In the salesroom the clock on the wall struck half past four. Marissa saw no reason to reopen the shop. Head beginning to ache, she removed the money from the register and locked it in the storeroom before closing the front door of the shop behind her.
The main square of Assurance bore the usual afternoon activity, people making their last errands before going home for supper. The blacksmith across the way ceased his hammering to get up for a sip of water. He stared at Marissa as she crossed the street.
“Do you work for the Arthurs, Garth, or both of ’em now?” he called.
Marissa felt exposed to the hot sun bearing down on her back, as though it were calling the citizens’ attention to her every movement. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that don’t make no sense. You gotta know who’s payin’ you.” The blacksmith took a large swig from his tin cup before tossing the last of the water in the street. Folding his large forearms, he acted like he was mad at her for not giving an answer. “Garth’s been tellin’ folks you still work for him.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Well, is he makin’ himself out to be a liar? I haven’t seen you in the saloon for a spell.”
Was this the sort of conversation she would be having with people for the rest of her natural born days? “Mr. Hastings, I don’t intend to go back to that saloon. Ever. Now, I can’t tell you any more than that. Good day.”
Jason worked fast. She couldn’t go back to the Arthurs’ home yet. Best to get a handle on the situation first.
The sheriff’s office loomed on the outside of the square. The black iron bars from the window of the attached cell gave a grim, gap-toothed smile at her. The last criminal to occupy that cell waited one hundred and eighty days before the circuit judge rode up to give him a trial. Then he was transferred to Arkansas to be hanged on charges of horse theft.
Leaving a job while under contract was very much like stealing. Marissa breathed street dust into her dry throat and choked. She hurried to turn her back on the building.
Step by step she trod the path to the church. One option existed short of skipping town. Rowe was no lawyer, but he had the clout to retain the services of one. If she were fortunate, the lawyer may even agree not to accept payment until after the trial proceedings.
Has there ever been a time in your life when you were fortunate? A snide voice infiltrated her mind.
“Can’t believe I’m going here again,” she muttered as she followed along the path. The church steeple was visible ahead.
That place isn’t for you. Why would Rowe help you again after you accused him of using you to build his church?
Marissa considered the irony of her predicament. When would the day come that she could rely on her own resources?
Never. Jason’s set you up to stay put with him. Once you’re a painted cat, the color doesn’t wash off.
A wagon and three saddled horses waited outside the front of the church. She pulled the heavy door handle. Her heels clacked on the floorboards outside the sanctuary as she hurried to the pastor’s study.
Mrs. Pate blocked the hallway passage. “Can I help you, Miss Pierce?” Her tone was polite but not friendly. The steel-haired lady eyed Marissa as though she would burst into a saloon song and dance at any moment.
“I must see the reverend. It’s urgent.”
Mrs. Pate put a finger to her lips. “If you would, the choir will be rehearsing in the sanctuary in a few minutes. The reverend has been detained in his study all afternoon. What if you come back tomorrow, hmm?”
Marissa gritted her teeth at the woman’s curt dismissal. “I wouldn’t be here if it were not urgent.” She skirted past the woman to knock on the door.
It opened before she could put her hand to it. Rowe stuck his head out. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Pate? I heard voices.”
Mrs. Pate jabbed a finger at Marissa. “I tried to get her to leave and come back tomorrow, Reverend, but she was too stubborn to listen. I told her that you were busy.”
Marissa looked at Rowe imploringly. “I’m in bad need of your help. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come.”
The tense conversation he had with her last week appeared to have been forgotten or forgiven. His countenance bore no grudge. “Miss Pierce is as welcome into the church as anyone, Mrs. Pate. I’m never so busy that people can’t at least inquire of me whether I can see them.”
“I’m sorry, Reverend.” Mrs. Pate tugged at her sleeves. “I didn’t think you’d take kindly to having your studies interrupted.” Excusing herself, she returned to the sanctuary.
“Forgive Mrs. Pate. I never asked her to attend the door. She can be cordial but also very set in her ways.” Rowe returned to his desk, where he pushed aside his books. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
Marissa took a quick breath. “Jason’s going to send me to jail.”
“What? You’re shaking. Breathe slowly.”
His solid presence and deep, soothing voice provided enough calm for her to continue. “Jason came to the store. He says I have to go back to the saloon, or he will tell a judge that I broke my contract. There’s a clause that says if the saloon is in trouble, I have to work for him until business picks up again.”
His eyebrows rose. “You won’t do it, of course.”
“I’m still under contract. He can sue the Arthurs for taking an employee of his.” She flattened her palms against her dress. “Rowe, I can’t let Jason harm them because of me. I hate to ask, but would you help me retain a lawyer? I’d pay the fee, of course, but I need you to convince a lawyer that my case is worth taking up. It’s hard enough for any woman to get legal counsel, but no one will even think to help a saloon girl.”
Rowe took a decisive step toward the wall rack and pulled his coat on over his shirt. “This time we’re going to see the sheriff.”
She panicked, thinking of the iron bars. “No.”
