“Not sell her. I’ll compensate you for the money you’ve expended in raising her. It will be a straight business deal.”
“Roxanne’s not for sale. I like her . . . company. The nights are getting cold, and I’ll need to keep warm.”
“You bastard,” Matthew breathed between clenched teeth.
“A whore’s a whore, Penny, whether she’s a nigger slave or the boss’s daughter.”
Matthew roared as he lunged forward. Barbour flung up his hands, but Matthew’s fists smashed through them, beating Barbour back through the muddy yard and toward the porch. The bottom step caught Barbour’s heels and his feet flew up, tilting his body backward. Matthew heard a sickening crack when Barbour’s head struck the pointed corner of the top step. Matthew’s momentum carried him over Barbour’s limp body and onto the porch. He rolled, then rose, fists at the ready, waiting for Barbour to stand and resume the fight. When Barbour didn’t move, Matthew dropped beside him, listening for a heartbeat and feeling for a pulse. There was no heartbeat and no pulse and no reaction to the raindrops that pelted his face and body.
Matthew rocked back in shock. He was a murderer. He’d struck Barbour dead in a rage, without legal justification. It was he who had attacked. Barbour had made no aggressive move before Matthew launched his assault. Matthew had not been defending himself or Roxanne, who was safely away when the blows were struck. Matthew had hit Caleb Barbour in a rage because Barbour had insulted Heather Gillette.
Glass exploded in a second-story window. Matthew looked up and saw flames. He threw his arm across his face as hot glass showered down. A flaming board fell across Barbour’s face and set the flesh on fire. The explosion acted like a slap in the face. He remembered Roxanne’s desperate flight. She was out there in the dark, naked and terrified. Matthew leaped onto his horse and raced after her.
Roxanne had made no attempt to hide her trail. Matthew tied his horse to a tree near the spot where she’d crashed into the dense woods. The mare neighed with fright, the smell of smoke in her nostrils and the flames reflecting in her panicked eyes. Matthew knew he had to act fast before she tore free of the makeshift hitching post in her zeal to escape the fire. He wasted no time shouting after the fleeing girl. Instead, he rushed through the thick underbrush, ignoring the low limbs that slashed at his face and tore at him. He heard the snap of branches as Roxanne fought her way through the woods and redoubled his efforts until he was in sight of the frightened girl. Blood streaked her flanks. Her arms swung this way and that as she batted aside branches and pushed through the brush.
“Roxanne,” Matthew cried.
The girl turned her head, her eyes wide with terror.
“I’m Matthew Penny, your father’s lawyer.”
The words made no impression on Roxanne, but her momentary halt gave Matthew a chance to reach her. She lashed out, fighting with a fury born of desperation and insanity. Matthew grabbed her in a bear hug. Her body was slippery from the rain, and he had to fight to hold her. She lowered her head and bit him. The sharp pain forced Matthew to loosen his grip, and Roxanne broke away. He tackled her, and they fell to the ground.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he cried, but Roxanne was in no condition to understand him.
“Oh, Christ,” Matthew thought as he steeled himself to do the only thing that made sense. He felt awful when he hit Roxanne. She went limp and slumped to the ground. Her flesh had been torn in dozens of places, her nose was bleeding, and her lip was split. Matthew took off his coat and put her arms through it. Then he carried the unconscious girl to the road. His mount was barely tethered to the tree. Her eyes bulged with terror as she stared toward the burning house. Matthew hoisted Roxanne onto the horse in front of him and rode toward Gillette House.
There was no need to lay on the whip. Fear drove his mount full tilt. As he raced through the dark, the rain let up and Matthew remembered Barbour’s lifeless form stretched across the porch steps. He wept bitter tears for all he’d lost in that moment of animal rage. His hopes for a life with Heather had been dashed the moment Barbour died. All he could look forward to now was imprisonment or the hangman’s noose.
