Lone Pine, Colorado, 1882
BROCK DANIELS SCOWLED AT THE LEGAL BRIEF HE’D BEEN studying for more than an hour. Obstreperous conduct? It took thirty-two pages to list a complaint that added up to little more than one shop owner calling another a name generally reserved for crooked politicians and stubborn mules.
Hardly a week went by that a similar freewheeling lawsuit didn’t cross his desk. No wonder Lone Pine was on litigation overload. They sure didn’t do things here in Colorado like they did back in Philadelphia.
Tossing down the brief, he reached for his dip pen. No sooner had he dunked the nib in the inkwell and started to write than a slight sound made him lift his gaze. A boy of eleven or twelve stood in front of his desk, staring at him with big, rounded eyes.
It wasn’t the first time someone had sneaked up on him while he was working at his desk. The two-room office had been his for six months, and he still hadn’t gotten around to attaching a bell to the front door.
Brock stuck the pen in its holder and reached into his vest pocket for his watch. The gold case opened with a flip of his thumb. It was nearly ten p.m. Too late for someone so young to be roaming the streets. He snapped the watch shut.
“May I help you?”
Instead of answering, the lad placed four coins on the desk with such care that the money had to have been hard earned. The coins added up to fifty-six cents.
“I want to hire you,” the boy said.
There wasn’t enough money there to hire a mule, but the boy’s youth demanded special consideration.
Brock slid his watch back into his pocket. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jesse Morris.”
Brock was pretty sure he’d not seen the boy before. Certainly he’d never seen a more sorrowful pair of trousers. Innocent of anything resembling the original fabric, they were patched so thoroughly that they resembled shingles on a roof. The child’s shirt didn’t fare much better. The thin cotton was more suited to hot summer days than cool spring nights.
“What kind of trouble you in?”
“No trouble,” Jesse said. “It’s my ma.”
Brock’s eyebrows shot up. “Your ma’s in trouble?”
Jessed nodded. “She’s in jail.”
Far as Brock knew, the only woman in jail was the one they called the Black Widow. From what little he’d heard, it sounded like an open-and-shut murder case. What he hadn’t known was that she had a son. More’s the pity.
The boy twisted his porkpie hat in his hands. Reddish brown hair reached his shoulders and curled around his neck and ears. “The sheriff said she killed her husband and that ain’t true.”
Husband, not father. Brock pinched his forehead. It was late and he was tired.
“I’m sure the judge has appointed your mother’s legal counsel.”
The boy nodded. “Her lawyer’s name is Mr. Spencer.”
David Spencer was one of three lawyers in town. Far as Brock knew, the man had no formal education in law. But neither did the others, which explained why the Lone Pine legal system was such a mess and, in some cases, a joke. The closest any of them had been to “passing the bar,” which consisted of a simple oral exam, was to walk past a saloon.
“If your mother has a lawyer, why do you want to hire me?”
Jesse set his hat on the corner of the desk and pulled a piece of paper from his trouser pocket. With as much care as he’d afforded the coins, he unfolded it and straightened out the creases.
“Mr. Spencer loses most of his cases,” he said. He placed the paper on the desk and pointed to the names carefully printed beneath a hand-drawn gallows. “Those are the men he let hang last year.”
Half a dozen names were on the list, including a gang of horse thieves. The boy had done his research. “I admit that doesn’t look good but—”
“Reverend Fields said you’re the best lawyer in town. Said you were almost as good at law as Moses.”
“Did he now?” Moses? If only the reverend knew . . .
“I handle mostly contracts and land disputes,” he explained. Not only was business law more lucrative than criminal law, it was less risky; no one was likely to die if he messed up. “I don’t handle criminal cases.”
“Ma’s innocent, so this ain’t no criminal case.”
“Jesse—”
“Please.”
When Brock showed no sign of relenting, the boy’s eyes filled with tears. He apparently thought that if he tugged on enough reins, one would eventually give. He wasn’t that far off in his thinking.
“I don’t know that there’s anything I can do,” Brock said. He could well imagine the town’s reaction if he stuck his nose in the high-profile case. Not many liked his big-city ways, but then he didn’t much like what passed for justice in this town.
“You could talk to Ma.” Jesse swiped a tear from his cheek. “Then you’ll know she didn’t do the awful things people say she did. Please, Mister.”
Brock grimaced. Law school had not taught him how to turn down a pleading youth. Giving up the fight, he said, “All right. I’ll talk to your mother.”
A corner of the boy’s mouth curved upward, and Brock had the feeling the boy didn’t laugh much. Probably didn’t smile much either.
“Where you staying, son?”
“With Reverend Fields.”
“The pastor and his wife are good people.” They would do right by the boy. “Do you like it there?”
He nodded. “But I’m not sure Reverend Fields likes me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He asked me if I was Methodist or Presbyterian.”
Brock arched an eyebrow. “And?”
“I told him the truth. I’m a Democrat.”
Brock grinned. What he would have given to see the preacher’s face upon learning he was housing a member of the party he so bitterly opposed.
“I have a feeling the reverend likes you just fine.”
“So when are you gonna talk to Ma?”
