by Lynn Donovan
“No!” Linda stamped her foot. “Ron Applebee, you would not let a horse thief go the next morning. Now, you go sleep in your little room, and I’ll sleep on this… cot. Is that the only blanket a prisoner gets?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm. Well, fine. If that’s what a prisoner experiences, then that’s what I want to experience. Now go to bed and come morning, bring me a prisoner’s breakfast and a cup of God-awful coffee.”
He looked at his wife in the cell. She looked small and slightly uncertain, but this was what she wanted. What could it harm? He was right here in the jailhouse with her. If she panicked and changed her mind, he could let her out. In fact, he hoped she’d change her mind and the two of them could go back home and sleep in their nice, soft, featherbed together. He sighed and gave her a sharp nod. “Fine. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” She pressed her face between the bars and puckered her lips, waiting.
He sighed hard and leaned over to kiss her. “Sweet dreams.”
“You, too,” she said with less vigor than before.
He pulled his pocket watch from his vest. Two o’clock. How long would she take before she’d had enough and asked him to let her out? If he were a betting man, he’d give her four hours, tops. He stoked the fire in the pot belly stove and went into the room, pulled off his vest and boots and laid down. He never slept well in this room. For one, he missed sleeping beside his wife, and for two, it just wasn’t a comfortable bed.
But the cot in the cell was worse, and the one wool blanket was hardly enough to keep a body warm. He pursed his lips, bristling his mustache which tickled his nose and sent a shiver rippling down his back. Why was his wife so pig-headed about experiencing every nitty-gritty detail of being a horse thief, getting caught, arrested, and spending time in jail? He hated treating her like that. It wasn’t right to treat a lady this way, let alone his own wife.
She hadn’t given him any choice in the matter. She’d nagged and fussed about doing this for the past several weeks. Frankly, he was tired of hearing about it. The way he figured it, he’d do what she wanted and get it over with, then he could get on with his normal way of living and she could write her gall-dern story about a lady bounty hunter. She was so determined to be a writer she’d saved every cent of her egg money and ordered a machine called a typewriter so she could tap out the story on paper and send it to a publisher. She said she’d be way ahead of the other submissions sending hers in already set in type, like a print smith would eventually do.
Ron glared from the corner of his eye at the cell. She laid under the thin wool blanket; the swell of her hip bulged slightly higher than her shoulder. He loved laying his hand on that part of her in the middle of the night whenever he woke and couldn’t go back to sleep. Now they were two rooms apart, and he still longed to touch his wife.
She turned over and rearranged the blanket. She still wore the duster and her boots. He considered going to the house and bringing her a quilt.
No! The sooner she was more miserable than she could take, the sooner they would go home for good.
And he’d win that bet he’d made with himself.
Chapter Two
Linda slept miserably. Even with all of the awkward clothing she wore; the man’s britches and shirt on top of her own delicate underthings, the full-length coat, and the thread-bare wool blanket, still, she could not get the chill out of her bones. The cot left her muscles aching and her neck stiff from lack of a feather pillow. A rooster crowed, bringing her to consciousness, although she longed for more rest. She opened her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the cot. Slowly standing, she stretched and yawned, pressing her fists into her sore back. No wonder prisoners were so cranky.
She looked toward the room where her husband had slept, to find it empty. Her eyes darted to his desk and the window beside it that faced the town’s Stagecoach Street. Just then, he came through the door with a tray. The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the jailhouse, mingled with biscuits, fried ham, salt pork, beans, and fried eggs.
Linda inhaled, closing her eyes as she experienced the aroma of the breakfast Ron carried. But wait! This couldn’t be right.
“Ron Applebee! I told you I want the full experience. This cannot be a typical prisoner’s breakfast!”
“Actually.” He chuckled. “It is. Either me or Deputy Chris walks over to the Dawson Diner every morning and gets a tray full of food from Tuck. Besides, it’s not just breakfast, this is what a prisoner gets for the day. He… or she, can eat it all at once, or over the course of the entire day.
