A Lady Like Sarah

by Margaret Brownley

  The judge lifted his head but held on to the table with both hands. "Oh, you keep track," he said in a low monotone voice. "We all do. It's our n-nature." He gazed across the empty room. His words garbled, he began to talk about his father.

  "Did you say your father was shot?" Justin asked.

  Fassbender nodded. "Horse thieves . . . I was ten years old when he died in my arms."

  "I'm sorry," Justin said. "Losing a parent at such a young age . . . I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you." He thought of Sarah and her brothers. Of countless others he'd ministered to through the years. Lost childhoods often led to broken adults.

  Fassbender wiped his chin with the back of his hand. He straightened as if talking about his dead father had a sobering effect on him.

  "I vowed to go into law and bring every blasted cr—crimi—nal to justice. I got myself elected sh-sheriff." Fassbender's words were less garbled, but his voice was still thick from the effects of alcohol. "I figured that one or more of them would turn out to be my f-father's killers." Fassbender scratched his unshaven chin and grimaced. "Most of the ones I arrested got off scot-free. So I became a . . . judge."

  Elbow on the table, Fassbender lifted his arm and shook an unsteady finger. "That's when I found out that fighting bribed witnesses and fancy lawyers was a losing battle. The only way I could see any sort of justice was to ban witnesses from my courtroom and rule everyone guilty."

  Shocked, Justin stared at him. "What about the innocent?"

  "The innocent don't have a chance either way. They can't afford bribes or lawyers, and they don't know how to work the system." Fassbender shuddered and wagged his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. "Tell me you've never been discouraged in your line of work. Tell me you've never wanted to give up when someone you save reverts back to old ways."

  It was all Justin could do to choke back his anger. He stood and leaned over the judge, glowering at him. "Yes, I've been discouraged. Yes, I've seen more people walk away from God than come to Him, and yes, I've been tempted to give up. But I've never forgotten why I went into ministry in the first place."

  "It's easy for you to judge—"

  "I don't have to," Justin said. "By the looks of you, I'd say you're doing a good job of judging yourself."

  Fassbender said nothing. Instead, he stared at the now empty whiskey bottle as if that alone would save him.

  Sickened, Justin turned and walked away.

  His next stop was the office of the Rocky Creek Gazette. The man sitting behind the cluttered desk stroked the orange cat on his lap. The eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles were wide with curiosity. A neatly trimmed mustache twitched beneath a bulbous red nose. An ugly red scar ran along the side of his face. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for the editor."

  "That's me," the man said. "Jacoby Barnes at your service. And this here," he said pointing to the cat with an ink-stained finger, "is Extra."

  Justin introduced himself. "I'm the new pastor." He wasted no time getting to the point of his visit. "I thought you might be interested in some facts about Sarah Prescott for your newspaper."

  Barnes looked skeptical. "I have nothing against facts. As long as they correspond with my opinion."

  Justin sat down and told him what he knew about Sarah Prescott—or at least the facts as they pertained to her plight.

  When he finished, the editor chased Extra off his lap and sat forward. "This is all very interesting, and I'll be happy to include it in Friday's paper."

  "Friday?" Justin said in alarm. "That will be too late."

  "That's when the paper comes out. That's two weeks ahead of schedule. I figured everyone would want to read about the hanging."

  Justin rubbed his chin. "What will it take to put out a special edition tomorrow?"

  Barnes pursed out his lips. "A lot of work."

  "I'm willing to pay your expenses." By Boston standards, his church salary had been modest but more than enough to cover his meager living expenses. Half his savings was left, and he would gladly spend every last penny if it meant saving Sarah's life.

  Justin could see the man's mind working. Barnes tapped his jaw with broad fingers, leaving a smudge of ink on his chin. "It could get expensive. I'd have to walk down to the jail and all."

  Justin couldn't imagine how walking to the jail two doors away could result in additional expenses, but he didn't have rime to argue. "I can give you ten dollars now and pay the rest later."