“First thing tomorrow.” He leaned forward. “I said I’ll talk to her. That’s all I’ll do.” His voice was gruff. He didn’t want to discourage the boy, but neither did he want to give him false hope. “Now, take your money. I don’t charge for consultations.”
Jesse scooped up the coins and jammed them into his pocket. “Thank you, Mister.” With that he grabbed his hat and dashed from the office into the waiting room. The outer door slammed shut with a bang.
Brock groaned. Now look what he’d done. Promised to look into a case he had no intention of pursuing.
With a weary sigh, he stood, plucked his hat off a hook, and turned off the kerosene lamp. From the recesses of his mind came the memory: With the authority given me by the state of Pennsylvania, I condemn you to hang till death.
TWO
“YOU’VE GOT A VISITOR, MA’AM.”
“Jesse?” Grace jumped to her feet and grabbed hold of the iron bars.
Instead of her son, Deputy Sheriff Parker led a stranger to her cell—a man who seemed to fill every inch of the jailhouse corridor with his wide shoulders and tall, straight form.
Fighting disappointment, she studied him with wary regard and quickly brushed wayward curls from her face.
The stranger thanked Parker and waited for the deputy to leave before walking up to her cell, black leather satchel in hand.
He acknowledged her with a tip of his bowler. Thick, tawny hair framed a handsome, square face, and sun slanting through a single barred window picked up the blue of his eyes. In his fancy clothes, he sure didn’t look like a local. His gray flannel trousers, frock coat, and vest could only have come from one of the big cities in the East. Boston, perhaps, or New York.
His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he spoke. “Mrs. Davenport, I’m Brock Daniels. I’m an attorney.”
She curled her hands into fists. If the judge thought she needed two lawyers, she was in even worse trouble than she knew. On the other hand, that court-appointed attorney was long of tooth, ha
rd of hearing, and he walked with a cane—none of which gave her much confidence in his abilities.
“I already have a lawyer.”
“I’m aware of that, ma’am.” His gaze held hers and she realized with a start that she must look a dreadful sight. She’d tried her best to appear presentable, but without a hairbrush and only a basin of water and bar of lye soap at her disposal, not much could be done.
“Your son asked me to talk to you.”
“Jesse?” Just the mere mention of his name made her heart skip a beat. She inhaled and it was all she could do to find her voice. “Is . . . he all right? The sheriff won’t let me see him.” After the sheriff caught Jesse trying to smuggle in a file, he laid down the law and said no more visits.
“Seemed all right to me.”
His assurance offered small comfort. Each moment away from her son seemed like an eternity. “I already told the other lawyer everything I know.” Unfortunately, the man was deaf as a nail, forcing her to shout until hoarse. Even then she couldn’t be certain how much he’d heard.
“I just have a few questions.” He hesitated. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight and attractive smile. “That is, if you don’t mind. It seems to be important to your boy. He offered me fifty-six cents to talk to you.”
“That’s all the money he had.”
“Well, he’s still got it. I don’t rob children.”
She moistened her lips. She didn’t miss how his gaze momentarily dropped to her mouth before he looked away and cleared his throat.
“I haven’t got much more money than he has.” Some miners still owed her for doing their wash, but it wasn’t enough to fill the toe of a sock. “Sure ain’t got enough to pay for a fancy lawyer.”
“I don’t charge for consultations.”
She regarded him with curiosity. Never had she met a man so refined. His offer was tempting and his smile wasn’t half bad either—not that she’d ever be taken in by another man. Still, it might not hurt to see what he was made of. “That’s a mighty fancy word for asking a few questions.”
He chuckled, smiling. “Lawyers never use a dollar word when a five-dollar one will do.”
“Don’t you know I’m guilty? Least that’s what everyone says.”
“In Philadelphia, a person’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, this ain’t Philadelphia. Here they hang ’em first and worry about justice later.”
“The law is the law.”
She scoffed. Not only was he too young to be a lawyer, he was woefully ignorant of the town’s reputation. He’d find out the error of his ways soon enough. Still, the man seemed sincere and Jesse had asked him to talk to her.
Well, pox, what did she have to lose? “Fire away.”
He hesitated as if surprised she gave in so readily. “It won’t take long,” he said. He reached into his satchel and drew out a notebook. After leaning the leather case on the floor next to the cell, he straightened and riffled through the pages.
“According to witnesses, you and Mr. Davenport were seen arguing in public before he turned up dead.” He looked up, all serious like, but for some reason the memory of his smile still lingered. “Is that true?” he asked.
“It’s true, all right.” Everyone in town knew about that, so no sense denying it. “That wasn’t the first time I had to drag him out of a saloon kickin’ and screamin’.” She ran her hands up and down her arms to ward off a sudden chill, adding angrily, “But I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill nobody.” She and God might not always be on the best of terms, but she obeyed His commandments. Especially the one about not killing.
“What happened next? After you . . . uh . . . dragged him out of the saloon.”
She didn’t like to think about that night but she forced herself to continue. “Not much. I made him empty his pockets, and all he had was an empty money clip and his lucky coin. According to him, that old, dented gold coin saved his life during the war.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.” She frowned. “Billy-Joe would let his family starve to death before parting with that coin.”