Linda glared at her husband, determining if he was telling her the truth, or just humoring her by indulging her with a meal big enough to feed an entire family of four for breakfast. Her sister, Hollie, started the diner in an empty store just across the street from the depot out of boredom since the Good Lord hadn’t blessed her and Scott Dawson with any little ones. It made sense to get a tray full of food from her cook. It certainly saved Linda from having to cook for whoever was being held in the jail.
Darin Tucker had cooked during the civil war for his negro regiment and then for the chuckwagon at her other sister’s ranch. He had retired from Becca and Calvin Collingsworth’s but found he was bored and asked Hollie to let him cook for her diner. The man knew how to pile on a gut-filling offering of food. Did he know this tray was for her?
She watched Ron set the tray on his desk. He moved the coffee pot to the stove and bent to stoke the fire. The aroma of the fried ham caused her mouth to water. She swallowed. Ron filled two coffee cups, handed one to her, and took a sip from his own.
“We make coffee throughout the day, and it’s not so God-awful, as you said last night, but we don’t have a proper stove to do much more than warm food.” He cleared his throat and spoke more harshly. “So, what do you want, prisoner? You can divide this up into three meals or eat it all right now.”
She looked longingly at the pile of food. Her stomach replied for her. “I suppose I shall divide it into three meals. Beginning with a biscuit… and those eggs. Um, I’ll take a cutting of that fried ham, too, please.”
Ron jerked a nod and dished the selections onto a tin plate with a two-tined fork which he left with the food as he slid it through a rectangle opening in the cell door. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but then he said, “Uh, bon appétit.”
She smirked a grateful smile and took the plate, sat down on the cot, bowed her head a moment, and ate with as much grace afforded the lack of a table or additional utensils with which to cut her meat.
Tuck was a mighty good cook. Linda’s sister was lucky when the man asked if he could keep himself busy by cooking for her diner. Besides, all Hollie wanted to do was bake. She had little interest in keeping house for her husband or cooking meals for the town. Waiting tables was in line with her outgoing personality, and the diner kept her mind off the fact that she had no children. The latter was probably why she hired Jenny and Marcus to work after school. So near to graduating, they enjoyed the money and experience of having jobs without having to leave town. Marcus and most of the other boys generally sought work on the ranches, but with his mother having not yet cut the apron strings, he appreciated the opportunity to work closer to home.
Hollie preferred baking to cleaning any day. Her talents definitely lay in breads, pies, and cakes. When Tuck came to her with his request, she didn’t even hesitate hiring the black man. He took the small apartment upstairs, paying a reasonable rent out of his salary, and was never late for work. It worked out well for Hollie and Tuck.
Becca hated to see Tuck leave her ranch hands, but understood the man’s need to sleep indoors now that he was getting long in the tooth. Having a black man as the only cook at the diner wasn’t the problem it might be further south. Folks around Last Chance weren’t like most folks who would be bothered by such a thing. Besides, Becca and Calvin’s ranch hands had talked enough about Tuck’s abilities, the townspeople were anxious to give Dawson’s
Diner a try when she first opened, and people kept coming back even when it wasn’t a special occasion.
Hollie appreciated the success of her diner which helped supplement her husband’s income as a wagon maker. Together, they wanted for very little… except for a little one or two. But the Good Lord didn’t see fit to bless them with that. Hollie was getting on in her years. Nearly 30 years old, she needed to give up the idea of starting a family.
Linda drank down the coffee and wiped her mouth of crumbs with her fingers. She felt awkward in the boy’s clothes but figured if she were to play the part of a horse thief, she needed to continue to wear the clothes as a horse thief under arrest. “How long ’til I get to plead my case?”