  The editor afforded him a triumphant smile. "Reverend Wells, I believe you've got yourself a deal."

  Thirty

  Justin left the newspaper office feeling more depressed than encouraged. It had been a difficult morning. A hammering came from the direction of the livery stable, and his stomach tightened. Four men were putting the portable gallows in place.

  Sickened by the sight, he turned toward the marshal's office. He was frustrated by his reception at the saloon, his talk with Fassbender, and the lack of progress on Sarah's behalf. The gallows only added to his torment.

  As if to guess at his state of mind, Sarah greeted him with a bright smile, but she didn't fool him a bit. She could hide her anxiety behind a lively demeanor, but she couldn't hide her pale cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes.

  She insisted he tell her all about Elizabeth, even though it had only been yesterday that she saw her.

  "Let's see," he said, trying to match her light manner. "In the last twenty-four hours, she's grown a whole foot and she's ready for music lessons."

  "Justin Wells, I do believe you're joshin' me."

  He reached through the bars and took both her hands in his.

  She looked up at him, and all pretense between them fell away. Her eyes filled with tears and her lower lip quivered. "Anything?" she asked.

  "Not yet," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He dropped to his knees, forcing her down with him. "Pray with me."

  She nodded. "You go first."

  Still holding her hands, he lowered his head. "Dear heavenly Father, Almighty God, Creator of heaven and earth . . ." He pressed his head against a steel bar. He was so close to her, he could feel her warm breath. "You go," he whispered.

  She gazed up at him for moment before lowering her head again. "God, I ain't meanin' to bother You . . ." After a moment of silence, she whispered, "Your turn."

  "My strength and my salvation."

  "And I sure do appreciate everythin' You done for me . . ."

  She showed none of her earlier shyness in praying out loud, and for this he was grateful.

  "Show us the way, Lord. Show us the way . . ." he continued.

  "I ain't seein' no signs, God. If you could please make them a little more noticeable, I'd be much obliged."

  "Amen." He squeezed her hands.

  "Amen," she said, squeezing back.

  Warned by the rattling sound behind him, he pulled away and stood just before the outer door flew open.

  "Time's up," Marshal Briggs said.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," Justin said, trying to keep his voice sufficiently reserved. His back to the marshal, he lifted his eyes upward. "Hold on to God," he said softly. There was so much more he wanted to say but couldn't. Not with the marshal watching his every move.

  He walked past the marshal, through the front office, and out the door without looking back.

  An hour and a half after leaving the jail, Justin was ushered into Dr. Myers's parlor, Elizabeth tucked into the sling at his chest. Soon, he would have to find another way of transporting her as she had just about outgrown her carrier.

  The doctor was young by Boston standards, somewhere in his early forties. Only a couple of inches shorter than Justin, he wore tweed trousers and a matching waistcoat, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His dark hair was cut short as was the style, and it was parted in the middle. He was clean shaven except for his mutton-chop sideburns.

  The doctor's most intriguing feature was his eyes. One ir
is was blue and the other brown, and Justin couldn't help but stare.

  Dr. Myers glanced at the cluttered parlor as if seeing it for the first time, then led Justin to an equally cluttered dining room.

  Used to the relatively sterile medical offices in Boston, Justin felt a tremor of apprehension. He only hoped that Ma's confidence in the doctor wasn't overly optimistic.

  After clearing a stack of books off the dining room table, the doctor spread a blanket on the mahogany surface, talking all the while. "I heard about Miss Prescott," he said. "If you ask me, hanging a woman is a crime." Myers shook his head and motioned for Justin to lay Elizabeth on the table.

  Justin sensed an ally in the doctor. "Miss Prescott is one of the reasons I came here today. She's not been sleeping well. I wonder if you would be kind enough to look in on her? Perhaps you can give her something to help her sleep."

  Myers nodded. "I'd be happy to."

  "I'll pay you in advance if you prefer."

