Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  A soft gasp escaped her. Without thinking, she reached between the bars and her fingers brushed against his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  He surprised her by taking her hand in his, and she couldn’t remember feeling so safe and protected as she did at that moment.

  “Now that you know my history, I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted nothing more to do with me.” He released her hand, but the thread-like bond between them remained intact. “However, if you so desire, I’ll represent you.”

  “What would be the advantage of that, Mr. Daniels?” Other that the fact that he was a whole lot more pleasant to look at than her current lawyer and wasn’t hard of hearing.

  “I know the law.”

  “And the court-appointed lawyer, Mr. Spencer? What does he know?”

  “He knows the judge.”

  “Bail?” Judge Herbert J. Hackett peered at Brock from behind the bar of the Golden Nugget Saloon. The town had no access to a courthouse, and trials were usually held at the Grande Hotel. But that was before a guest set his bed afire, damaging the entire second floor. The saloon made a poor alternative, but it was the best that could be done on short notice.

  “You want me to set the Black Wid—” Hackett caught himself and chomped on his cigar. His jowly face was framed by sideburns. Smoke circled his head before rising to the tin ceiling. “You want me to set the defendant free?”

  “Temporarily,” Brock said.

  “Objection!” Ambrose shouted.

  “It’s not necessary to raise your voice,” Brock said mildly. It was just the two of them standing in front of the polished wood bar. Regulars scattered among the tables in various stages of inebriation paid little heed to the proceedings and the faro players were too intent on their game to care.

  Ambrose glowered. “The charge of murder makes her not eligible for bail.” His finger raised orator-style, he continued, “And furthermore, the trial begins tomorrow so setting Mrs. Davenport free makes no sense.”

  The judge reached for a bottle of whiskey and refilled his glass. “Mr. Daniels?”

  Brock rested his foot on the brass guardrail. “My client needs privacy to prepare for trial.”

  “She’s in jail,” Ambrose bellowed. “How much more privacy does she need?”

  Ignoring the question, Brock continued, “It’s also in the best interests of the town to release her.”

  The judge’s bushy eyebrows formed a V. “How so?”

  “The sheriff has limited space for prisoners and the other two cells are full. Putting a man in the same cell as the lady creates a management problem and puts her virtue in jeopardy.”

  Ambrose practically choked on his words. “Virtue! Is that all you’re worried about? The woman’s on trial for murder!”

  “Enough!” The judge banged the butt of his Peacemaker on the bar. Glasses shook and whiskey bottles rattled.

  The man known as Tall Pete lifted his head from a nearby table and slurred, “Objec-shun.”

  “You can’t object, Pete. You’re not part of the proceedin’s.” The judge banged the butt of his gun a second time. “Bail denied. Now if that’s all—”

  “I also ask that the case be heard in front of a jury,” Brock persisted.

  “A jury, eh.” Hackett raised a finger and pointed to the group of men playing faro. “Hey, you in the red shirt.” The old-timer looked up. “You and your friends there are on jury duty. I expect to see you all in court.”

  The man shrugged and went back to his game.

  “Satisfied?” Hackett asked.

  “That’s only six,” Daniels said. “We need twelve.”

  Annoyance flitted across Hackett’s face and he turned to Ambrose. “Round up six more bodies before trial begins.” He shifted his gaze back to Daniels. “Anything else?”

  “I do have one more request,” Brock said. “I’m new counsel and have not had adequate time to review the evidence against my client. I request a postponement until next week.” Since the judge was one of three who rode circuit and was only in town for a short time, there was little chance of having his request granted, but it never hurt to try.

  Ambrose threw up his hands. “Your Honor—”

  The judge clamped down on his cigar. “I’ll give you until the day after tomorrow and not one minute more. Now git, both of you.”

  Ambrose stopped Brock on the way out. “You might have won a point or two, but the trial’s gonna be a whole different story.”

  “I’m not worried,” Brock said. “The judge seems fair enough.”

  “Hackett?” Ambrose’s smile lacked humor. “Don’t be fooled. He might be short on words but, believe me, he’s long on sentences.” With that he walked off.

  The outer jail door clanked open and Grace bolted upright on her cot. Seeing her son’s grinning face, she jumped to her feet. “Jesse!”

  The deputy jingled his keys. “You got fifteen minutes.”

  Jesse ran to her cell and stuck his arm through the bars. “Ma.”

  “Oh, dear heart . . .” She held his hand in both of hers. “How did you get in? The sheriff said no visitors ’cept for my lawyer.”

  “Mr. Daniels talked to him.”

  “He . . . he did that?” A vision of a handsome, square face came to mind. She tucked the memory away and studied her son.

  Jesse nodded. “But only if I promised not to sneak in any more files.”

  “And that’s a promise you have to keep.” She had so much she wanted to say to him she hardly knew where to start. “You should be in school.”

  “My teacher let me out early for noon break. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded. “The other kids . . . they aren’t bothering you, are they?”

  He shook his head. “Reverend Fields told the class that anyone who gives me a bad time would have to sit in school all day and listen to him preach.”