The lawyer considered that for a moment before asking, “Then what happened?”
“I got on my horse and rode home.” She grimaced at the memory. “I had to tell Jesse there wouldn’t be no new leather for his birthday. He had to keep wearin’ the old boots with the holes.”
“And your husband? Did he follow you home that night?”
She shook her head. “Never saw him again after that.” For six long months she’d wondered what had happened to him. “Figured he took off, leaving me and my boy high and dry.”
His gaze sharpened. “Did you report him missing?”
“Yes, but the sheriff didn’t seem concerned. Said it wouldn’t be the first time a henpecked husband ran off.”
Mr. Daniels stared at his notes. “How long were you and Mr. Davenport married?”
“Three years, five months, and two weeks,” she said. His eyebrows lifted to half-mast, but he said nothing, so she kept talking.
“Just before we got hitched, his uncle died and Billy-Joe took over his uncle’s saddle shop.” Her mind wandered back in time. “Everything seemed to fall into place in those first early months of marriage. Even his uncle’s old chicken coop–sized cabin seemed like a gift from God.”
Billy-Joe’s resolve to do right by her and Jesse turned out to be just as flimsy as the thin cabin walls. Instead of working in the saddle shop, he spent his days at the saloons. After he lost the business, he worked at the mine. He hated the job and blamed her and Jesse for his ill fortune.
“I never should have married him,” she said. If God judged her solely by the number of mistakes made through the years, she’d be in even bigger trouble than she was in now.
The lawyer held her in his gaze. “Do you mind if I ask why you did?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Jesse needed a pa. He needed someone to take him hunting and fishing and show him how to become a man. Billy-Joe promised he’d be a good father. Said he always wanted a son.” She fell silent for a moment before adding, “That was another lie he told.”
His brow drew forward in a frown. “The record also states that your”—he checked his notes—“second husband died under suspicious circumstances.”
She shook her head. “Nothing suspicious about it. Harry had a full-grown case of booze-blindness and was thrown from his horse.” She sighed. “We’d only been married a month. He was a schoolteacher. A good man he was, ’cept he sure did love his whiskey. Taught Jesse about faraway lands and how to work with numbers.”
After a moment’s pause, she added, “I thought that once he had a home and family, he’d stop drinking. I thought wrong.”
The lawyer considered her answer with narrowed eyes. “The record also states that your first husband was poisoned.”
“He was poisoned, all right.” His name was Geoffrey Morris and he didn’t have the brains God gave a grasshopper, but she’d always have a soft spot for him if for no other reason than that he was Jesse’s pa.
“I was only fifteen when we got hitched. My parents had eleven children and couldn’t afford to feed us no more. Papa said I either had to get married or hop on an orphan train.” She often wondered what would have happened had she taken the train. But then she wouldn’t have had Jesse.
As an afterthought, she added, “I told Geoffrey not to eat them mushrooms.”
Mr. Daniels’s eyebrows rose to meet the strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “I have to say, ma’am, you’re either the unluckiest woman alive or . . .” His voice trailed off.
She curled her fingers around the iron bars until her knuckles turned white. “Sounds like ‘innocent until proven guilty’ don’t apply in my case.”
As if caught remiss, he made an obvious attempt to compose his features behind a noncommittal expression. “It applies to every case.” He reached for his satchel and slipped his w
riting tablet inside.
“Is that it?” she asked. “Is that the end of our consultations? Aren’t you gonna ask me if I did it? If I killed my husband?”
His gaze met hers and she was in terrible danger of drowning in the depths of his eyes. “Did you?” he asked.
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
He inclined his head. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
She thought for a moment. “I’ve believed a lot of men in my life and they all came to a bad end. Are you sure you want to take that chance?”
“I’m no stranger to bad endings.” He studied her a moment before rattling the ante door leading to the sheriff’s office. “But I have to be honest, ma’am. Your situation looks particularly worrisome.”
Brock left the jailhouse with long, hurried strides. The clear blue sky and bright yellow sun hardly seemed to belong with his dark thoughts.
He didn’t know what he’d anticipated, but it certainly wasn’t anyone like Grace Davenport. She was a whole lot younger than he’d expected, somewhere in her midtwenties, though she looked like she was barely out of her teens. Now he knew where her son got his big blue eyes and reddish gold hair. Mother and son also shared the same combination of vulnerability and strength that could easily work its way beneath a man’s skin . . . if he let it.
Could the redheaded beauty really be guilty as charged? It didn’t seem possible, but he knew better than to judge a person on appearances alone.
He let himself into his office and stood in the small reception area. A leather couch was centered against one wall next to a potbellied stove. Dust mites spun in a ray of golden sunlight.
If she really did kill her husband, her best defense might be a plea of temporary insanity—in fact, that might be her only defense. That particular plea worked quite nicely for the man accused of killing Francis Scott Key’s son, a case he’d studied in law school.
Then, too, crimes of passion often resulted in acquittal. Of course, Mrs. Davenport’s unhappy marriage would probably make such a defense suspect.
Self-defense?
A Cowboy for Katie Page 8