Heather was waiting expectantly in the study at the front of the house. When Matthew’s horse raced into the front yard mounted by Matthew and a partially clothed Roxanne, Heather shouted for the houseman then rushed out the front door.
“What happened?” she cried when she saw Roxanne’s condition.
“Barbour’s dead. His house is on fire,” Matthew answered as he helped Roxanne down. Her breathing was labored, and her eyes were now wide with shock; the cuts and bruises all over her body continued to ooze blood.
“Go for Dr. Sharp,” Heather told the houseman, who was walking onto the porch followed by a maid as Matthew carried Roxanne inside. “Then tell Marshal Lappeus that Caleb Barbour’s house is on fire and Barbour is dead.”
Heather followed Matthew inside. “Get this child some clothing,” she told a maid as she directed Matthew to a guest bedroom.
Matthew laid Roxanne on the bed, making sure that his jacket covered her. Heather lit a lamp before rushing out of the room. There was a straight-back chair in a corner of the room and Matthew dropped onto it. Adrenaline had kept him going since he rode into Barbour’s yard, but he’d depleted his supply. His shoulders sagged, and he held his head in his hands. What was he going to tell Heather when she asked him what had happened?
Heather and a maid came in with clothing and bedding. Heather held the light over Roxanne and pulled aside Matthew’s coat. Her face showed her shock when she saw the cuts and bruises that covered Roxanne’s body.
“Who did this?”
“Caleb Barbour,” Matthew answered in an exhausted monotone.
“Why is she unclothed?” Heather demanded, outraged by the answer that suggested itself.
Matthew shook his head wearily.
“Fetch soap and hot water,” Heather told the maid. As soon as she left, Heather knelt beside Matthew.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Please, not now. I’m exhausted.”
Matthew closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, hoping to forestall the inevitable.
“Was . . . Did Worthy Brown . . . ?”
Matthew opened his eyes, confused by the question.
“Did Mr. Brown kill Barbour?” Heather asked.
It had not occurred to Matthew that Worthy would be a suspect until Heather spoke his name. It now dawned on Matthew that Worthy’s name would be the first that came to mind when Barbour’s body was discovered.
Matthew started for the door and Heather grabbed his arm.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to go back to Barbour’s place to talk to Marshal Lappeus. There could be a lynch mob. Worthy threatened to kill Barbour in front of the whole courtroom. Everyone heard him. He’ll need my help.”
Matthew ran out of the room just as the maid returned. Worthy was in danger, but Matthew had more than the ex-slave’s safety in mind as he ran out of Gillette House. As long as he wasn’t with Heather he could postpone telling her that he had murdered Caleb Barbour.
CHAPTER 25
Worthy Brown left for Caleb Barbour’s house shortly after the rain stopped. He brought no weapon. Worthy only wanted his daughter back. He hated Barbour, but he had no wish to hurt him unless it was necessary. It wasn’t difficult to find his way through the woods in the dark. Worthy had made this trip from his cabin many times. When he traded the forest path for a country road that connected Barbour’s house to a neighboring farm he noticed a splash of scarlet above the treetops. As soon as he understood what he was seeing, Worthy broke into a run. When he burst into Barbour’s front yard he saw the body sprawled across the porch steps and rushed toward the corpse. Pieces of burning debris had blistered
its face, but the scorched flesh vaguely resembled Caleb Barbour.
“Roxanne,” Worthy shouted. The creaking of timbers and the crackling fire answered him. He called his daughter’s name as he jumped onto the porch and headed for the front door. The heat and the flames forced him back. A section of the roof started to go. Worthy jumped backward into the yard and heard the sound of horses riding hard.
“It’s the nigger,” someone shouted as men galloped toward him. One of the riders spotted the corpse stretched out on the porch steps.
“That’s Barbour. He killed Caleb Barbour,” the man cried out.
Some of the men drifted over to view the rain-soaked, half-burned corpse. Then the men around the corpse turned their horses and rode toward Worthy. He tried to run, but the riders surrounded him. Then a lasso encircled him, and he was pulled up on his toes.
