by Jane Shoup
She looked up at him. “I’d like that.”
His eyes sparkled. “So would Father.”
After the long, emotionally draining day, the statement hit with an unexpected force, and she had to blink tears away.
Jack sank into the chair beside her. “Tell me about it.”
She shook her head. “She was just a patient, like all the others.”
“Charity,” he said softly.
She sat, too. “Her name was Lorna Collins and she went into premature labor. I lost her and the child.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was lovely and she wanted to live. Her husband,” she said with a sigh. “He was shattered.”
Jack reached over and squeezed her hand. “I know that’s hard.”
Charity sat back. “And earlier in the day, there was a confrontation when a woman was denied admission.”
“A prostitute?”
“She said not,” Charity replied without conviction.
“Let me guess. You stepped in—”
“Knowing it would do no good,” Charity added bitterly. “The rules,” she exclaimed. “That we only serve married women of good character—”
“Seems as though we’ve had this conversation before.”
“Fine. I won’t get started again.”
“They’re not going to change the rules because you don’t like them.”
“They should change the rules when the rules are wrong. When I think about all the work it took to get to this point—”
“You don’t regret the choice?” he asked with an earnest frown. “I know it took diligence and hard work and all, but—”
She nearly reminded him how much easier his path to becoming a physician had been than hers, but she refrained. At least she lived in a day and time when it was possible for a woman to pursue medicine. Before the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania had opened its doors some thirty years ago, it wouldn’t have been. “No, I don’t regret it. Of course not. It was just a difficult day.” She handed the telegram back. “We should leave in the morning.”
“I agree.”
“It makes you wonder,” Charity said slowly.
“What?”
“Is it merely coincidence this came to our attention or is it . . . more?”
“Fate, perhaps? You know, if you hadn’t become a physician, you would have made an excellent philosopher,” he said with a teasing grin as he rose. “I’ve got to go to the hospital tomorrow first thing to make arrangements.”
She made a face. “While you’re there, demand to know why they refuse to hire female physicians.”
Jack groaned. “Go pack, already.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Jules Gunderson hobbled toward Emmett’s office, excited to share the news. One of his legs was shorter than the other, although he’d learned to adjust. A company in New York had begun making special shoes for conditions like his, and he’d spent good money to try a pair. It amounted to nothing more than a platform fastened onto the bottom of the shoe of his shorter leg but, still, it made sense. Unfortunately, his balance had been thrown off by the correction and his back had begun aching in a different way than it usually did. The doc had told him he ought to tough it out and adjust, but he hadn’t. He’d spent his whole life lopsided, he’d informed the doc, and he had already adjusted to that.
Emmett looked up as Jules walked in and braced himself for news. “Some doctors are headed this way from Philadelphia.”
Emmett bowed his head. “Thank God.”
“It’s a brother and sister team,” Jules said. “Both of them doctors. Doesn’t that beat all?”
Emmett stood and reached out to shake Jules’s hand. “You made my day, sir. Do we know when they arrive?”
Jules handed him the telegram. “Tomorrow.”
Mitchell tried to maneuver the bottle of whiskey to his mouth without spilling any, which was impossible since he was lying down and it was too full. He spilled a little, grinned, and then rose up on an elbow for a swig and to watch a pudgy whore named Missy pleasure him.
There was a quick rap at the door before it opened and a petite prostitute named Dee-Dee stepped in and shut the door behind her.
“Come to have a turn?” he asked.
“Some men are looking for you,” she cried.
His grin disappeared and he tried to sit, but Missy clung on. “Get off,” he ordered, smacking her hip hard.
“Hey,” she objected, climbing off him.
He gave her a sour look as he reached for his pants.
“They have a picture of you and everything,” Dee-Dee fretted, wringing her hands. “They called you by a different last name. Said it was your name.”
Hopping on one foot, he got a leg in. “Anybody tell them I was up here?”