“What?” Ron looked up from the papers he was shuffling through. Linda could see they were wanted posters. An artist’s sketch of a clean-cut man centered the one Ron had been reading. She could just make out the name, “Robert ‘Deuce’ Taylor, wanted for…”
She lifted her eyes to meet her husband’s. “Don’t you hold a prisoner until a circuit judge comes to town and he pleads his case?”
“I caught you in the act.”
She huffed. “Yes, but the law states that a person is innocent until proven guilty by a hearing in front of a judge and jury of his peers.”
“Linda, you’re not really planning on staying in that… get up and jail cell ’til a circuit judge comes through here, are ya?” He really looked worried. Would he let her, if she insisted?
She considered that. These britches were unbecoming. And her privy necessities were impossible in the open like this. But she did want to stay here long enough to be able to write about it, in depth. “No. I s’pose not. But I do want to stay a little while longer. In fact, could you bring me my typewriter?”
Ron’s eyes shot up to glare at her. “I-I got to make rounds and make sure everything’s all right in town, and-and then I can. How ‘bout after lunch. I could bring you some fresh food from your sister’s diner—”
“No. You told me that tray of food was all a prisoner got for the whole day. I’ll make do just like a real prisoner would do. You go make your rounds. I’ll just sit here and see if I can break out.”
“What?” Ron chuckled. “Why would you want to do that?”
“’Cause your deputy is off on that big buffalo hunt, and you would have to leave a real prisoner here alone. I figure any horse thief worth his… or her, salt would try to figure out a way to escape. If I can’t, then I’ll be here when you get back.” She flopped down on the cot and crossed her leg, letting her ankle swing fiercely.
Ron sighed. “All right. Fine. I’ll be back after my rounds. We can heat your beans and salt pork on the pot belly stove so you don’t gotta eat them cold, and I’ll make you a fresh pot of coffee.”
“Only if that is what you would do for any other prisoner.”
He sighed. “I promise you it is.” His jaw muscles bulged.
She knew that look. He was reaching his limit of patience with her. Had she pushed him too far? Maybe she should just call it good and go home? But she really didn’t feel like she’d experienced enough of being a prisoner to quit now. And if he would bring her typewriter, she could type out some scenes relating to what this experience had taught her. The inspiration was riper while being in this environment. She’d stay a little longer. Maybe not all night again, but certainly until after supper.
Ron put on his hat and gun belt. Linda watched him prepare to leave. He was such a handsome man;she was a lucky gal to have him for a husband. A part of her wanted to jump off the cot and beg him to let her out. But she couldn’t. Her story needed the authenticity. She pursed her lips and remained silent. “Bye.”
He turned back from having opened the door to walk outside. “Bye. Are you su—”
“Yes. Go. I’m fine.”
He sighed and closed the door. She could hear his boots tapping the boardwalk as he moved further away. He would walk four blocks, checking each shop if it was empty or talking to the wives of the shop owners. It was his job to be sure everybody was all right. Bushwackers were known to cause trouble, especially with so many men being gone on the desperate hunt for meat.
Nearly every able-bodied man had gone with Jackson Barnes and his Indian guide, Red Hawk, to bring back enough buffalo meat to get the entire town through the winter. It had been a long and dry summer and most of the crops had been scorched by the sun. Very few gardens did well enough to fill root cellars, and most of the cattle were so scrawny they either made for poor beef or sold low at market. The people of Last Chance were desperate, but Jackson, being a hunter, had this idea. The whole town agreed to it, and they had left a few days ago while the moon was at its brightest.
Yesterday and today, storm clouds were moving in. She could tell the sun didn’t shine as bright as it should for September. Instead of getting brighter as the day wore on, it seemed to be getting darker. Something bad must be coming. It was too early for snow. It had to be a rainstorm moving in. Linda flopped back on the cot, thinking through the details of her arrest scene.
She wished she’d brought a book to read, but a prisoner wouldn’t be allowed such privileges. She would occupy her time by thinking about last night and her arrest. How would Priscilla Boullion, lady bounty hunter, do what Ron had done.