  Myers waved his hand. "If you can't trust a man of God, there isn't much hope, is there?" He rubbed his chin. "Any chance the lady won't hang?"

  Justin released Elizabeth from the fabric confines. "Do you believe in miracles, doctor?"

  "Any doctor who doesn't believe in miracles is a fool," Myers replied. "God heals, and we doctors accept the praise,"

  Justin chuckled. "Same with us preachers. God saves, and we take the credit."

  "Ah, see? You know what I'm talking about." The doctor rubbed his hands together as if anxious to get started. "Let's take a look at this little one."

  Cradling the baby in his arms, Justin hesitated.

  The doctor studied him from beneath a knitted brow. "I'm not used to patients coming here," he said. "I'm what you call a horse-and-buggy doctor."

  "We still have those in the east," Justin said. "Mostly in the rural areas."

  The doctor gave a knowing look. "Last year, I attended a medical convention in Boston and had the opportunity to tour a doctor's office." He shook his head. "I fear the practice of having patients come to an office will one day be the norm."

  "You don't think it's a good idea?" Justin asked, surprised. Boston doctors could now see more patients in a single day than they ever could in their traveling days.

  The doctor gestured in disgust. "I can tell more about a patient's health by stepping into his home than all the medical equipment in the world can tell me." Pausing briefly, he continued, "Not long ago, I had a lethargic little boy and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what his problem was. One day, I noticed him eating chipped paint off a hobby horse. I don't know what was in that paint, but I figured it couldn't be doing him any good. I had his parents remove the horse and the boy recovered"—he snapped his fingers—"just like that. Do you think a doctor sitting in his fancy office would have solved the problem? I doubt it. Just as I doubt, you could do much good if you sat in church all day."

  Justin felt a stab of guilt. In Boston, that's exactly what he did most days. He sat in the church office waiting for people to come to him rather than reaching out to them.

  "If it will make you feel any better. . ." the doctor added. He pointed to the framed document on the wall over the paneled sideboard. "I graduated from the Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia."

  "I've heard of that college," Justin said. He was acting like an overprotective father, again, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "It's a fine college." Without further ado, he lay Elizabeth down and undressed her while Myers washed his hands in the kitchen.

  The doctor returned, drying his hands on a towel. He then examined Elizabeth carefully, and she rewarded him with a wide toothless smile. "When was she born?" the doctor asked, grinning back at her.

  "I'm not sure," Justin said. "I'm guessing sometime in March or April."

  The doctor nodded. "That would make her four or five months old. That sounds about right. It looks like she's about to pop her first tooth."

  "Really?" Justin leaned forward for a closer look. A speck of white showed beneath her lower pink gum. Wait till Sarah hears about this.

  While the doctor wrote in a leatherbound notebook, Justin dressed Elizabeth. It was time for her nap, and she started to fuss.

  "If you like, I can give her a smallpox vaccination," the doctor said.

  "What about measles?" Justin asked, thinking of his sisters. "Is there any way to protect her against measles?"

  "Not unless you plan to keep her locked in a room somewhere."

  Justin wished he could. "Will she have a reaction to the vaccination?"

  "Yes, but very mild. She'll probably run a fever."

  Justin grimaced. The last thing he needed right now was a sick baby.

  As if to guess his thoughts, the doctor said, "We can wait if you like. There's no immediate danger of her getting smallpox. We haven't had a case in more than nine months."

  Justin nodded in relief. "I'll bring her back at a later date."

  "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather see her in her normal surroundings," the doctor said.

  Justin nodded. "Right now, I'm staying at Ma's Boardinghouse."

  The doctor's eyes twinkled. "She'll take good care of you both. She's the next best thing to a preacher and a doctor."

  Promising to look in on Sarah that very afternoon, Myers walked him to the door.