“Not yet, but Joshua will.”
Mitchell moved to the window as he fastened his pants. Keeping his back to the wall, he peered out sideways and saw Bud Ulrich across the street. “Son of a bitch!”
“Who’s after you?” Missy asked.
“Shut up. I gotta think.” He went back for his shirt and quickly put it on. “Is there a back way out of here?”
“No, but my room’s on the back side,” Dee-Dee replied. “You can sneak out onto the roof and jump down.”
Mitchell sat and hurriedly pulled on his boots. “Yeah, alright.”
“You gotta pay me,” Missy reminded him.
“I didn’t even come,” he complained.
“That’s not my fault.”
He reached into his pocket for the money and threw it at her.
She huffed. “That’s rude. It ain’t my fault you’re wanted, Mitchell. Or whatever your name is.”
“Shut up,” he snapped. “You just keep your trap shut about where I am or I’ll come back and find you.” He put on his gun holster and buckled it.
Dee-Dee was standing at the door beside herself.
“Let’s go,” he told her.
She opened the door, looked both ways and then dashed out. He followed, but didn’t make it far before a deep voice boomed, “Medlin!”
He stopped and turned around to see the shotgun Lynn Green had aimed at him.
“He’s up here,” Green called.
“You came all this way ’cause Howerton wants to yell at me for being late that one day? That’s pretty pathetic.” He took a step backward.
“Take another step and I’ll blow your brains out,” Green warned, tightening his aim. “I’d rather see you swing than shoot you, but I’ll do it.”
Mitchell’s throat closed for a second. “What the hell you talking about?”
Mark Hanks ran up the stairs two at a time, his pistol drawn.
“We know you killed Johnny,” Green said. “Let’s go.”
“I didn’t kill Johnny. Blue killed Johnny. Hell, I tried to stop him.”
“You’re nothing but a lowdown liar,” Hanks said as he walked forward with his pistol aimed at Mitchell’s head. “Now, get your hands in the air, scumbag.”
Mitchell put his hands up. “You’re making a big mistake. I didn’t kill nobody.”
“Miss, you’ll be wantin’ to move along,” Hanks warned.
“Come on, Dee-Dee,” Missy said breathlessly. “Get in here.”
Hanks took possession of Mitchell’s gun and stepped back. “Move.”
Mitchell walked toward Green. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Like hell,” Hanks retorted, pressing his gun into the center of Mitchell’s back.
“Plan on walking me over to the marshal, do you?”
“Nope,” Hanks said.
Mitchell halted abruptly. “Dee-Dee, run and get the marshal! They’re gonna try to hang me!”
Hanks and Green forced him down the stairs, where patrons and whores alike gawked, but no one attempted to intervene.
“Somebody needs to help me,” Mitchell called out as they neared the front door. “These men are making a mistake. I didn’t do what
they think I did.”
“Move,” Hanks hissed, pressing his gun against Mitchell’s spine.
Outside, Howerton was striding toward them, followed by a half dozen men from the Triple H.
“Hello, Mitchell, you worthless son of a bitch,” Howerton greeted.
“You got it all wrong, Mr. H,” Mitchell stammered. “I didn’t kill nobody. ’Fact, I was only trying to help Miss Wright when—”
“Shut up! Blue spilled everything before we hanged him.”
Mitchell recoiled. “Hanged him? He was a waste of space. Why’d you go and hang him for?”
“He counted you as his friend,” Sam Blake seethed. “You son of a bitch.”
“We’re going to go mount up,” Howerton announced. “And we’re going to ride out of here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mitchell asked nervously. “And then what are we gonna do? Have ourselves a picnic and talk about old times?” He had to buy time for Dee-Dee to get the marshal. The jail was something like four doors down, so it shouldn’t be long. However, the men of the Triple H had all converged and they were forcing him along.
