by Jo Goodman
That was why when he received a document, personally delivered by the sheriff, detailing a law that would “make a husband’s use of force against his wife, resulting in harmful contact” illegal, Mr. Abernathy was agreeable to discussion. The understanding that the offense was subject to a fine and/or incarceration eased his mind, and he was further eased to learn the amount and/or length of time would be determined by a judge with the parameters to be set in the law by the town council.
At a hasty meeting of the council on the morning of Tom and Michael Gordon’s trial, Mr. Abernathy received approval to include information about the proposed law in the next edition of his paper. The council was in general agreement that they should understand public opinion before there was a vote. The irascible Hank Ketchum was a dissenting voice. He didn’t give a damn what the public thought; he’d vote his conscience.
Drew Abernathy made hasty notes about the council meeting while he was sitting in the back of the library, which doubled as the town hall and courtroom when a crowd was expected. He would have liked a seat closer to the front, but folks had started filing in while he was still in the smaller council meeting room, where the librarian kept the journals, periodicals, and newspapers.
He’d learned from Ben that the brothers had changed their minds and elected to be represented by different attorneys. It was Tom Gordon who was most insistent. His previous crimes would come to the attention of the court. His brother had none. Michael still had a chance to be shown mercy. Thomas was not expecting or asking any for himself. Chris Whitt was representing Tom. Michael’s attorney was one recommended by Remington and hailed from Harmony. He wore a dark suit, a silver-threaded vest, and a stiff collar. He turned once, surveying the spectators behind him, and nodded as though satisfied the crowd was of a sufficient size to support his presence.
The sheriff had warned Drew to expect that Gideon Manchester would be full of himself, but that the lawyer’s self-confidence was not unwarranted, and his bombast would make for good copy.
Ridley held on to the end of the bench to maintain her seat. With five other people squeezed on the same plank, there existed a distinct possibility that she would be pushed to the floor. Ben was seated on a slightly less crowded bench three rows in front of her. She stared at his back through the spaces between shoulders and hats and wished she could have been beside him. He wouldn’t have minded having her there, but she had decided it was better for now that they maintained a public distance.
Only Remington and Phoebe knew their intention was to be married, and they had left Frost Falls three days earlier with Colt snuggled warmly between them and Winnie swaddled in blankets in her mother’s arms. They carried the secret out of town along with all of their purchases.
Ridley thought Mrs. Rushton might suspect that there was a marriage in their future, for she surely knew by now that Ben Madison was no stranger to Ridley’s bed. Ben did not even try very hard to escape her notice, sometimes leaving by the surgery door while the housekeeper was coming in the front.
In spite of the mild anxiety his badly timed exits produced, Ridley cherished the freedom to be with him before there was an exchange of vows. That time between a formal announcement and the wedding would be filled with a surfeit of scrutiny, and Ridley was frankly unwilling to stay out of his bed, even if he was willing to stay out of hers. And if there was the suspicion she could become pregnant, then inevitably the counting of days would begin.
Ben had not even told his mother. There were too many ways she would give them up without ever saying a word. “She’ll start eyeing patterns in Mrs. Fish’s catalogs and examining every bolt of cloth in the mercantile,” he had explained to Ridley. “She’ll ask Mr. Springer how many pounds of this will feed how many mouths of that, and she’ll want Buzz to tell her how many kegs it will take to get a third of the town drunk and a third of them wobbly on their feet. Thank God the other third are children or members of Amanda’s temperance society.”
Ridley had laughed at his reasoning, but for her own selfish reasons, she did not disagree. Ben suggested they make their announcement New Year’s Eve when the Butterworth Hotel was the site of so much revelry that no one might notice when Ellie Madison became apoplectic with joy. And if those in attendance did notice, much of the backslapping and glad-handing would be out of the way. “We’ll put the cart before the horse,” he told her. “Call the party our reception and then we can elope.”
“If you’re expecting an objection,” she’d said, “you won’t hear it from me. There has been little about this courtship that’s been traditional. We probably shouldn’t start now.”
“Has there been a courtship?” he’d asked.
“You have fully grasped my point.”
Since they were in bed when this conversation occurred, it only made sense to underscore that point with lovemaking that was more spirited than it was composed, more reckless than careful, and more wildly pleasurable than being tickled to exhaustion.
Ridley looked down the bench at her fellow spectators and nodded pleasantly at Hank Ketchum, who was looking her way. He was the reason she barely had room on the bench. He’d been a latecomer. His scowl practically dared those seated not to make space for him. He did not return her greeting, and she remembered the council had been meeting about the proposal. She wondered if he thought she was in some way responsible, but since he nearly always looked testy, it wasn’t worth pondering. Besides, she didn’t care.
She looked around again, this time at the larger crowd. She saw Drew Abernathy several rows behind her and Buzz Winegarten in the middle on the same bench. Ridley was taken by the fact that she knew so many people. No man on the jury was a stranger to her; many of them had been in her surgery at least once.
