“Mrs. Colton,” the district attorney began, “when did you first see Mr. Scott.”
Angela stared at the prosecutor, her mind momentarily blank. “Who?”
“Mr. Abraham Miller Scott, the defendant.”
“Oh.” Her eyes traveled to Miller for the first time. She noticed that instead of one glove, he now wore two. And both hands rested awkwardly on the table before him. “I’m sorry. I only knew him as Mr. Miller.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Colton, just tell us about the first time you saw the defendant.”
And so Angela told the court about that night in Memphis, when she’d watched Miller break a man’s leg so Miller could have his job as scout. Then she told about the trip, about how he had shot the dog, how he’d shot Chee, then threatened her.”
“It wasn’t nothin’ but a thievin’ Apache!” Miller cried.
Most of the spectators in the room seemed to agree that there was no harm in shooting an Apache. Judge Titus banged his gavel and called for quiet.
Angela straightened her spine and faced the onlookers. “Chee is a man, not an animal. He was alone, and he was minding his own business.”
District Attorney McCaffery frowned at her and asked her to continue with her story.
So Angela continued her story. She told how sick her mother had been, how they’d been forced to turn back toward Camp Bowie, and how Miller, too, had headed for the fort to report being attacked by Apaches. He’d told her that much the night he’d kidnapped her. She told about her parents’ deaths, and about shooting her father’s killer.
“That was quite a remarkable shot, Mrs. Colton.”
“Yes, it was, Mr. McCaffery, but it was either sheer luck or God’s will that I hit him in the hand like that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I had my eyes closed.”
One of the spectators let out a whoop. In the back, someone called out, “Atta way, girlie! The scum had it comin’!”
The judge pounded his gavel and called for quiet again.
Angela then told about seeing Miller in Tucson, both the time he’d watched her from a distance, and the time he’d threatened her. Then she told about the night he came and took her away, about how he’d confessed to killing her father, about how Matt had saved her, and about losing the baby because of Mr. Abraham Miller Scott.
By the time she returned to her seat between Matt and Benito, she was exhausted, but relieved. She’d been afraid of what the defense attorney might ask her, but he’d simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “No questions.”
Matt testified next, telling how he tracked Angela’s abductor to the tiny adobe on the edge of town. Then other witnesses were called. District Attorney McCaffery was a thorough man. A bartender told how Miller had been asking a lot of questions about the Colton family and the location of the Triple C. The barber said he saw Miller sneak up behind Angela at the stage depot. Three other citizens said they saw the defendant ride out of town just before sundown, in the direction of the Triple C, the same day the rest of the Coltons had left on the stage.
The only defense presented was three rather questionable looking men who swore Miller was playing cards with them the night Angela was abducted, and Miller’s own testimony that he was at Camp Bowie the day her father was killed.
“Would you mind telling us what happened to your hands, Mr. Scott?” McCaffery asked.
“My hands?”
“Yes. I couldn’t help but notice you don’t move your fingers. Could you tell us about that?”
“Objection, your honor,” came from the defense attorney. “My client’s physical handicaps have nothing to do with this case, except to prove that he couldn’t have shot anyone, since it’s obvious he can’t even hold a gun.”
“Your honor, Sheriff Pugh and Doctor Harding are both willing to testify that when Mr. Scott was arrested the morning after Mrs. Colton was abducted, he was suffering from a bullet wound in his left hand, plus, incidentally, one in his shoulder. That corroborates Mr. and Mrs. Colton’s testimony of what happened that morning on the edge of town. It is my contention that his right hand, too, bears the scars of a bullet wound, and I am prepared to call in Doctor Harding to confirm this.”
“Objection overruled,” Judge Titus said. “Answer the question, Mr. Scott.”
“No!” Miller’s attorney shouted. “My client cannot be forced to testify against himself. That’s according to the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution of the Untied States of America.”
McCaffery smirked at the defendant. “And do you refuse to answer the question on the grounds that it might incriminate you, Mr. Scott?”
Abraham Miller Scott looked to his attorney and received a reluctant nod. Miller wasn’t a stupid man. He knew it would make him look guilty as sin if he didn’t tell about his hands. But to tell would be to remove all doubt from the judge’s mind. It would be a confession. “Yes,” he said. “I do refuse.”
“No further questions, your honor.”
And that, such as it was, was the end of the testimony.
Judge Titus announced a ten minute recess while he deliberated. He didn’t really need the ten minutes, but he took it anyway, just so the records would show he at least thought over his decision.
“This court finds the defendant, Abraham Miller Scott, guilty of murder and kidnapping. You are hereby sentenced to ten years at hard labor in the Territorial Prison at Yuma.”
Miller sagged in his chair while the on-lookers hooted and hollered, some pleased, some angry. The judge once again pounded his gavel for quiet in the courtroom.
“The prison sentence will be postponed until the State of Tennessee has a chance to question you about some crimes you’re suspected of committing there. But when they finish with you, you will be returned to Yuma to serve your time—provided Tennessee doesn’t hang you first.”
Miller spun around and his cold gray eyes pierced Angela with sheer hatred. She gasped at the force of it.