  She laughed. “I guess no one wants to do that.” She gazed at his new shirt and trousers. “You look real good. And, heavens to Betsy, look at your hair!” It was cut short and neatly combed to one side.

  “Reverend Fields took me to the barbershop.”

  “Did he, now?” Never had she been able to afford such luxury, and a feeling of inadequacy washed over her. Her son never looked this good while in her care.

  Jesse wrinkled his nose. “The barber made me smell like a girl.”

  Grace laughed. “You look mighty handsome and so grown up.” Too grown up. Her heart ached with a combination of pride and despair.

  “Are you keeping up with your schoolwork?”

  The rumors about her being a Black Widow had begun after the death of her second husband. The other pupils said such horrible things to Jesse she had been forced to pull him out of school. She’d done her best to teach him, but having so little education herself, it had been difficult.

  He nodded. “Reverend Fields has more books than the lending library. Ma—he’s teaching me Latin.”

  “Oh my, Latin. Never knew anyone who could speak Latin. Sounds like the reverend is treating you well. Got you new clothes and all.”

  “He said I had to look presentable when I testify.”

  She tightened her hold on the bars. “I don’t want you nowhere near that courtroom. You hear?”

  “But I have to! Mr. Daniels said he needs me to tell the court what a good ma you are.”

  She reached through the bars to smooth away the worried frown on his forehead. Glory be, was that peach fuzz on his upper lip? And it seemed as if he’d shot up another inch since she last saw him two weeks ago. At nearly twelve, he was already tall enough to look her square in the eye. Lately, it was hard to see the boy for the man and that worried her. How much longer before he grew restless and deserted her like everyone else?

  “Mr. Daniels kindly agreed to be my lawyer, but that don’t mean our troubles are over.”

  Jesse’s eyes blazed with earnestness. “That’s why Reverend Fields said we have to pray.”


  “God doesn’t always—” She fell silent.

  “You were gonna say He don’t always answer prayers, right?”

  She pushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “He does sometimes. I prayed for a healthy baby boy and He sent you.” Maybe a person was entitled to only one answered prayer in a lifetime, but just in case God saw fit to favor her again, she’d never stopped praying, for all the good it did her.

  Jesse’s eyes watered. “I . . . I prayed that Billy-Joe would go away because he made you cry. But I didn’t want him to die.”

  His tears nearly shattered her tightly held control. “I know you didn’t, Jesse.”

  Church bells rang out the noon hour and Jesse knuckled his eyes. “Reverend Fields said those bells are the voice of God,” he whispered.

  The chimes seemed to have a calming effect on him and she smiled. “And the voice is saying that none of this is your fault.”

  He lifted his gaze upward, eyes glistening. “Mr. Daniels will prove you’re innocent,” he said. “That’s what God is saying.”

  Her heart squeezed tight and for a moment she believed it was true. Believed that Mr. Daniels really was an answer to prayer. But all too soon the chimes faded away, taking the last of her hopes with them.

  The outer door to the jailhouse opened. “Time’s up,” the deputy sheriff called.

  “You better go,” she whispered. They hugged each other through the bars. “Take care, you hear? And don’t give the preacher a hard time.”

  Jesse backed away from her cell as if trying to hold her in his gaze until the last possible moment.

  Her eyes burned, but not wanting to worry him, she forced a smile. “Don’t forget to tell Mr. Daniels that you won’t be testifyin’—”

  Jesse turned and shot past the deputy sheriff before she could finish her sentence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON MR. DANIELS APPEARED IN front of her cell. “We have work to do,” he said. “The trial begins tomorrow.” He held up a package. “I brought something for you.” He slipped the package through the bars.

  Their fingers met as she reached for it and a spark seemed to pass between them. His gaze held hers for a moment before he backed away.

  “Open it,” he said. He looked slightly uncomfortable . . . or maybe embarrassed.

  She set the package on the cot and eagerly pulled off the string. The paper separated, revealing a garment. Lifting it from its wrappings, she held the frock in front of her. The black floral-print dress had a fitted bodice and slightly flared skirt. Not only was it the prettiest dress she ever did see, but it was also store-bought—a luxury she’d never been able to afford.

  She raised a questioning gaze to find him watching her.

  His eyes clung to hers as if to analyze her reaction. “It’s the only black dress I could find on such short notice,” he said as if to apologize. “I hope it fits.”

  “I think it will fit just fine,” she said. The thought of him picking out a garment her size made her blush. “But—” She refolded the dress and placed it back in its wrappings. “I can’t accept this.” It was enough that he’d agreed to defend her, but gifts too?

  “You don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice brusque. He was all law wrangler now, all businesslike. “You have to look like a mourning widow when you take the stand.”

  “I am a mourning widow,” she said. Despite Billy-Joe’s many faults, she never wanted to see him dead.

  He fixed his gaze on her as if to weigh her sincerity. “You’ll be judged on your appearance and demeanor.” As if he’d suddenly realized he’d been staring, he lowered his gaze and pulled his writing tablet from his leather satchel. “You’ll also be judged on the way you answer questions and—”

  “Jesse blames himself for Billy-Joe’s death,” she blurted out. He looked up from his notes. “If you let him testify, that’s what he’ll tell the court, and I don’t want to put him through that.”