The spectators fell silent in waves beginning with the bench directly behind the accused when Michael Gordon’s thin shoulders rose and fell spasmodically as he coughed. His attorney leaned a little to the left to put distance between himself and his diseased client, but nonetheless produced a clean monogrammed handkerchief and gave it over without hesitation. People murmured among themselves about this perceived generosity, and it wasn’t long before the courtroom returned to full volume, quieting only when the Honorable Judge Richard Miner took his seat at the bench assembled specifically for these occasions.
He banged his gavel, which was unnecessary since he had everyone’s attention, and smiled at the assembly. He had no such smile for the defendants, their lawyers, the prosecutor, or the jury. He had words for everyone about the conduct he expected and the contempt of court charges that he would apply without fail should there be violations to the peace and dignity of his courtroom. By the time he was done, no one remembered they were sitting in the town library surrounded by walls of books.
After the opening statements, Ben was called to testify and then cross-examined. Not surprisingly, there were few questions for him after he recounted the events at the bank. Mr. Washburn was called next because he could testify to what happened in his office. He gave a clear account of the events and was supported afterward by the testimony of his employees. Mrs. Mangold took the stand shakily. No one who saw her trembling hands or heard her trembling voice doubted that she had fainted dead away before the first shot was fired. Because Phoebe had known she would be gone before the trial was under way, she wrote out a statement in the presence of the prosecutor, who went to Ben’s home. It was affirmed, witnessed by Mrs. Rushton, who had no conflict of relationship, and produced as testimony for the prosecution. There was always a question as to whether the judge would accept it, but then Judge Miner had married Phoebe and Remington and trusted her without reservation.
Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse was called last. She almost sighed with pleasure when she took her seat beside the judge and did not have to fight to keep it. The defense attorneys objected to the testimony she was about to give as biased by the testimony that had come before. They objected in the same
way to everyone who came after Ben was heard. They claimed no witness should have been permitted in the courtroom while another witness was giving testimony. The prosecutor argued that since there wasn’t a person in town who didn’t know the story, he could call on someone outside the courtroom and they would give testimony as accurate as anything that had been heard thus far.
Judge Miner knew all about small towns because he’d been traveling the circuit for seventeen years. There was hardly any place with more than four hundred people, and that allowed for the outskirts. He favored the prosecution’s argument each time it was presented and invited the doctor to stay where she was.
The prosecutor guided Ridley through her testimony right up to the moment she dreaded retelling. When he stepped back, pointed her toward the jury, and gestured for her to proceed, she explained what had occurred in a carefully modulated voice so that her actions would be seen as practical and unexceptional. She didn’t say that it was what any reasonable citizen would do if he was in possession of a soup bone, but that’s what every person in the courtroom heard, including Ben, and he could not have been prouder.
There was a serious breach of decorum when Ridley stood to leave the stand. The spectators applauded so hard they were deaf to the sound of the gavel. The judge looked the crowd over as if he were taking names and then let them off with the very warning he had promised to give only once. The reassuring smile that he had for Ridley when she stepped down did not bode well for the defendants.
No one present thought the outcome of the trial had ever truly been in question, although the testimony of the defendants, especially as it related to Michael Gordon’s condition, softened some hearts. None of those hearts happened to be on the jury. The attorneys made powerful pleas for their clients, particularly Mr. Gideon Manchester, whose eloquence kept Drew Abernathy scribbling furiously in his notebook. It didn’t matter. The jury arrived at a guilty verdict for each brother inside two minutes, and most of that time was spent bickering over who would be foreman.
No one spoke when the verdict was announced. It was what the judge would do that kept them quiet and in their seats.
Judge Miner’s justice was equally swift. Tom Gordon was sentenced to two years at the state correctional facility in Fremont County. Folks in the courtroom still knew it by the name “Territorial” from the days before statehood. Since Gordon was found guilty only of attempted robbery, if law enforcement in other counties wanted to prosecute him on the more serious charges mentioned in his wanted notice, they would know where to find him. Judge Miner looked significantly at the newspaperman at the back when he said it. “Make sure you get that all down.”
Drew Abernathy swallowed, touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue, and continued writing.
Michael Gordon, for all that did not want to hang, looked as if he might weep when he was sentenced to serve out his last days in the Denver jail. Judge Miner reasoned that Denver could accommodate more prisoners and would not strap the resources of Frost Falls. “Don’t let me die alone,” was Michael’s plaintive cry when he heard his fate, and his brother reached for his hand.
Chapter Forty-one
Sunday morning, Christmas morning, Ridley attended church with Ellie and Ben. She sat on one side of Ben’s mother; he sat on the other. She heard a woman weeping softly somewhere behind her, and when she stood for a hymn, she looked back and saw Louella Fuller leaning against Big Mike, dabbing at her eyes with no hope of stemming the tears. The first Christmas without Emmilou, Ridley thought, and Louella’s suffering was both real and unimaginable.
After services, Ridley and Ben joined Ellie and Mr. Butterworth at the hotel. There were only two guests with accommodations, and neither was present in the dining room when Ridley and Ben arrived. The staff had hours off to be with their families, but this was Ellie’s home as well as Mr. Butterworth’s, and they were pleased to host dinner for their guests.
