Pace’s grip tightened on her hands. “Murder.”
Jessie sank back down to the sofa. Heaven help her, Blake had gone back to try again. “Geronimo.”
“What’s Geronimo got to do with anything?” Pace demanded. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Not Geronimo? “Who…who was he supposed to have murdered?”
Pace shrugged. “I don’t know. Some soldier in San Antonio. That’s why it’s being handled at Fort Sam.”
Relief had Jessie wilting against the back of the sofa. Not Geronimo. Then a rush of energy such as she had never felt seized her. She pushed Pace out of the way and shoved herself and her six-month girth clumsily to her feet. “I’ve got to go. I have to pack.”
The three people hovering over her stared.
“Go where?” her mother asked slowly.
Jessie took a deep breath. There was a time and place for stubborn pride, but this wasn’t it. “San Antonio. Blake is innocent. I have to tell them…”
Memories of her last train ride east haunted Jessie throughout the two-day trip to San Antonio. Each time she looked up at the man in the facing seat, she kept expecting to see Blake. Instead, she saw her father. He had insisted he be the one to accompany her.
Jessie’s emotions were in turmoil. How was she going to face Blake after the way she’d treated him? She hadn’t tried to explain this fear of being overwhelmed by her own emotions. She hadn’t understood it herself at the time, and wasn’t sure she did yet. She’d sniped at him and thrown his feelings back in his face because she didn’t understand her own heart. If he turned away and refused to speak to her, she didn’t think she would blame him.
Despite the heat sent out by the stove at the end of the Pullman car, Jessie tugged her coat up around her neck. But the chill was inside her, and it grew deeper with each mile.
If he wouldn’t speak to her, so be it. But she could not let him hang, especially not for something he didn’t do.
Pace hadn’t known much about the charges, even less about any evidence or witnesses or whatever proof the Army thought it had. He’d only known that Blake was charged with murder.
The charge was ridiculous. Blake was innocent. If he hadn’t been able to kill Geronimo after hating him all his life, he could never have murdered anyone. Killed in self defense, yes. Blake could, and would, do that. She’d seen it herself in Mexico. But not cold blooded murder. Not Blake. Not the father of her child. That much Jessie knew without a doubt.
She ached deep inside for what he must be going through. Did they have him locked up in a cell? Dear God, was he in chains, as Pace had been?
No! her heart cried. Not Blake!
Was he afraid?
It was hard to think of Blake being afraid. He was so strong and capable, so competent, so confident.
By his own admission, he had been afraid once. For her, when she’d been kidnapped.
Beneath the concealing folds of her coat, the baby moved.
We’re going to see your daddy, sweetheart. And I swear to you, I won’t let them hang him. I won’t let them.
Travis saw his daughter’s expression change. He leaned across to her. “Are you all right?”
Her gaze, when it met his, was fierce. “I won’t let them hang him, Daddy. He’s innocent.”
Travis took her hand, so tiny, so fragile, in his. “We don’t know that, baby. We’ll just have to—”
“I know it.” Jessie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I know he’s innocent, Daddy, the same way you would know Mama was.”
“All right, Jessie, all right.” He patted her hand and sat back in his seat. She might be convinced, as were Dani and Rena and Pace, but Travis would judge for himself. If he became convinced they were right, that Captain Blake Renard was worth the faith they had in him—and the son of a bitch had damn well better be—then Travis would see that his fourth grandchild was not born a bastard.
No matter what Jessie or Renard said, there had to be feelings there. Deep ones. Jessie wouldn’t have given herself…God he still couldn’t think of his daughter, his baby girl, in those terms. Yet looking at her now, at the grim determination on her face, at the size of her belly, he had to face the fact that she wasn’t a child any longer. She was a woman. And at one time, she had fancied herself in love with Blake Renard. She wouldn’t have thought so, would never have developed such deep feelings, without reason.
Dani had told him time and again that Renard was a man to be trusted.
Travis would wait and see. Then he would decide.