Linda closed her eyes to visualize the scene but drifted off to sleep instead.

Thunder cracked, like a bull whip, lightning filled the sheriff’s office, blanching everything. The sound rolled across the sky like giant boulders crashing down the mountain at the pass into Wyoming.
Linda sat straight up on the cot. Her breath came with huge gulps. What time was it? Her eyes roved around the office. Where was Ron? Another crack and light filled the small jailhouse. She could feel her throat tighten. Terror filled her mind… she hated being alone during a storm. Straining to look north out the small, barred window in her cell, she tried to make out what she was seeing. It looked like a solid wall of grayness. The wind whipped around and through any little crack in the jailhouse walls, whistling and fluttering an awful sound. Linda could make out white streaks and debris whipping past the window. Not rain, snow! It was too early for snow!
Suddenly, she didn’t want to be in this cell. She needed out. And NOW! Panic rose in her chest, smothering her as she placed her hand against her throat, trying to draw air. There was no one here to calm her down. She had to do it herself. Looking around, she spied her cup of coffee on the floor, long since cooled. She swigged it down, just to open her throat and force herself to breath. The wind was getting stronger. The window looked frosty and what she could see beyond the glass looked like white sheets of ice. Oh goodness, this was a blizzard!
The chill in the office made her bones ache. The pot belly stove barely glowed. Was the fire going out? Wind whipped down the flue, making it rattle, and sparks blew out of the slats in the stove’s sides. It glowed red and then went dark.
She had to do something. Rushing to where the cell keys hung, she leaned as hard as she could to reach them. She was small and her arm long, but she could just barely touch the iron ring with her fingertips. Not enough to knock it off the nail or pull it toward her. The bars hurt her shoulder, she just couldn’t press herself any farther.
She pulled back. Staring at the keyhole in the door, she thought, “What can I do?”. Quickly, yanking pins from her hair, letting her locks fall to her shoulders, she jammed a hairpin in the keyhole, then angled another. If she could just match the tumblers with where the key would turn the lock. Her tongue protruded from her mouth as she concentrated, feeling for movement inside the keyhole. Thunder clapped and light flashed across the room. She stiffened, took a breath, then continued. The hairpin moved, the door popped open.
“Thank God.” She shoved the cell door back and rushed to the office door. Yanking it open, she stared at the storm whipping past the opening. She couldn’t move any further. The wind was unbelievably strong. There was no wa
y she could run out into that! Papers flew from Ron’s desk and flipped around the office like a small tornado. The storm raged outside. Debris and ice pummeled her face. She leaned her shoulder against the plank door to get it to close. It took all of her strength to fight the wind and close that office door.
At least she wasn’t in the cell anymore. She could get to the water and food. Concentrating on breathing normally, she leaned against the exterior door. Ron must be in the same predicament. He’d come to her when this storm let up. She’d just wait it out and then go find Ron. Turning to the pot belly stove, she added more wood and stoked the fire back to life. Closing the flue slightly, so the wind wouldn’t blow out her warm fire but smoke could escape, she sat in his desk chair and watched the white scene through the window.
Chapter Three
Ron hated leaving Linda in the cell that way. Why did she have to be so… hardheaded about this experiencing everything with such authenticity. “Gah!” He just wanted to hit something! He had hesitated when he handed her the plate of food because he had given her a two-tined fork with which to eat. Never would he give a real prisoner such a utensil, always a spoon! And he would have watched him eat, making sure he got the plate and spoon back, so he didn’t try to make a weapon out of either. Prisoners were dangerous even in the small confines of a cell. There was no telling what they would do to themselves or the law official if they had something as lethal as that fork. He almost said something about the fork, but knew if he did, she’d insist on having the spoon. The very least he could do for her was give her a utensil with which she could more easily eat the food and leave her be to have her meal.
