Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  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.

  CHAPTER 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, hard 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 writing 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?

  Surprised to catch himself considering Mrs. Davenport’s options, he shook his head. He’d promised the boy to talk to his mother, nothing more. Having given up criminal law, he had no intention of repeating past mistakes.

  He’d simply tell Jesse that her current lawyer was doing all that could be done and leave it at that. He owed the boy no more or no less. The decision not to get involved was easy to make. The hard part? Forgetting the sadness in Mrs. Davenport’s big blue eyes even as she smiled.

  The door flew open and the prosecutor barreled in to the office.

  Brock grimaced. “Mr. Ambrose. What a surprise.” An unpleasant one, at that. He hadn’t expected news of his jailhouse visit to travel through town so quickly.

  “Why are you sticking your nose in the Davenport case?” Ambrose was so incensed he fairly sputtered. As wide as he was tall, he barely reached Brock’s shoulders. With his slanted forehead and carrot-colored hair brushed straight back, he looked even more lion-like today than usual.

  “I see the rumor mill is at full tilt.”

  Ambrose’s face grew redder. “Answer me!”

  “Why is the location of my nose any concern of yours?”

  Ambrose’s gold-flecked eyes glittered with obvious dislike. “It’s an open-and-shut case. I don’t need no Philadelphia lawyer pulling courtroom theatrics.”

  Brock had been accused of many things in his career but never theatrics. He started to explain why he had visited the prisoner, but the memory of big blue eyes stopped him. Or maybe it was the sadness he’d seen in their depths.

  Resting his elbow on his arm, he tapped his chin with a knuckle and studied Ambrose. Sweat ran down the side of his bloated red face. It looked like he’d run here all the way from his office. Why? If Mrs. Davenport’s case really was that clear-cut, what was he so worried about?

  “I consulted with the defendant by family request,” he said.

  Ambrose sneered. “She hasn’t got a family. She killed them all.”

  Brock rubbed his chin. Apparently the prosecutor discounted Mrs. Davenport’s son—a mistake. “Why the death penalty?” Far as he knew, a woman had never been hung in the county. Probably not even in the territory. “If she’s found guilty, why not just send her to prison?”

  “We’re not talking one dead husband; we’re talking three.”

  Brock’s jaw clenched. “When I read the court papers, I didn’t see anything in the way of real evidence against her.”

  Ambrose drew back as if surprised. “I don’t need evidence; I’ve got facts.”

  “All you have is circumstantial at best.”

  “All?” Spit sprayed from Ambrose’s mouth. “I have witnesses who saw her not only arguing with her husband but threatening him.”

  “But no one actually saw her pull the trigger.”

  Ambrose practically foamed at the mouth. “If that was the criteria for judging guilt or innocence, every murderer would walk free.”

  “And if you had your way, everyone charged with a crime would be ruled guilty. Why don’t you just do away with the not guilty plea altogether?”

  “And why don’t you go back to Philadelphia where you belong?” Ambrose stabbed Brock’s chest with a thick index finger. “I’ll get my conviction, don’t you worry about that.” Without another word, he stormed out of the office. The slamming of the door rattled the windows, and Brock’s Harvard diploma crashed to the floor.

  He picked up the frame. Not having a hammer to replace the nail, he walked th
rough to his office and set the frame on the desk. That was when he noticed the coins lined in a neat row on the ink blotter. The money totaled fifty-six cents.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NIGHTS IN JAIL WERE THE WORST. ALONG WITH the darkness came icy-cold fear—as cold and as penetrating as a winter storm. Grace missed her son, missed fixing his meals and mending his clothes. Just thinking of Jesse filled her with such loneliness that even her whispered prayers failed to bring comfort.

  Drunks were hauled into cells with alarming regularity and told to “sleep it off.” Their slumped bodies and loud snores offered no cure for her loneliness.

  It was the fifteenth night in that horrible place, and she had just settled on her cot when the door to the jail rattled opened, followed by men’s voices. Thinking it was yet another prisoner, she was surprised to recognize the cultured bass voice of the Philadelphia lawyer. The Southern drawl belonged to the sheriff.

  The lawyer stepped into the corridor outside her cell. “Mrs. Davenport?”

  She slid off the cot. It was too dark to see his face, but his form was outlined by light shining through the open door of the sheriff’s office.

  Even in the dark she could feel his restless energy, sense his strength and vitality.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again, Mr. Daniels,” she said.

  “Likewise.” He stood only a few feet away, and the pleasant smell of bay-rum hair tonic overcame the whiskey odor wafting from the other cells.

  “If you’re happy with your current lawyer, I’ll leave.” He studied her intently as if trying to read her thoughts. “But if you want me to represent you, there’s something you need to know.”

  “I . . . I think there’s some sort of mistake, Mr. Daniels. Like I said, I can’t afford to pay you.” She shuddered to think how much a fancy lawyer like him would cost.

  He brushed away her concern with a wave of his hand. “We’ll discuss that later.” He stepped closer to the cell, and the warmth of his body offered a welcome relief from the cold. “Right now you need to know that I haven’t been in a courtroom for nearly three years. I currently specialize in business and real estate law. The last time I defended someone charged with murder, I lost and he was sent to his death.” He blew out his breath and his voice thickened. “He happened to be my best friend.”