Curiosity had him wondering if his old friend Lucien would be around for Blake’s court martial. According to Dani, it wasn’t likely. And that brought up more questions, because the Lucien Renard whom Travis remembered was an honorable man. Not at all the kind to dump his own son off on relatives, then drink himself into oblivion.
Then again, who was Travis to judge? Hadn’t Matt done that very same thing not too many years ago, when his first wife had been killed? And all prejudice and parental pride aside, Travis had never met a stronger man than his eldest son.
Again, he would wait, and he would see. And then he would decide.
Jessie wrapped her arms around herself and stared out the hotel room window at the cold gray day. Streaks and rolling droplets of water magnified and distorted the view of the Alamo Plaza below. It felt strange being back in the same suite that she and her mother and Rena had occupied last fall. And once again, she thought wryly, she’d come to help a man.
Nervous energy sent her pacing across the room and back. She only hoped she was as successful in freeing Blake as they had been in freeing Pace. Without the accompanying fireworks, she thought, looking up at the sky.
But there was no thunder today, no lightning. Only cold gray drizzle that played along her already taut nerves. Why was it taking so long? Her father had left three hours ago to find out what he could about Blake’s chances. Travis didn’t want Jessie to go through the upheaval of a trial—”Not in your condition, baby”—unless it was necessary. In truth, Jessie was none too eager to present herself. Not to a military court, and not to Blake.
It was three o’clock before Travis returned, but he didn’t come alone. A flash of blue uniform behind him set up a flutter in Jessie’s stomach that had nothing to do with the baby.
But it wasn’t Blake. With Travis was a nervous, serious young lieutenant with a protruding Adam’s apple and foggy spectacles.
Her first instinct was to demand if her father had seen Blake. Was he all right?
But the stranger’s presence kept her quiet.
“Jessie, this is Lieutenant Sylvester Bernstein, Blake’s defense counsel. Lieutenant, my daughter, Jessica Colton.”
Jessie came forward and offered her hand. Smiling was beyond her just then. The mere term “defense counsel” brought home the seriousness of Blake’s situation. “Lieutenant. Won’t you have a seat? I was just about to order tea.”
Blushing to the roots of his thin brown hair, the lieutenant barely touched her hand as he mumbled his thanks and glanced at her round shape.
Jessie managed to generate enough small talk until room service delivered the tea tray, but as she poured, additional meaningless words failed her. When everyone was served, she folded her hands on what was left of her lap and searched her father’s face, then the lieutenant’s.
“How…” She swallowed, then started again. “How is Blake? Can we see him?” She wasn’t sure she was ready to face him, but she felt compelled to ask.
Travis looked to their guest. “Lieutenant?”
“Uh, yes. Captain Renard.” He adjusted his spectacles against the bridge of his nose. “He, uh, is refusing all visitors. His aunt and uncle arrived from New Mexico a month ago, and the captain sent them home. He would not permit them to stay and most adamantly did not want them here for the trial.”
Jessie’s heart ached. What must Blake be feeling, to deny himself the comfort of family?
“Your father h
as explained that you’re interested in the charges against the captain. Frankly, Miss Colton, I’m more than a little apprehensive about the chances for acquittal. The trial starts tomorrow, yet the captain’s defense is…shall we say, lacking.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Lieutenant. Please speak frankly. If there’s anything I can do to help Captain Renard, I’m most anxious to do so.”
His gaze flicked to her belly. When he raised his gaze and realized she’d been watching him, he blushed again. But there was something different in his eyes now. Something serious.
“Perhaps…perhaps there is something you know that might be of help. I understand from your father that you were in town last fall during the time Captain Renard was here?”
“Yes, I was. Perhaps you could tell me about the charges. Who could possibly think Blake would murder anyone?”
“The evidence, although all circumstantial, is considerable, ma’am. The captain’s greatcoat and hat were found with the victim’s…body.”