  “He’s the only character witness we have.”

  “I don’t care!”

  His brow furrowed. “I don’t think you fully understand the seriousness of your situation.”

  He was wrong about that. She understood all too well. “I said no,” she snapped. “He’s not testifying!”

  The following morning Brock breathed in the clear, pine-scented air as he hurried to his office. He had a dozen things on his mind—all having to do with the case for which he was now in charge. Knowing Mrs. Davenport’s future was in his hands had kept him twisting and turning all night. What was it about her that affected him so? He couldn’t even close his eyes without seeing those big blue eyes of hers. Seeing that smile.

  He shook his head. Getting too close to a client could be dangerous. A clear and objective mind was essential for defending a client. Personal feelings would only get in the way. If he’d learned anything from failing his friend, he’d learned that much.

  He forced himself to focus on his list of things to do. Colorado lacked court transcribers, and though mechanical shorthand machines had been introduced to Philadelphia courtrooms, no such instrument existed out west.

  He was obliged to hire his landlady’s daughter to take on the recording chore with pen and ink. Miss Watkins, a thirty-year-old spinster, could read and write, but had no knowledge of shorthand. Whether she could adequately record testimony remained to be seen.

  The street was deserted, businesses still closed. The rising sun cast fingers of light through piney branches and turned the scattered clouds into pink cotton balls.

  Located in the Rocky Mountains, Lone Pine was named after the tall tree that stood smack in the center of town. Since gold was first discovered there in the 1850s, the town had known more busts than booms, but it never lacked for action. Since Brock’s arrival six months previous, the town boasted more than a dozen drunken brawls, three shoot-outs, two knifings, and a dogfight.

  Today, however, all looked peaceful as he made his way down Second Street. Only a thin, young voice broke the early morning silence: “Extra, extra! Read all about the Black Widow!”

  Frowning, Brock pulled a coin from the pocket of his frock coat and handed it to the newspaper boy. After giving Brock a copy, the boy continued on his way, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  Brock tucked the paper beneath his arm to be read later, though he could pretty well guess what it said. The Lone Pine Herald read more like a dime novel than serious journalism.

  Shouts greeted Brock as he turned the corner to Main. Stepping off the boardwalk, he dodged a delivery wagon and ran to the other side. A fistfight was in progress, and onlookers yelled from the sidelines.

  Brock gave the crowd a cursory glance. Probably a couple of miners fighting over a pretty woman. Or maybe drunks. At least this time they were using fists and not guns.

  A man he recognized as Jim Clover waved his hat and yelled, “Come on, kid. You can’t let the Black Widder’s boy get the best of you!”

  Brock stopped cold in his tracks. Jesse? He quickened his steps. Holding his portfolio like a shield, he pushed his way through the crowd. Grabbing one boy by the shirt, he jerked him to his feet and pulled Jesse off the ground.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” His rough voice was enough to make the spectators back away.

  Jesse shook with anger but said nothing.

  Brock grabbed him by the arm and hauled him down the street to his office.

  Jesse had a bloodied nose and one puffed eye had already started turning blue. That was the extent of his injuries.

  Brock pointed to a chair. “Sit!” He poured water from a pitcher onto a clean handkerchief and handed it to the boy. “What happened out there?”

  Jesse dabbed his nose and flinched. “He started it.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Freddy Ambrose. He called Ma names. Said she didn’t deserve to live and that his pa would make sure she didn’t.”

  Arms folded, Brock regarded the boy. “You can’t solve problems wit
h your fists.”

  “So what should I do?” Jesse’s blue eyes held a suspicious gleam, but he stubbornly held his tears in check. “Let people say bad things about her?”

  “If you want to fight for your mother, fine. But do it where it counts—in a court of law.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? Ma won’t even let me testify.”

  That posed a problem, but Brock hoped to change his mother’s mind once the trial began. Jesse was the only one willing to stand up for her character. Without his testimony, Brock had little from which to work.

  “Can you read?”

  Jesse nodded. “Read every book in the lending library.”

  “How many is that? Two?” Brock regretted his thoughtless words the moment he saw Jesse’s crestfallen expression. “Tell you what. See those books over there?”

  Jesse eyed the shelves crammed with law books. “Yeah.”

  “Those books contain information about statutes and commentaries on various court cases. They also have several transcripts from Mr. Abraham Lincoln’s trials.” No trial recorders existed in Lincoln’s day, so the transcripts were probably not all that accurate. But much could still be learned from them. “Did you know he was a lawyer before he was president?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “He’ll be remembered for his presidency, but his real genius was law. His cases provide lawyers like me with information on how to prepare for ours. When I was in Philadelphia, I had an assistant who searched for what we call precedents. A precedent provides a model for lawyers to follow and to see how similar cases were handled. Now that I’m here—”

  “I can be your assistant,” Jesse said, his eager voice offering an odd contrast to his swollen eye.