“Yes. Marissa, the reason Jason has gotten this far in his dealings is because no one will speak out against him. If we had gone to Sheriff McGee the night Jason hurt you, he could have been arrested already.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It was a good chance. I saw him come after you, and I’m sure at least one employee in that saloon saw or heard what was going on.”
Marissa lowered her head. “Simone and the other girls saw him strike me, but they’ll never talk. Going to Sheriff McGee now won’t help, either.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm, where her hands felt like they had been soaking in ice. “You came here because you wanted my help. Can we try it this way? If it doesn’t work, we can seek legal counsel.”
His use of the word we proved that he viewed her problem as his own. Marissa’s courage strengthened with the knowledge that she had an ally who wasn’t given to losing his nerve. If she held onto hers long enough, they might have a chance of convincing the sheriff to take care of Jason. Maybe.
“Jason’s giving me a chance to return to the saloon. If I appear before the sheriff, what’s to stop him from putting me in a cell?”
“What do you hope to accomplish by avoiding the sheriff? This isn’t a big town. He can find you.” Rowe opened the door to the study and ushered Marissa out, keeping behind her as if she would try to dart under his arm and hide under the desk. “I’m only saying that we can’t duck our heads in the sand and hope this all goes away. It’ll just get worse.”
Marissa heard Mrs. Pate hit a high C from inside the sanctuary. It was off-pitch. “There goes the last note I’ll ever hear as a free woman.”
Rowe shook his head and put on a half-smile. “If Assurance ever gets a theater, I think you’d make a great comedic actress.”
She was temporarily stunned by his shift in humor. “People consider that to be even worse than a saloon girl.”
“What do you want to be?”
She sensed he was trying to distract her from panicking again. It was sweet, but the fear of being tossed in jail with only Sheriff
McGee for company still crawled up the base of her spine. “I’ll worry about that later. Let’s just get this awful business over with.”
Sheriff McGee pursed his thick lips in a gesture of concentration. “Let me get this straight, Miss Pierce. You signed an agreement without readin’ the provisions, and you want me to get you out of it.”
Marissa knew Rowe’s idea of going to McGee would be a lost cause. She and the reverend stood before the sheriff, urgently pleading for help while he listened to them from his seat in the town jail, stretching a plump leg on the table. A jar of chewing tobacco and a rifle shared the table with his limb. Moving a wad of the tobacco around in his cheek, the sheriff gathered enough saliva to launch a brown stream into the spittoon on the floor.
Some of the liquid splattered onto the toe of Rowe’s boot. He clenched his jaw. At least now he had an idea of the man’s unprofessionalism, Marissa thought.
Rowe spoke. “That contract is unconscionable, Sheriff. Marissa can’t work for a man who’s violent to his employees.”
McGee’s small eyes shifted to her. “Why did she do it in the first place?”
“I was eighteen years of age when I signed Jason’s contract. I was too worried about keeping a roof over my head and food in my mouth to comb through the fine print.”
Sheriff McGee shrugged as though he wasn’t about to comb through the matter, either. “An agreement is an agreement. You signed it, Missy. Is that what they still call you?”
“No, because I don’t work there anymore, and I’m not going to ever again.”
He chortled at her resolve. “You realize you could be jailed for violatin’ a contract?”
The small cell behind him beckoned for an occupant, with its rusted iron bars and stain-covered straw pallet. Marissa set her chin in a stubborn line to keep it from trembling.
“Show him your scars,” Rowe suggested.
Marissa was hesitant, but she rolled up the sleeve of her blouse. The bruises had completely faded, but the scars were pink and newly formed. Rowe pointed his finger at them. “Those are the work of Jason Garth. He chased her through the streets of Assurance and beat her in the woods when she refused to stay in the saloon. If I hadn’t intervened, he probably would have killed her. Should she be jailed because she couldn’t work under those conditions?”
McGee leaned forward in his chair to study her scars. “Maybe Missy was handled roughly by some men during her work hours. It does happen in that trade, Reverend.”
Marissa snatched her arm away and glared at the sheriff. “How is it that I’m the one you’re suspicious of? Are you saying that my past precludes me from the protection of the law?”
“I keep telling you, you’re under contract. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do to get you out of it.”
“Would you say that to another woman who needed your help? Reverend Winford, perhaps we’ve wasted our time.”
“No, we haven’t.” Rowe leaned forward. “Sheriff, that man Jason Garth is dangerous.” His voice rang with authority in the small room. “You can’t tell me he has a right to Marissa as an employee.”
McGee sat upright. “Like I told you before, I need proof. A few scars don’t tell me anything.”
Before? Since when did Rowe converse with the sheriff prior to today? Marissa regarded him with suspicion. He promised not to say anything.
Rowe went on. “What more do you need to be sure he abuses women?”
“Do you have the contract?”
“No.” He checked his coat pockets before glancing at Marissa. She shook her head.
“There’s nothin’ I can do then. She could get a man to speak on her behalf to the circuit judge, but he’ll need incontestable proof too. That’s the only way she’s gettin’ out o’ that agreement.”
Rowe clenched his fists. Marissa thought he was going to bang them on the table. “She’s not going back to Jason. Something will be done to keep that from happening, I can assure you.”