“Blake is on trial for his life because of a coat and hat?” she asked, incredulous. “Surely you jest, Lieutenant.”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Colton. I mean, it’s no jest. There is, of course, other evidence. Captain Renard is charged with the murder of Sergeant Henry Tipplemire, and—”
“No! Sergeant Tipplemire was murdered?”
Lieutenant Bernstein leaned away from the sofa slowly, his expression intent. “You knew the sergeant?”
“Of course! What I mean is, I met him that last night before we…before we left town. Lieutenant.” She sat forward stiffly. “I am the one who saw to it Sergeant Tipplemire wore Blake’s coat and hat that night.”
“How is that, ma’am?”
Jessie quickly told about spotting Tipplemire in the Palm Gardens Restaurant, about learning he’d been assigned the unpalatable duty of following Blake. The cold rain that awaited his all-night vigil.
Lieutenant Bernstein rested his elbows on his knees and pressed the heels of his hands against each other. His fingers drummed a rhythm against each other while his eyes lit from within. “You’re the one!”
“The one who what?”
Bernstein blushed again and cleared his throat. “I’ve known for some time that there was a lady involved who might be able to clear Renard.”
“Then why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you send for me? Blake no more killed Sergeant Tipplemire than you did,” Jessie cried.
Bernstein cleared his throat again. “Captain Renard has refused to give a name to his…alibi. I believe, Miss Colton, that he was trying to…protect you.”
She gave the lieutenant a wry, sad smile. “At the possible expense of his neck?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Jessie?” Travis asked. “What do you want to do?”
Jessie straightened. “He saved my life, Daddy. More than once. I cannot keep silent when I have the means to free him.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Yes, sir.” Private Slocum squirmed in the witness box.
The uniformed prosecutor motioned for him to continue.
“Well, Sergeant Tipplemire told me all about how Cap’n Renard grabbed him by the neck and throwed him up against the wall that first day he—he, bein’ the sergeant, I mean—that first day he was ordered to follow the cap’n.”
Beside Blake, Lieutenant Bernstein bobbed up from his chair. “Objection, Your Honor. The witness’s testimony is hearsay.”
“If need be, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, “I can produce a half dozen eyewitnesses to the encounter of which Private Slocum speaks.”
The judge, General Armstrong Hamilton, pursed his lips and studied the prosecutor. “I’ll let the testimony stand for now, with the understanding that you may be asked to produce these eyewitnesses before the end of the trial. Objection overruled.”
With a heavy sigh, Bernstein resumed his seat.
Blake watched it all dispassionately and purposely refrained from looking toward the five-man panel that would ultimately decide his fate. There was no point in looking. How General Stanley got himself appointed to the panel, Blake didn’t know. If money had changed hands, Blake wouldn’t have been surprised. But no, maybe not money. Promises were more Grover Cleveland’s style, and if the President’s pudgy, manipulative fingers weren’t stirring this particular pot, Blake would kiss the devil’s ass.
In any case, with Stanley on the jury, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Blake knew it. He knew his defense was slim to nonexistent. Even if the other four members of the jury believed him, Stanley would browbeat them into a conviction mood.
The only surprise was that Blake still cared. He was tired. So damn tired. Caring took energy he wasn’t sure he had.
Private Slocum finished his testimony and left the witness stand. Next came a succession of civilians. One had seen Blake enter the Palm Garden the night in question in the company of a lovely young lady.
“What was the captain wearing when you saw him?”
“Why, his uniform, of course. He had his hat perched on top of his greatcoat in an extra chair at their table.”
Then came the man who’d found the body in the alley.
“What were you doing out so early that morning, Mr. Rhinehold?”
“I work brewery. Make beer, you know?”
“And tell us what you found that morning on your way to the brewery.”
“Well, I tink I find me new coat. Just laying dere in alley, so I says, must be for me.”
“And then what did you do?”
“Den I grabs coat and start to walk away. But coat not come. So I give yank.”
“And?”