“I was thinking we’d find a good, strong tree,” Howerton replied calmly. “Wrap a rope around your neck and suspend you by it until you’re dead. That’s what, you worthless—”
“Sir,” a man’s voice interrupted sharply.
Mitchell felt so glad to hear the marshal’s voice that he tingled all over.
Resignedly, Howerton turned to face the man who had spoken, a man approximately his own age but with salt-and-pepper hair.
“I’m Marshal Owens,” the man stated.
“Marshal,” Howerton replied.
The marshal looked perfectly calm and he hadn’t drawn his weapon, although his deputies were behind him and theirs were drawn. “I understand you think this man committed a crime?”
“He shot a man who worked for me,” Howerton stated. “Shot him in the face. And I don’t think it; I know it.”
“Well, that’ll have to go before the magistrate, sir.”
“The hell it will.”
“No, sir. It will. That’s how we do things in Virginia.”
“We’re from Virginia,” Howerton stated.
“Then you should know.”
“They got it all wrong, Marshal,” Mitchell spoke up, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t kill nobody.”
Howerton turned to Mitchell. “You know why Blue was hanged? Because he shot Tommy.”
Mitchell blinked. “What would he do that for?”
“Because Blue was after Miss Wright,” Sam spoke up. “For you. Only she ain’t Miss Wright anymore. She’s Mrs. Tommy Medlin.”
“You’re lying,” Mitchell scoffed.
Howerton shook his head. “Blue went to abduct your brother’s wife, Tommy moved in to protect her and Blue shot him.”
“Well, I didn’t tell him to do that! And you can’t prove that I did, ’cause I didn’t! Why would I want my own brother shot dead?”
Howerton turned back to the marshal. “This piece of shit is someone you really want to protect?”
“It’s the law,” Owens stated. “It’s got nothing to do with what I want.”
Howerton looked at the five or six deputies. His men still had them outnumbered, but he wasn’t about to let it play out like this. “The law. Right.” Howerton stuck his gun back in his holster, cueing the others to do the same.
“As luck would have it, the magistrate is in town,” Owens said. “He should be able to get to this right away.” He looked at his deputies and gestured to Medlin. “Take him. Lock him up.”
Owens’s deputies took Mitchell Medlin and led him away.
“If he’s a murderer,” Owens said to Howerton, “and it can be proved, we’ll hang him.”
“Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath,” Howerton said.
“Done,” Owens replied. “But I live by the law, sir.”
“That man tried to rape a woman, he attacked his own brother and he killed one of my men,” Howerton said. “I’ll be damned if I’ll see him walk.”
Owens considered the man and then turned to look at the onlookers who’d gathered. “Y’all get back to your business. There’s nothing to see here.” As people began dispersing, Owens looked back to Howerton, tipped his hat and walked away.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The magistrate was a hefty, sixty-year-old by the name of Roy Gilleywater. The top of his head was bald; the hair around the sides and back was fuzzy and gray, as was his beard and mustache.
The courtroom was stifling. Most people fanned themselves, but Gregory Howerton sat perfectly still, staring at Mitchell Medlin.
“Let me make sure I got this right,” Gilleywater said. “The only witness to the crime is dead . . . and might possibly be the one who did the shooting.”
Howerton didn’t flinch, although it was obvious the magistrate was going to let Mitchell Medlin walk. They’d all given their statements and it wasn’t enough.
Gilleywater shook his head. “No. No evidence, no trial. No, sir. Let’s move on to the next case. Have I got one?”
“I’ll get them in here,” Owens said. He glanced at Howerton. “I thought this would take longer.”
“I can go now, right?” Mitchell asked.
Gilleywater squinted at him. “I’ll tell you something, Mr. Medlin. I got a bad feeling about you. It’s lucky for you that a bad feeling doesn’t amount to a pile of dead chickens in the eyes of the law.”
“A pile of dead chickens?” someone whispered behind Howerton.
“Yes, you can go,” Gilleywater said. He banged his gavel.
