Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  “The book is full of Latin terms,” Brock cautioned.

  “Reverend Fields knows Latin. He can help me.”

  Brock stepped toward the bookshelves and reached for a hefty tome that he placed in Jesse’s lap. Law books didn’t make for compelling reading; Jesse probably wouldn’t get much past the first page or so. But having something to do might help keep the boy out of trouble, at least for a while.

  Since the heavy book commanded both of Jesse’s arms, Brock opened the door for him. “Let me know if you find anything similar to your mother’s situation that I can use.”

  “I will, Mr. Moses.”

  Brock shut the door with a shake of his head. Mr. Moses?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL, GRACE SAT AT A square saloon table. She watched warily as Mr. Daniels took his place by her side. He gave her a quick, reassuring smile before opening his leather case.

  She twisted her hands nervously on her lap. He’d spent hours going over her testimony and explaining law procedures, but nothing had prepared her for the actual trial.

  The saloon was packed, and not a single inch of standing room remained. Spectators lined the staircase and hung over the flimsy second-floor railing. It was a wonder the thing didn’t collapse. The air hung thick with the smell of alcohol, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Grace’s stomach churned.

  That morning the sheriff had taken her to his house where his wife helped her bathe and tame her unruly red hair into shiny curls that cascaded down the back of her head. Jesse, visiting the jail on the way to school to wish her luck, had hardly recognized her. Even Mr. Daniels, upon entering the jail to escort her to court, stopped and stared at her.

  She smoothed the soft fabric of her skirt and sighed. It sure did seem like a waste to wear her pretty, new dress in such an unforgiving place.

  The court watchers hooted and whistled and made disparaging comments. “Hey, Daniels, watch out. You could be the Black Widow’s next victim!” someone yelled, followed by raucous laughter.

  Ignoring the hecklers, Mr. Daniels covered her hand with his. His touch was tentative, yet more reassuring than any spoken word. He leaned close and a pleasant smell of soap drifted toward her like a breath of fresh air.

  “Are you all right?” The concern in his voice was mirrored in his eyes.

  She nodded and tried to draw from the strength of his touch. “Thank God Jesse’s not here to see this.” It was bad enough that he had a black eye from fighting. He didn’t need the added trauma of defending her in court.

  “Jesse’s a big boy,” he said. “He wants to help.”

  She shook her head. She didn’t want Jesse testifying. Please, God, don’t let it come to that.

  Daniels removed his hand from hers and wrote something on his legal tablet.

  A man dressed in a wrinkled, dark suit perched on a stool behind the bar like a crow on a telegraph wire. He took a swallow of whiskey, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and lit a cigar.

  “Is that Judge Hackett?” she asked.

  Daniels looked up from his notes. “It’s him.”

  She’d expected someone more refined, more like her new lawyer. But as she glanced around the courtroom, she realized that Mr. Daniels didn’t belong there any more than she did.

  The judge picked up his Peacemaker and Grace drew back in her seat. It took three loud raps with the butt of his gun before the saloon grew quiet.

  “Court will now come to order. Anyone caught throwing turnips, eggs, or cigar stubs will be asked to leave.”

  Tall Pete lifted his head from a table and peered around the crowded room with bloodshot eyes. “Objec-shun.”

  The judged ignored him. “Who wants to go first?”

  Mr. Daniels rose, his long, lean form seeming to command every eye in the place. His broad shoulders filled his neatly pressed frock coat.

  “Your Honor, I believe it’s customary for the prosecutor to go first.”

  Judge Hackett looked at him much like a schoolmaster regarding a wayward schoolboy. “So we’re going to run things like a Philadelphia courtroom, are we?” Without waiting for a reply, he gave the bar another whack with his pistol.

  “Mr. Ambrose, you may proceed.”

  Mr. Daniels sat and Ambrose stood.

  Stomach clenched, Grace leaned forward. “He better not go telling any lies about me,” she murmured beneath her breath. “That’s all I got to say.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll have our turn,” Daniels whispered back.