Mr. Rhinehold shrugged. “I find dead man. Big grin where grin not belong.” He grinned and drew his forefinger dramatically across his throat. “Troat cut. Big mess.”
The prosecutor went to a table across the room and lifted a blood-encrusted caped greatcoat, Army blue. “Is this the coat, Mr. Rhinehold?”
“Dat look like it, I say. Yes, sir. Dat sure do look like it. Is mine now?”
“I’m sorry, but no.” The prosecutor, a tall thin colonel from West Point by way of Harvard, turned toward the judge. “The prosecution enters this coat as Exhibit A, Your Honor. The court will note that it bears the name of the defendant, Captain Blake Renard, stitched into the lining.”
Thanks, Aunt Lucy, Blake thought with a wry twist of his lips. She’d stitched his name there as a Christmas present year before last.
With a weary sigh, he wondered how much more of this he was going to have to listen to.
Not much, at least for now, for when the present witness stepped down, the prosecution rested its case and the judge called a recess for lunch.
The thought of food held no appeal, but at least Blake would be able to stare at a different set of four walls for an hour while they kept him in the room next to the court room.
“You’re not helping matters,” Bernstein said when the two were alone—except for the guard inside the room with them and the two just outside the only door. There was no window.
“You look as though you’ve already been convicted.”
Blake thought of General Stanley and his four cronies on the jury. He smiled grimly. “No offense intended toward your abilities, Bernstein, but…haven’t I?”
Bernstein adjusted his spectacles. A damn irritating habit, Blake thought.
“I daresay not, Captain.” A secret smile played about Bernstein’s thin lips. “As you Westerners are wont to say, not by a long shot.”
Suspicious—it simply wasn’t like Bernstein to be optimistic—Blake narrowed his eyes. “What have you done?”
Bernstein paused with a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. “I? Why, nothing, Captain.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Bernstein smiled. Blake had never seen him smile before. “Perhaps,” the Lieutenant from New York said, “because you have a suspicious nature.”
When th
ey reentered the courtroom at the end of the recess, Blake scanned the three rows of spectator seats out of habit, to make sure his aunt and uncle hadn’t decided to go against his wishes and show up for the trial.
He’d been surprised to see them last month. Even more surprised to learn that Wade had somehow found out about the charges against Blake and notified Phillip and Lucy. But when they’d arrived, they’d looked so uncomfortable with the whole idea of Blake in jail, he’d been forced to ask them to leave.
That, and because he’d seen the questions in their eyes. Was he guilty? Had he murdered a man? From strangers the suspicions were bad enough. From Phillip and Lucy, they’d been intolerable.
Blake had sent them home, hoping to God they didn’t come back for the trial, specifically telling them not to. Now he scanned the room again to be sure. Then he stiffened abruptly.
Phillip and Lucy weren’t there, but someone else was. Seeing her was like getting kicked in the gut by a mule. The breath left his lungs; the blood drained from his head and pooled heavily in his feet.
Jessie!
“Come along, Captain.” Bernstein took him by the arm—an action totally out of character for the nervous, unassuming young man.
Too stunned to resist, Blake let his attorney lead him to the defense table. But he never took his eyes off Jessie.
Her face was pale, yet there was something else, a change about her he couldn’t name. Her gaze, big and gray as the clouds he’d caught a glimpse of when they’d escorted him from the guard house to the court room, met his, but only for a moment before darting nervously away.
Her paleness did nothing to mar her soft beauty. Blake ached to touch her, hold her, feel her arms around him. The need in him swelled in his chest and cut off his air. God, how he still wanted her.
Dream on, Renard. The lady washed her hands of you months ago.
The reminder left him with a big, unanswered question. What was she doing here? What the hell was she doing here?
Blake was almost to his chair before he caught sight of the man next to her. Travis Colton’s brown eyes bored into him, hard and cold. Like a steel blade. Without thinking, Blake rubbed a forefinger along the new hump across the bridge of his nose.
Apache-Colton Series Page 136