“Reverend, this town’s been official for twenty years. It won’t do you no good to be upsettin’ things.”
“Maybe that’s what’s needed for people to wake up to the atrocities happening around them.”
He beat Marissa to the door. He held it open for her to pass through before letting it slam shut on McGee.
Marissa paced the front of the jail building, arms folded and distraught. “I knew McGee would do nothing.” Her raised, upset voice drew the interest of passersby on the street, but they were the least of her worries. “Now he’ll watch me to make sure the contract is enforced. I have to leave on the next train that stops in Claywalk.”
“No, you don’t. You’re anxious and upset.”
“Of course I am. When did you speak to McGee about this? I just heard him say you talked before.”
“It was in church. We talked about Jason and the saloon. As you preferred, I didn’t go into detail about what happened.”
Marissa faced Rowe again, pivoting sharply enough to kick up dust with the quick spin of her boot heel. “The longer I stay in this town, the worse it gets. For me, for you, for the Arthurs.”
Several men and women stopped what they were doing to listen to the conversation. Rowe guided her away from them, taking her up the street. “You are not going to let Jason run you away from your birthplace.”
Marissa quickened her steps to match his. “Perhaps it’s best that I leave. Just start again somewhere new. I’ll go across the state, back to St. Louis.”
“Your distress is making you talk this way, but it’s a very bad idea.”
“It couldn’t do worse than this one. People get pardons from other states. It isn’t unheard of.” Deep down Marissa knew she sounded irrational, but reason had its chance to shine in McGee’s office, and it failed miserably.
“You don’t know how you’ll fare in St. Louis. In large cities there are more violent acts and thousands of Jason Garths. A change in location won’t solve the problem.”
Marissa was beginning to intensely dislike Rowe’s ability to point out the flaws in her logic. “Then what will? No one here will help.”
“I don’t know. We have to pray hard about it.”
“And find a lawyer.” She wanted to make sure Rowe didn’t dispense with practicality.
“Yes. But on the upside, even if Jason charges you, he’ll have to wait until the judge makes his rounds. It could take months before the judge rides to Assurance.”
“I don’t want to think about sitting in a cell that long.”
“How much time did Jason give you to return to the saloon?”
“By the end of next week.” Marissa remembered the sneer on Jason’s face when he said it.
“That gives us about ten days. We can see about visiting a lawyer in Claywalk when I take you to the fair this Saturday.”
She had forgotten all about the fair. “Or we could go to Claywalk now and find one.”
“I’ll go tomorrow, first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you should go home. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur are probably worried about you.”
“There’s no way I can rest or face them until this is resolved.”
“Procuring legal counsel will have to wait. It’s after five, and most businesses are closed.” Rowe reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Things will turn out right, Marissa.”
The gesture caught her off guard. It wasn’t forward, but it certainly wasn’t something a casual male acquaintance would do in the middle of town square. She turned about to see who had been privy to it. The people who stopped outside the sheriff’s office were making their way up the road. Two of the women, the middle-aged Mrs. Rheins and her daughter, Margaret, returned Marissa’s gaze with knowing. They started talking to each other, keeping her in their sights.
“Marissa?”
Rowe’s handsome face emanated concern and thoughtfulness. Did he realize that he just caused a scandal?
“You’re right. I should go home.” She retreated two steps fro
m him. “You’ll tell me as soon as you find a lawyer?”
He nodded, with a conflicted, haunted air, giving the impression that he was far away in thought. A frown line appeared between the bridge of his nose and forehead.
If Marissa stayed long enough to question what he was thinking about, she’d give the approaching women more gossip fodder. She headed in the direction of the Arthurs’ home.
Chapter 17
WHY COULDN’T HE have just told Marissa that she had a hair out of place?
These desires were getting worse. He wanted to feel her dark hair glide between his fingers, to touch her cheek.
Two women saw him do it. Rowe heard the concealed tones in their voices as they greeted him on the street. He recognized them from church.
“Good afternoon, Reverend.” The older one, Mrs. Rheins, had a clipped British accent. She gave him the same scolding eye his mother used when he got caught stealing bites of apple pie filling.
“How do you do?” Her daughter Margaret’s high-pitched greeting reminded him of Sophie Charlton. The two girls often sat together in church, distracting him with their giggles and whispering.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” He smiled. They did not reciprocate.
“Was that Marissa Pierce you were speaking to?” Mrs. Rheins asked with artificial lightness in her voice. Rowe dreaded where this was leading.
“Yes. We had some business to attend to.” That didn’t sound right.
Mrs. Rheins lifted her head and tilted it like a sparrow hearing an odd noise. “Oh? Well, it is known of her recent plight and all. I hope she’s not in any more trouble.”
He couldn’t lie, but he wasn’t obligated to disclose every detail either. “She sought my opinion on a matter.”
“Undoubtedly, I’m sure. As I’m sure you provided the necessary comforts to ease her mind. That is what we need our ministers for. Comfort.” The woman’s words dripped in double entendre.
“Are you going to attend the fair this Saturday, Reverend Winford?” Margaret’s question allowed him to change the subject.
“Yes. I wouldn’t miss it.”
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