  “Thank you, Herbie.” Catching himself, Ambrose cleared his throat. “Uh . . . I mean, Your Honor.” He walked around the table and faced the twelve jury members.

  Never had Grace seen such a motley group of men. One was reading a newspaper and his floppy, felt hat was all that could be seen behind the bold Black Widow headline. Two were playing cards and another was dozing.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” he began.

  The small, birdlike woman Mr. Daniels hired to record the trial sat at a table by herself. Tongue between her teeth, she wrote furiously to keep up with the fast-talking prosecutor.

  “I will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mrs. Davenport not only killed her husband, a man who was loving, kind, and—”

  Grace slammed her hand on the table. “Overruled!”

  Daniels leaned sideways in his chair. “Only the judge can overrule.”

  “But he wasn’t loving and kind,” she argued.

  The judge gave the bar a sharp bang with his gun. “Mr. Dan-iels,” he said, stretching out her lawyer’s name with a nasally twang. “Can you not control your client?”

  “Let me do the talking.” Daniels’s breath caressed her ear like a summer breeze and she pulled back.

  “B-but what he said was a bald-faced lie.”

  “We’ll get our chance.” His dark, earnest eyes sought hers, and again he covered her hand with his own. “Trust me.”

  Trust him? She snapped her mouth shut . . . for now. But she’d trusted the last man she ever intended to trust—ever.

  Brock idly snapped a pencil in two as he listened to Ambrose’s opening statement. Not only had the prosecutor managed with diligent effort to overcome all but the slightest regard for law, his oratorical flourishes were better suited for the stage. And to think Ambrose had accused him of theatrics.

  The prosecutor went on at great lengths about Grace Davenport’s three husbands and their untimely deaths. Brock voiced several objections based on prejudice, each of which the judge overruled.

  “No favoritism there,” he mumbled after the fifth such ruling. His objections, however, did serve one useful purpose; they allowed Miss Watkins time to catch up.

  Mrs. Davenport remained silent throughout the long discourse, though Brock could hear her seething breaths. But when Ambrose suggested that Jesse’s life could be in mortal danger, Brock had to hold her down physically.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” he whispered. “That’s what he wants.”

  He felt her relax beneath his touch, but the lost look in her eyes almost broke his heart. Satisfied that she had gained control, he drew back.

  After that she held herself exactly as he wanted her to: head high, shoulders back. Wisps of red hair framing, softening the angles of her face. Her new dress followed the intriguing peaks and valleys of her feminine form in a way he’d not intended. He wanted her to look like a grieving widow, but he doubted that any of the men behind the covetous yet cautious stares saw her quite that way.

  Her complexion was pale but it was complemented by the deep blue of her eyes, as it was by her rosy pink mouth. She sure did look fetching, but it was the way she tried putting on a brave front that won his admiration.

  “Psst.”

  Brock swung his head around to find Jesse on hands and knees by his side. The boy tried to escape notice by keeping his body down and hat pulled low.

  Brock leaned sideways. “What are you doing here?” The boy’s mother was adamant about him staying
away from that courtroom.

  “Somnambulism,” Jesse replied, mispronouncing the word for sleepwalking.

  “What?”

  The boy pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read it in a whispery voice. “In 1846 and again in 1879, somnambulism was used as a defense against murder. In both cases the defendants got off.” He looked up. “Said so in that book you gave me.”

  Brock’s eyebrows shot up. Never in a million years did he think the boy could read, let alone understand, anything in that tome. He glanced over his shoulder. Grace never took her gaze off Ambrose, and she appeared oblivious to her son’s presence.

  Brock turned back to Jesse. “Those two men were actually guilty of the crimes for which they were accused,” he whispered. “Your mother’s innocent.”

  “No one believes that,” Jesse said, though his determined look began to fade.

  Daniels glanced at the jurors lapping up Ambrose’s opening statement like kittens at a bowl of milk. Even someone as young as Jesse knew the odds were against them.