“This is your fault, bitch! I’ll see you in hell for this!” he screamed. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do, even if I have to come back from the grave to do it! You hear me, bitch?”
The sheriff managed to handcuff the raving lunatic and started dragging him out of the courtroom. “You hear me, bitch? I’ll get you for this! I’ll get you!”
Angela shuddered. She’d never imagined such hatred could exist, much less that it could be directed at her. Matt put his arm around her, shielding her from curious eyes, and took her from the room.
“It’s over, Angel. It’s all over now. Don’t let him get to you. It was just talk. He can’t ever hurt you again.”
Angela’s brain went numb. The only part of Matt’s words she heard was, “It’s over.” It echoed in her mind like an Apache drum. It smothered her. It robbed her of all thought. It matched itself to her footsteps. Left foot, over. Right foot, over. Left foot, over… .
She panicked briefly when the world went dark, then realized Matt had led her into the livery stable. The sweet smell of clean straw and fresh hay penetrated her numbness and calmed her screaming nerves. Even the horse manure smelled good just then. She paused beside the wagon to take a deep breath. Anything to delay the inevitable.
Matt turned away and talked with Benito. Angela took another deep breath. This is it. She climbed up and retrieved her carpetbag from beneath the wagon seat, then jumped down.
“You won’t need that,” Matt said, reaching to take the bag from her. “We won’t be staying.” His hand closed beside hers on the wooden handle, but she refused to let go. “Let me put it back and we’ll go home.”
“I—” Her throat swelled shut and trapped the words she needed to say. She forced herself to take slow, even breaths, then tried again. “I…I’m not…going with you, Matt.”
Matt stared at her and blinked. “What?”
“Do I really have to say it again?” She took another deep breath to screw up her courage. Maybe if she di
dn’t look at him it would be easier. She stared at the wagon wheel beside him. “It’s time for me to leave, don’t you think?”
“Time? What do you mean, time? You’re my wife.”
“But I’m your wife for all the wrong reasons, don’t you see?” She looked at him then, and if ever there was a face carved of granite, it was his. “We ended up together by accident. A marriage shouldn’t be by accident, should it? Two people shouldn’t stay together just because it’s easy or convenient. That’s all we’re doing and you know it. You don’t love me, you never did. Now that there’s no baby, there’s no need for me to stay. I have nothing you want.”
Matt stared at her for a long moment, then released his hold on the carpetbag so abruptly she almost dropped it. “You’re right,” he hissed between his teeth. “You don’t have anything I want. I want a woman who’ll stick by me, not a little girl who runs away every time the ride gets a little bumpy.”
Despite the sick feeling in her heart and stomach, she felt the tiny spark of anger his words ignited. Felt it, and fanned it. “I’m not a little girl! If that’s how you see me, that’s your problem. I see myself as a woman. A woman who can take care of herself.”
Stop me, her mind screamed. Don’t let me do this, Matt. Tell me to stay.
Matt shook his head. “Either way, it doesn’t make much difference now, does it, since you’re leaving. Unfortunately for me, I happen to be in love with you. I thought the feeling was mutual.” He paused a moment, then went on. “That first time you came back from Tucson, you said you’d stay. Forever, you said. You’re exact word. I had no idea forever was so goddamned short.”
Without another word, Matt spun on his heel and walked out into the sunshine. When he turned the corner and disappeared, Angela stared, stunned, at the spot where he’d been. Always before, he’d either forced her to stay, or asked. This time he was doing neither. He was letting her go!
She’d been right all along. He didn’t want her. His words of love just now hadn’t meant a thing. The man she thought she knew would have dragged her home kicking and screaming if he’d really wanted her. But that must have been some other man. This one was letting her go.
Her feet carried her out the door and into the street, but with each step, she no long her just the word over in her dazed mind. Now the word had company. Forever had joined it. Left foot, over. Right foot, forever.
Nothing else penetrated. Not the bright afternoon sunshine nor the noise of the street. The wagon barrelling down on her made no impression. Neither did the driver, who bellowed at her to get out of the way as he sawed back on the reins, trying to keep his team from running her down.
The only thing that jarred her was the strong arm that swept her from the middle of the street seconds before four sets of iron-clad hooves would have trampled her to death. Realizing what had nearly happened, Angela blinked and looked up to thank her rescuer. The words died in her throat as Matt released her.
“Take care of yourself, ha,” he claimed with disgust. “You can’t even cross the goddamned street.”
Angela’s eyes burned. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. When she turned to flee, the carpetbag swung out and caught on a large splinter protruding from the hitching rail beside her. She yanked, then yanked again. Matt shook his head and stepped forward to help. On the third yank the splinter snapped and the bag came loose. Carried along on momentum, it swung back and struck Matt in the stomach.
The sound his breath made as it left his body made Angela cringe. “Oh!” she cried.
By the time Matt opened his eyes, she was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Angela leaned against the rough adobe wall of the building behind her, then pressed her trembling hand to her face. She couldn’t cry now. She just couldn’t. After several minutes she calmed enough to look around. She was in an alley. Three doors down a pig rooted in a pile of garbage. Over his head, a woman emptied a slop jar from a second-story window.
