your psychopathic, malicious game of Blindman's Bluff." Trish straightened her shoulders.
"Quite the first class Ace, ain't ya, girlie? All that fancy jargun's gonna land you in the hoosegow, right next to Jackson."
"And you’re a blowhard," Trish retorted. "The gun. Or would you prefer I go on my way?"
Tuckett holstered his gun with a scowl.
"Shall we?" Trish urged Quinn forward without making more of a scene. Quinn escorted her to the jail as if out for a Sunday stroll with Sheriff Tuckett trailing behind. Trish felt a wry smile tug at the corner of her mouth. Did Tuckett look as foolish in reality following them as he did in her mind?
"Ya don't have to do this," Quinn said.
"What kind of woman would I be to let you take him on alone? If you remember right, I was there."
"He don't know that."
"No, he doesn't. But I came a very long way to see that you don't hang. If there is even the chance of that happening, I have to step in."
"I don't need ya fightin' my battles."
"I'm not fighting, I'm defending. Judge Fairbanks will listen to me, just as he did in court. He's a reasonable man with a fine legal mind, even if he is slightly calloused by this particular era."
"You talk like you know the future."
"I do, to a point. If you make smart decisions that aren't ruled by your ego."
"I don't have an ‘ego,’ whatever that is." Quinn paused at the step to the jail front, offering her his hand.
"You do. And a rather healthy one in most regards, except when it comes to our illustrious Sheriff Tuckett."
"He's a little man."
Trish glanced over Quinn's shoulder in Tuckett's direction. Quinn wasn't referring to Tuckett's stature so he must be referring to an overall opinion of the man. "That may be true, but I've seen you gamble. You can beat him at his own game. We keep to our original arrangement to get out of this. You keep your poker face and let me deal with Judge Fairbanks."
Tuckett wore his wolfish sneer as he ushered them into the cell, clanged the door shut to lock it and threw the keys on his desk. "Brought ya some company, Moore."
Chapter 46
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 62