  “I’m not giving up and neither are you. Understood?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “All right, then. See what else you can come up with.”

  Jesse crawled away on hands and knees, leaving a trail in the sawdust and disappearing through a forest of dusty boots and canvas-clad legs.

  At long last, Ambrose sat down and Brock stood and faced the jury. One man had written the word Guilty on the writing tablet in front of him. Brock considered having the man thrown off the jury, but that would mean having to replace one prejudicial person with another.

  His opening statement was short and promised one thing: to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the accused was innocent of the charge of murder in the first degree.

  He sat down, but Grace’s questioning glance did nothing for his self-confidence. Obviously she didn’t think much of his carefully prepared opener.

  “A lawyer never shows his full hand before it’s time,” he said in an effort to relieve her mind.

  “I’d feel better knowing you had an ace up your sleeve,” she whispered back.

  That made two of them. Not wanting to worry her, he forced his tight expression into a smile. No sense letting on that the only thing up his sleeve was prayer.

  Opening comments concluded, Mr. Ambrose called Sheriff Bower and questioned him at length on the condition of Mr. Davenport’s body.

  “Did you find any incriminatin’ evidence on the corpse?”

  “Found a couple of bullets,” the sheriff said. “The bullets came from a twelve-gauge double-barrel shotgun, just like the one Mrs. Davenport owns.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” Ambrose turned to Brock, his eyes full of challenge. “Your witness.”

  Brock rose. “How many similar shotguns would you say are in Lone Pine, Sheriff?”

  Bower shrugged. “I dunno. Couple hundred maybe.”

  “What about in the county?”

  “I guess I’d have to say ’bout a thousand or more.”

  “What about the territory?”

  “Objection,” Ambrose roared. “Speculation.”

  “No more questions,” Brock said and sat.

  Mr. Ambrose rose like a male lion rising from his nap. “I call to the witness stand Mrs. Davenport.”

  Brock jumped to his feet so quickly his chair flew back. “Objection. A prosecutor can’t call a defendant to the stand.”

  “I’m not calling Mrs. Davenport to the stand as a defendant. I’m calling her as a witness. She was the only one present during the shooting. That makes her a witness.”

  “You have no proof that she was present during the shooting,” Brock argued.

  “Yeah, well, we all know she was,” Ambrose countered.

  “Objection.” Brock turned to the judge. “May we approach the . . . um . . . bar?”

  Hackett finished lighting his cigar. “Oh, why not?”

  Brock won the argument that followed but it was only the first battle. He had a very bad feeling that he was losing the war.

  Ambrose’s accusations became more outrageous as the day progressed, but by then half the jury was asleep and the other half three sheets to the wind.

  The sun dipped behind the mountains and a brisk breeze blew off the snowy peaks. The batwing doors swung back and forth and a noticeable chill crept into the makeshift courtroom.

  Just as the saloon keeper began to light the gas lanterns, Judge Hackett pounded his gun. “Court adjourned till tomorrow.”

  Mouth tight, Brock shoved papers into his portfolio. His client’s hand on his arm made him pause. She pulled her hand away, her eyes rounded in apology. Only then did he realize he was scowling.

  “I . . . I guess my new dress didn’t help, did it?”

  He slammed his portfolio on the table. “It was only the first day,” he said a bit too brusquely. She flinched and he immediately regretted showing his frustration. He purposely softened his voice. “Tomorrow will go better,” he said, hoping to erase the worry lines from her face. A smile replaced her frown, bringing a smile to his own face.

  They might have sat there smiling indefinitely at each other had the sheriff not appeared at her side to take her back to her cell. “Ready?”

  She nodded and stood. “It’ll go better tomorrow, Mr. Daniels. Don’t you worry none, you hear?”