  For the next two days, Justin worked like a madman, pleading Sarah's case to anyone who would listen. In the past he accepted everything that happened as God's will—even having to leave Boston in disgrace. He never fought the charges against him, never stood up for himself, never really stood up for anything. It wasn't until he thought that Indian woman meant to harm Elizabeth that he even knew he had a fighting spirit.

  It shocked him to look back and realize how passive his faith had been. Convinced that God wouldn't bring Sarah into his life only to snatch her away, he was ready to fight like he'd never fought before. He now knew what it meant to put faith into action. Oddly enough, the more he battled to save Sarah, the closer he felt to God.

  He dashed off telegram after telegram addressed to Governor Roberts in Austin, and President Hayes at the White House.

  He went door to door asking citizens to intervene, only to find that Owen's widow had already tried to rally the townsfolk to her side. Talking to Claudia Owen had obviously been a mistake. It only strengthened her resolve to place the blame for her husband's death squarely on Sarah's shoulders.

  He checked the telegraph office several times a day, hoping for a telegram from the president, the governor, or George. He pleaded for God's help on bended knee. But the clock kept ticking, the world kept turning, and nothing he did produced any positive results.

  Sarah lay on her cot wide awake. It was pitch black except for the single star that shone through the barred window high above her head.

  Hold on to God, Justin told her. She tried, she really did try, but it was so hard. Doubts kept creeping in. What if God meant for her to die?

  Something scraped against the outside wall. She sat up and listened.

  Thinking it was a mouse or rat, she let out her breath. Then the sound came again, followed by a hushed voice.

  "Sarah?"

  Her heart leaped. "George?"

  "Shh."

  Arms crossed in front, she closed her eyes. Thank You, God. She had been so afraid she wouldn't have a chance to say a final good-bye to her brothers.

  "Now listen and listen good," George said, his voice rough. "I want you to go to the opposite side of the cell and cover your face. We're gonna blow a hole in this here wall."

  She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes filled with tears. She should have known that her brother would come to her rescue. She slid off the cot and backed away from the wall. Crouching by the bars of her cell, she covered her face.

  Thoughts of Justin and Elizabeth filled her head. Knowing she would never see them again was more than she could bear. Was this really the answer to her prayer? To spend t
he rest of her life with her outlaw brothers? Was this what God wanted for her?

  Justin's voice spoke to her in the darkness. "Hold on to God."

  "Oh, Justin," she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I'm tryin' to."

  Brushing the moisture from her cheeks with the palms of her hands, she rushed across the cell to her cot. "George," she called.

  "Hush. What's the matter with you? I told you to move away from the wall."

  "Wait. I ain't wantin' to be an outlaw anymore. I don't want you robbin' no more stages."

  "This ain't no time to argue. Now do as I told you, move away—"

  "No," she said. "Not until you promise to give up robbin'."

  "I ain't promisin' nothin'. Now get away from the wall."

  Hold on to God. Her fingers curved into two tight fists, she gasped for air to brace herself. "No," she repeated.

  He cursed. "We only got twelve hours to your lynchin' party. There ain't no time to argue."

  But argue they did. Sarah tried pleading with him, but the more she begged him to give up his life of crime, the more he resisted.

  "All this talk about God," he spit out. "What has God ever done for us? Except take our ma and pa."

  "He didn't take them," she said quietly. "He received them."

  "Now you sound like that preacher of yours. I'm telling you God's done nothin' for us."

  She bit her lip. Justin once told her that God always sent the right people when you needed them and she needed to know if that were true. "After . . . after our parents died, did anyone offer to help?"

  "What difference does it make? That was years ago."

  "I need to know," she said.

  "There was Mrs. Bonheimer. She wanted to adopt you."

  Her thoughts traveled back in time. Mrs. Bonheimer always gave Sarah candy whenever she and Mama entered the store, and once even gave her a doll made out of straw and scraps of fabric. Her life would have been very different today had George taken her up on the offer.

  "Any more?" she asked. Please let there be more.

  His answer came slow. "There were job offers. Mrs. Bonheimer wanted me to work in her husband's shop."