Ellie set a spread that made them push away from the table to make room for dessert. The meal began with a clear broth and a winter salad with cabbage, celery, and slivers of carrot drizzled with French dressing. The turkey was browned to perfection; the stuffing was sweetened with raisins. There were buttered roasted potatoes with onions and carrots and cranberry relish to brighten the plate. There were plump rolls for the bread and butter plates with an aroma that could be tasted before the tongue was engaged. Dessert, which no one refused, was almond cake made from a recipe handed down from Ellie’s mother. She did not make it often. It was reserved for special occasions, and Christmas Day had never counted as one before.
Ben explained the significance of the almond cake to Ridley and put out a hand when Ellie tried to interrupt to serve him a second slice. “Not even a sliver. I’m serious.” For once she did not persist. He regarded her expectantly. “Almond cake, Mother? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to wait until coffee is served?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“And I’m sure you know exactly what I mean, but you can get the coffee, if you prefer.”
Ridley almost groaned as she rose from her chair. “I’ll get it. The walk to the kitchen will do me good.” She gathered plates and utensils over Ellie’s protest and carried them off. It was when the door did not immediately swing closed behind her that she realized she was being followed. She looked over her shoulder and saw Ellie. Ben’s mother’s handsome face bore evidence of some worry at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hands clutched folds of her skirt, which was only marginally better than wringing them.
Ridley put her armload of plates and cutlery into the large sink before she turned on Ellie. “What is it?” she asked. “You have no color in your face and you were beautifully flushed earlier. Please do not tell me it was the wine.” She pulled out a chair and pointed to it. “Sit and compose yourself.”
When Ellie was down, Ridley gave her a dry sponge to hold and squeeze before she ruined her sateen gown. “Take some breaths, Ellie. Don’t you dare faint. How will I explain that to Ben?”
Ellie nodded. She pressed her lips together, which was not conducive to calm breathing. Her eyes darted to the coffeepot and then to Ridley, and there was a plea in their depths.
“All right,” said Ridley, “I’ll set the service.” She placed dainty china saucers and cups on a serving tray and put the matching coffeepot in the middle. She found the creamer and the sugar, both treats for herself if everyone else preferred their coffee black. When she was done, though, she made no attempt to lift it. “Say something, Ellie. You can’t walk back in there without telling me something.”
“He’s talking to him now,” Ellie said in a voice hardly more than a whisper. “I couldn’t be there. I just couldn’t. I’ve never mentioned it, you see, and I know I should have, but I didn’t, and now he has to ask without me.”
“Ellie, I suppose you think I understand, but I don’t. Who is talking to whom?”
“Mr. Butterworth. Abe. Abe is speaking to Ben.”
“Yes?”
“He’s asking my son’s permission for my hand. He insisted. Can you imagine? He insisted.”
“But that’s wonderful. And romantic. I had no idea you and Mr. Butterworth were fond of each other.”
“Fond? Is that what it must be for someone of my advanced years? Fond? I love him. We’re in love.”
Ridley wished she had kept the sponge because right now she could have squeezed water out of it and she was quite certain it was dry. She did the only thing she could. She apologized. Ellie nodded as if she’d heard and accepted, but Ridley wasn’t sure that either had occurred.
“Are you telling me that Ben has no idea?” asked Ridley.
“Yes. That’s what I was saying. No idea.”
“Do you doubt that he will be happy for you?”
Ellie’s face collapsed. She appeared mournful rather than anxious. “I don’t know what he will think; tha
t’s why I kept it to myself. Abe wanted me to tell him, tried to demand it, but I told him I would not be bullied. I know he was right and that I was stubborn because I was afraid. At the very least, I should have hinted to Ben.”
Ridley could not help but wonder if Ben was going to have similar thoughts come New Year’s Eve. “It’s done, isn’t it? Mr. Butterworth is certain to have declared himself, and even if your son required time to think about his answer, he’s arrived at it by now.”
“Then why hasn’t one of them come in here?”
“Perhaps they’re sharing a drink stronger than coffee or the wine you served. Would you like me to peek into the dining room?”
Without hesitation, Ellie said, “Would you?”
Ridley did. Her stealth turned out to be unnecessary. “They’re not there.”
“What do you mean?”
“The dining room’s empty.”
Ridley picked up the service tray. “Come with me. We’ll go back to the table and act as if nothing’s happen. They’ll have to explain themselves, but when they return with a bottle of the hotel’s finest whiskey, I think you and I will know where they went.”
Ridley’s instincts were correct. Shortly after Ellie and she were seated and the coffee was poured, Ben and Abraham Butterworth reappeared. Ben held the bottle because Mr. Butterworth looked cheerfully dumbstruck and incapable of grasping anything. Ben walked to the table and kissed his mother’s cheek. Abe floated to Ellie’s side and kissed her hand. Ellie beamed, the worry lines vanishing as if they had never been, and if her cheeks flushed just a bit when Ben kissed her, and if her hand trembled when Abe finally released it, well, that was to be expected.
Watching, Ridley surreptitiously dashed away happy tears.
* * *