  Guilt rushed through him as the sheriff led her away. It was his job to encourage her, not the other way around. From now on he intended to keep his worries about her case to himself. He gathered his frock coat from the back of his chair and swung it over his shoulder. It had been a long day and it looked to be an even longer night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BROCK GULPED DOWN TWO CUPS OF COFFEE THE NEXT morning before grabbing his satchel and leaving the two-story brick boardinghouse. He dashed down the porch steps and hurried along the street toward his office.

  “Mr. Moses, Mr. Moses . . .”

  Brock stopped and turned. Jesse ran toward him, waving his arm. “Wait!” The boy caught up to him but was too winded to speak.

  “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?”

  The morning sun had yet to warm the air, and white puffs escaped Jesse’s mouth as he tried to catch his breath. “Twins,” he said between gasps.

  Brock frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “D.K. Jenkins claimed his twin robbed a bank, not him. Said so in your book.”

  Brock vaguely remembered the case. “Does your mother have a twin?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Jesse, I’m not going to lie in court.”

  The boy wrinkled his nose. “But we don’t have anything else.”

  Feeling sorry for him, Brock laid a hand on his shoulder. “We have the truth on our side. That means we have God with us too.”

  Jesse’s eyes opened wide. “Does that mean our side will win?”

  “What it means is we have to use all the tools God has given us. We just have to use them in the right way. So you need to keep reading and I need to keep working. And we both need to keep praying. Understood, Mr. Lincoln?”

  Jesse saluted. “Understood, Mr. Moses.” He turned and ran down the street, schoolbooks swinging from a leather strap. Then he vanished around the corner in the direction of the little brick schoolhouse.

  Brock stared into the face of the rising sun. A vision of Grace Davenport came to mind and intense determination flared deep within, followed by doubt. What if he couldn’t save Grace? What then, God? What then?

  Before reaching his office, Brock bought the morning paper. The headline read: BLACK WIDOW TO CHANGE PLEA. He quickly scanned the article.

  “What the—?” Tossing a coin to the paperboy, he raced down the street, reaching the sheriff’s office just as Reverend Fields walked out. Salt-and-pepper sideburns hugged a well-used face, giving him a comical look that didn’t belong with his formal black frock coat and high-top hat.

  The preacher tucked his Bible into his coat pocket and greeted B
rock with a grave nod. “This business about her changing her plea—” He shook his head and his jowls wobbled. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

  Brock grimaced. “I’ll try but there’s no guarantee she’ll listen.”

  Fields’s eyebrows rose. “She’s innocent, right? At least that’s what Jesse believes.”

  “Yes, she’s innocent. She didn’t kill anyone,” Brock assured him.

  “That’s a relief.” The reverend studied him. “So why do you look so worried? Is there a chance you can’t get her off?”

  Brock hesitated. He seldom spoke of the past, but today his burden weighed heavier than usual, and the preacher’s concern was hard to resist. “The last criminal case I handled turned out badly . . . an innocent man was sent to his death.” He thought a Harvard law degree would guarantee his friend got off on a self-defense charge, but his youth and lack of experience were no match for the clever prosecutor. He’d been too dumb or maybe too proud to admit he was in over his head. In his arrogance he hadn’t even thought to ask for God’s help.

  “I gave up criminal law and moved here. I always thought God wanted me to be a trial lawyer, but I messed up. I messed up bad.”

  The preacher commiserated with a shake of his head. “Fortunately, God doesn’t judge us by our failures. If He did, we preachers would be in a whole peck of trouble. I’m afraid we lose more than we save.”

  “I guess you can say the same about lawyers.”

  Fields chuckled. “That puts you and me in the same boat.”

  Brock nodded. “Yes, and that boat seems to be leaking. Before coming here, I was told that no law existed west of Kansas City, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t want to believe that Sunday wasn’t even on the calendar past the Missouri River either, but we can’t give up. That would be the real sin. The only Israelites who made it to the Promised Land were the ones who didn’t give up.”

  Was that what he’d done after failing his friend? Given up? Brock drew in a deep breath. “I’ll do whatever it takes to defend her.” The old fighting spirit that had long ago deserted him was back in full force.