Howerton stood and watched Mitchell walk toward the door, glancing from side to side. The son of a bitch looked plenty nervous. With good reason.
“I need my gun back,” Mitchell said to one of the deputies. “And I need protection.”
“Your gun’s at the jail,” the deputy replied. “And protection ain’t our job, unless the marshal says so.”
“Mr. Howerton?” Owens said.
Howerton turned to him.
“In my experience,” Owens said, “a man who blatantly disregards the law and commits a crime, usually does it again. Luck doesn’t hold out forever.”
Howerton nodded slowly. “I have a strong feeling his won’t hold.”
“You can’t just take him and hang him. You know that.”
“I heard the magistrate, same as you.”
“I know you’re disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed. I’m thirsty. Excuse me.” Howerton left the courthouse and made his way to the saloon, watching Mitchell scurry ahead.
“What now?” Sam asked, falling into step beside him.
“I’m going to have a drink,” Howerton replied.
“I’m gonna head to the telegraph office and see if I can get word about Tommy.”
Howerton nodded.
“You planning on taking him?” Sam asked.
“What do you think?”
The sun streaming in through the windows of the jail illuminated dust particles in the air as Vince Owens sat at his desk, ignoring the stares of the few deputies in the room.
“You know those men are going to find a way to kill him,” Gene Ashcroft commented.
Vince tugged on his shirt collar. He’d hadn’t slept well last night—the weather was too damn hot—plus he had a headache. “Not right under our noses, they aren’t.”
“So, whatcha wanna do?”
Vince squeezed the bridge of his nose gently and pressed upward. That’s where the ache was. Right across his brows and into his temples. “Go sit on Medlin. He’ll probably be in one of the saloons.”
Ashcroft nodded.
Owens looked up as he thought of something. “Grady hasn’t been here,” he mused.
Ashcroft nodded. “Yeah.”
“Not since Medlin came into town. Right?”
“That’s right. Not since his pa’s accident. Why?”
The youngest of the
deputies, John Jewel, had been listening to the conversation without comment. “What’d you ask about Grady for?”
“I want you to go get him,” Owens replied. “If he’s willing, I want him to work his way into the saloon and strike up a conversation with Medlin.”
“Why? In case Medlin admits what he did?”
“Gilleywater still won’t try him,” Owens said as he opened his desk drawer and rummaged in search of headache powder. “Running off at the mouth is not evidence.”
“Well then, what?” Ashcroft asked.
Vince found a packet of powder and looked up at him. “You’re right about those men. They not only want to get their hands on Medlin, they plan on it.” He downed the contents of the packet and made a face. “Thing is, I’ve got to be able to sleep at night. I don’t much care for Mitchell Medlin, but if he’s not guilty of what they say, we’ve got to keep him safe. We’re going to have to outlast his friends.”
“And if he is guilty?” Ashcroft asked. “What if Grady does his magic and Medlin admits everything?”
“Then I’ll be able to sleep, no matter what.”
Jewel nodded. “I’ll go get Grady.”
“Tell him to come see me first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both Ashcroft and Jewel left at the same time, just as one of Howerton’s men entered.
“Yes, sir?” Vince asked.
The man came forward and offered his hand. “I’m Sam Blake.”
They shook hands.
“Have you got a moment?” Sam asked.
“I do.” Vince motioned to a chair. “You want to have a seat?”
“Thank you.” Sam moved to the chair and sat. “I thought I’d give you the whole story about Medlin. What I know of it, anyway. If you’d care to know, that is.”
“Matter of fact, I would.”
“He and his brother, Tommy, got hired on when the ranch was first being built. I oversee things at Mr. Howerton’s ranch.”
Vince nodded.
“Mitchell and Tommy,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You can’t imagine how different they are. I guess that’s really who I want to tell you about. Tommy Medlin. And when the trouble all began. That’s the real story here.”
“I’m listening,” Vince said sincerely.