Worthy didn’t see the man who broke his ribs with the point of his boot, but he heard the rib snap. Another blow numbed his shoulder. He wanted to protect his head, but the lasso pinioned his arms to his side, and he could only writhe in pain.
“Stop!” Matthew Penny yelled as he drove his horse into the crowd. The men scattered, and Matthew leaped to the ground beside Worthy. He slashed the rope with his knife.
“Get back,” Matthew shouted as he brandished his knife.
“He killed Barbour,” someone shouted.
“Get the nigger lover,” shouted another.
A pistol butt came down on Matthew’s head, and the pain blinded him.
“The nigger,” someone shouted. Matthew saw Worthy running for his life through a red haze. Then he saw Marshal Lappeus and several other riders charging into the yard. He started to tell them that Worthy was innocent, but before he could speak a rifle butt connected with his skull and he crumpled to the ground.
PART THREE
WORTHY BROWN’S CHOICE
CHAPTER 26
Matthew opened his eyes, but he couldn’t focus. When he turned his head toward the light, slivers of pain pierced his pupils. After he’d rested a bit, he raised his eyelids slowly, letting the sunlight in a little at a time. It still hurt, but it didn’t sting as it had before. Without the pain from the light to distract him, he could feel his head throb. He closed his eyes again and drifted off to sleep.
The next time Matthew woke up Heather was sitting next to his bed. She wore a plain gray dress, her brow was creased with worry, and her face was free of makeup, but he thought that she had never looked lovelier.
“Matthew,” Heather said when she noticed his eyes were open. He wanted to say something, but it took too much effort to speak, so he just stared.
Heather touched Matthew’s cheek. “Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”
Matthew could hear the worry in her voice. He tried to say her name, but his throat was so dry that he could only croak. Heather disappeared, returning a moment later with a cup of water. She tipped his head up to make drinking easier and held the rim of the cup to his lips.
“Only sip a little. Dr. Sharp says you must drink slowly at first.”
Matthew had difficulty swallowing. He coughed up the first mouthful but succeeded with the next.
“Good. That’s better,” Heather said.
Drinking a few mouthfuls exhausted Matthew. He lay back on his pillow and rested his eyes, but he managed to stay awake.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“In a guest room in my house.”
It suddenly dawned on Matthew that he had no idea why he would be in a guest room in Gillette House or how he’d gotten injured. His inability to remember was unsettling.
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“Two days?” Matthew repeated.
“You’ve been unconscious most of the time.”
“What happened to me?” he asked.
“Don’t you know?”
Matthew started to shake his head but stopped when a bolt of pain shot through it.
“You rescued Roxanne Brown. Do you remember that?”
Matthew knew who Roxanne was, but his only memory of her was from court.
“I can’t . . . I don’t remember.”
“Caleb Barbour attacked Roxanne. You saved her and brought her here.”
“How was I injured?”
“Worthy Brown killed Barbour. Some men were beating him. You tried to stop them, and you were knocked out. Marshal Lappeus rescued you.”
“Worthy killed Barbour?”
“He’s in jail.”
Matthew sensed that something wasn’t right, but he didn’t have the energy to figure out what was bothering him, and he was too tired to ask another question. He closed his eyes.
“I’d like to rest now, if that’s okay.”
Matthew heard Heather leave the room. The short conversation had exhausted him, but nagging questions kept him awake. Roxanne hurt by Barbour, Barbour dead, and Worthy Brown in jail for Barbour’s murder. It made sense but . . . But what? The answer was just out of reach when he fell asleep.
THE NEXT MORNING A LIGHT rain fell. It stopped around eleven, and the day was sunny by the early afternoon. Dr. Sharp had told Heather that fresh air would be good for Matthew. With Heather at his elbow, he made his way into the garden along a path strewn with fallen leaves. Even though the walk was short, it exhausted him and he had to rest in the gazebo to get his wind back. When Matthew regained his strength, they set out along the garden paths again.