Gagging, her hand over her nose now, Angela rushed around the corner, out of the filthy, garbage-strewn alley and into an unfamiliar street. It was quieter, less busy than where she’d left Matt. It was the wrong street for her. She needed a job, and for that she needed a street with stores, not houses.
At the end of the block she peeked cautiously around the corner. She wasn’t sure exactly where she was, and she didn’t want to run into Matt again. Across the street and down a few buildings stood a mercantile. She could work in a store like that—she’d done it all her life.
The thought of walking up to a stranger and asking for a job started her knees trembling. Good heavens. What will I say? It was silly, of course, to be so nervous. People asked for jobs every day. It wasn’t as if she’d never worked before. So why was her heart pounding? Why was her stomach churning?
After first looking for oncoming wagons, Angela forced herself across the street, then down to Stone’s Mercantile. It wasn’t one of the stores she’d visited with Daniella, but that didn’t deter her. She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. Switching the carpetbag from one hand to the other, she opened the door. An overhead bell jingled; so did her nerves.
The familiar sights and smells inside the store welcomed her, from the oiled leather of saddles and harnesses to the crispness of fresh-dyed cotton fabric. The bright bolts of calico were stashed on the top shelf directly above a row of cast iron pots. Barrels of flour and oats and pickles stood against the near wall beneath the large, fly-specked window. It had been ages since she’d smelled pickles. The tangy aroma somehow reassured her.
Until she looked at the counter. The man on the other side was big and fat and dirty. It was hard to tell which had more grease, his hair or his apron.
“Hep ya, missy?”
Angela jumped when he spoke, and her eyes widened. He sounded like a sweet, old grandmother! “I…uh…that is, well…”
The man stalked slowly from behind the counter, and that’s when Angela noticed his eyes. Watery, black, and hard as coal. When he grinned, yellow, crooked teeth leered at her. She took a step backwards.
“Ain’t you jist cuter’n a speckled pup.”
Angela swallowed heavily and took another step back. “I…I was just…uh…” She groped behind her for the door handle and met nothing but air.
“Yeah?” the man said, coming closer. He was close enough now that she could smell him. She instantly thought of that pig in the alley. And the slop jar.
“I…I’ll be going now,” she managed in a rush. As she spoke, she spun and threw open the door, escaping into the sunshine. She was two streets away before she dared to slow down.
It took half an hour before she had the nerve to try another store, then another fifteen minutes to find one. But she didn’t fare much better. Even though the proprietor was somewhat cleaner, and a lot more pleasant, Angela still couldn’t get the words out. Once again, she panicked and ran.
Out on the street, she berated herself sharply. This was ridiculous. She squared her shoulders and went down the street to Koelsche’s General Store, lecturing herself every step of the way. Mr. Koelsche was a pleasant looking, white-haired man with a friendly smile.
Without a single stammer, Angela managed, “I’ve worked in a store like this all my life. I’m new in town and need a job. I can read and write and do bookkeeping, and I’m honest to a fault. If you can use my help, I’d like to work for you.”
She said it all so fast, at first the man merely blinked in response. Then he smiled. “Well, young lady, I surely wish I could help, but if I hired you, I’d half to fire my wife!” He laughed loudly at his own joke. “As pretty as you are, that might cause more trouble than a man could handle.”
Angela tried to smile back at him. “I understand,” she said slowly. “Could you give me an idea of where else I might look for a decent job?”
The man rocked back on his heels and scratched his chin with short, stubby fingers. “Well,” he drawled, “ya might give Tully and Ochoa a t
ry. Don’t know as they need any help, but they’re the biggest store in the Territory.”
Angela managed a smile and a soft, “Thank you.”
“But if ya want my advice,” he went on, “you’ll go on home before that husband of yours finds out what you’re up to.”
Her heart instantly tripled it’s speed.
“The wife came downstairs and ran the store so’s I could watch the trial,” he explained.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course people were going to recognize her. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? What was she going to say?
“The Triple C’s a darn sight better—and safer—place for a pretty little thing like you than this rough ol’ town. You’re better off at home, Mrs. Colton. Home where you belong—with your husband.”
His tone and manner were kind, but the words still stung. With burning cheeks, Angela mumbled a swift good-bye and left.
Out on the dusty street once again, panic threatened. How many people would recognize her on sight as Matt Colton’s wife?
Dozens, she thought with despair. She’d been to town twice with the family, although as far as she could remember, they hadn’t been in this part of town.
Then there was the trial. It had looked like half the town had been there.
Well she just couldn’t let it bother her, that’s all. She had to have a job. And soon. The sun was going down; the stores would be closing. She simply must find something. She didn’t even have a place to sleep tonight.
She located the Tully-Ochoa store on the next street and recognized it at once. Daniella had taken her there.
But the store was closed. Dispirited, she turned up a side street and nearly ran head-on into a woman standing there.
“Whoa there, honey,” the big woman said, smiling.
“Excuse me. I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Didn’t find what ya was lookin’ for?”
Angela blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Apache-Colton Series Page 69