“How is Roxanne managing?” Matthew asked after a while.
“Her mental state is poor. She has no interest in food, and her sleep is troubled. The maid tells me she has nightmares.”
“Does she know that Worthy’s been arrested for Barbour’s murder?”
“Marshal Lappeus talked to her to try to find out what happened. He told her about her father.”
“What did Roxanne tell him?”
“Not much. She was very frightened when he interviewed her. The marshal gave up when he saw how much his questions upset her.”
“Has she told you anything else?”
“I haven’t asked. She deserves peace and forgetfulness.”
Matthew and Heather rounded the side of the house. Heather was talking about Dr. Sharp’s diagnosis when the steps that led to the front porch came into view. For an instant, Caleb Barbour stretched across them, blood pooling under his head. Matthew froze. He didn’t remember seeing Barbour’s dead body, but the memory or hallucination or whatever it was seemed so real.
“What’s wrong?” Heather asked.
“Nothing,” he lied. “I just feel faint. Maybe we should go inside.”
CHAPTER 27
On their third day in San Francisco, Benjamin Gillette told Sharon Hill that he had a business meeting that would take up most of the day. He apologized for abandoning her and gave her money with which to enjoy herself until the evening, when he promised her a dinner she would not forget. Hill placed the bills in her purse, knowing that they would stay there until the afternoon. This morning she would not be visiting the charming boutiques and jewelry stores of the West Coast’s greatest metropolis. She would be going to a part of San Francisco that no one described as charming.
In the late 1840s, Latin American whores, intent on mining the forty-niners, pitched their tents near the foot of Broadway and Pacific. Around the whores there soon settled hundreds of convicts shipped by the British from penal colonies in Sydney, Australia, and Tasmania. It wasn’t long before the area bounded by Broadway, the waterfront, Powell Street, and Commercial was known as the Barbary Coast, a wicked place where respectable San Franciscans did not go and even the police entered only in pairs and never at night.
Sharon Hill knew the Barbary Coast intimately and had chosen a well-worn, plain brown dress for her outing so as not to draw the attention of the thiev
es, tramps, and cutthroats who called the coast home. For safety’s sake, she also carried her derringer and a knife, though there was less chance she’d need them in the light of day, when many of the neighborhood blackguards were sleeping or passed out drunk. Hill’s destination was the Dancing Bear, a thoroughly disreputable saloon owned by an equally disreputable attorney.
The ground floor of the Dancing Bear smelled of smoke, stale beer, and vomit. Two prostitutes, looking pasty and aged without their makeup or the protection afforded by dim lighting, sat at a table near the bar. A rich nob was sleeping it off at a corner table, doubtless stripped of the coin he’d carried when he’d entered sober and eager the night before. Hill paid them no attention as she crossed the room and climbed the stairs. There were many rooms on the second-floor in which the whores entertained. Hill passed them by and stopped in front of the farthest door, which bore the words BERNARD R. HOXIE, COUNSELOR-AT-LAW.
After a sharp knock, the door was opened by an armed and violent-looking thug whose presence was made necessary by the nature of Hoxie’s extra-legal endeavors.
“Yeah?” he asked, with no pretense of civility.
“Would you please tell Mr. Hoxie that Sharon Hill, a friend of attorney Caleb Barbour of Portland, is here to speak to him about a legal matter?”
“Let her in, Macy,” intoned a deep, rumbling voice from within the room.
The bodyguard stepped aside. Though it was daytime, the curtains were drawn. Lamplight shone dimly, illuminating some but not all of an office crammed with legal papers, lawbooks, and locked filing cabinets. Dominating the clutter was Bernard Hoxie, a fat man of epic proportions.
“Bring a chair for the young woman, Macy,” Bernard Hoxie commanded.
Macy placed a straight-back, wooden chair in front of Hoxie’s desk, and Hill sat down.
“Forgive me for not standing,” Hoxie said.
Sharon smiled.
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