Four Weddings and a Kiss

by Margaret Brownley

  “Good to hear.” He laid his hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Saving Grace might well be your saving grace.”

  With that the pastor walked away, whistling to himself. Puzzled, Brock watched him. What made the reverend think he needed saving?

  With a shake of his head, he entered the sheriff’s office. Bower looked up from his newspaper and tossed a nod toward the back. “It’s unlocked.”

  The blazing headline on the sheriff’s newspaper stoked Brock’s anger. He strode past the sheriff’s desk and through the door that led to the jail cells.

  Mrs. Davenport whirled about to face him. Already dressed for court, she looked as fragile as a porcelain doll. The half-moon shadows beneath her eyes told him she’d had a hard night too. Had he invaded her sleep as she invaded his?

  Irritated at such wayward thoughts, he waved the newspaper in front of her. “What does this mean?” he demanded. His loud voice caused the prisoner two cells over to stir in his sleep. “You’re changing your plea?”

  Her lips quivered. “Thinking about it.”

  He glowered at her. “Why would you do such a thing if you’re innocent?”

  Her eyes blazed. “I am innocent!”

  “Then act like it!” he shouted. She flinched and the prisoner in the cell next to hers rolled off his cot and landed on the floor with an audible thump.

  “Hey, keep it down in there!” the man slurred.

  Grace ignored him. “What am I supposed to do?” she cried.

  “You do what I tell you to do. From now on you don’t say a word to anyone without first consulting me. Is that clear?”

  She glared at him. “I don’t know much about the law, but I was raised in the South. I know a losing war when I see one.”

  He ran his hand across his chin. “We haven’t yet begun to fight.”

  She closed her eyes as if the very thought of fighting was too much to bear. “The sheriff said he would ask the judge to sentence me to prison if I pled guilty. That’s better than hanging.”

  “Some trade-off!” Prison conditions were abominable, even for men. He paced back and forth in front of her cell. He knew Grace Davenport enough to discern she didn’t do anything—even marry—without consideration of her son.

  “This is about Jesse, isn’t it?”

  The resigned look on her face told him he’d guessed right even before she answered.

  “Have you seen him lately?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Then you know that Reverend Fields and his wife are doing right by him. Jesse never looked so good. He’s got himself a real haircut. And two new pairs of trousers—two! And he’s learning Latin.”

  “Grace . . .” He stopped himself. “May I call you Grace?”

  She lowered her lashes and nodded, her silken cheeks pink. He studied her a moment before continuing, “Jesse is a fine lad. The finest I’ve ever met. He doesn’t care about fancy clothes and haircuts. He just wants his mother. With God’s help, I aim to see that he gets his wish.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. The liquid blue depths of her eyes awakened something inside that hadn’t stirred since his friend’s death. His professional façade deserting him, he was in dire danger of being drawn into forbidden territory.

  “Why do you care so much?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  He did care, though in the beginning he hadn’t even wanted to take her case. Wanted no part of it. But that was before he came to know her, came to see her basic goodness. He grimaced. Why was God testing him? He’d been perfectly content practicing business law and handling an occasional civil lawsuit. He hadn’t given up as the reverend suggested; he’d simply traded one specialty for another. Now he was obligated to see this trial through to the end. God help him!

  “You didn’t kill anyone. That’s why I care.” Even as he said it, he knew that was only part of the truth, but he didn’t want to think of the rest. If this really was a second chance, he prayed he wouldn’t fail Grace as he’d failed his friend Philip.

  “You said you wanted Jesse to get his wish.” She bit her lower lip. “What is your wish, Mr. Daniels?”

  He sucked in his breath and rubbed his chin. What he wished was to take her in his arms and comfort her. What he wished was to kiss away her worries and make her troubles disappear. But he couldn’t say any of these things, shouldn’t even be thinking them.

  “Right now,” he said with feeling, “I wish you had a twin.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A STRING OF PROSECUTING WITNESSES TOOK THE STAND that morning, one right after another. Dr. Matthews testified that the cause of death was a chunk of lead in Billy-Joe’s heart. “And that’s a calcified fact,” he said.

  A farmer testified that he’d found Billy-Joe’s horse in his field. “But when nobody claimed it, I figured it was mine to keep.”

  Next, the man who spotted Billy-Joe’s body at the bottom of a dry well took the oath. “I spotted something shiny and thought it was gold. Decided to take a look. Turned out it was Billy-Joe’s watch.”

  Men with questionable reputations gave glowing accounts of Billy-Joe’s moral character. “Finest man I ever caught cheating,” one man claimed.

  His testimony brought scattered laughter from spectators, and the judge immediately called for order.

  Mr. Benjamin Haddock took the stand next. After placing his hand on the Bible and swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, he introduced himself as a friend of the victim, Billy-Joe Davenport.

  Mr. Haddock was a thin, nervous man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but in that courtroom.

  Mr. Ambrose questioned him about the night Billy-Joe was killed. “You said you and him were playing faro. Is that correct?”

  “Yep. Just like we did every Friday.”

  “And did you see Mrs. Davenport on the night in question, which I believe was September ninth?” Ambrose asked.

  “I saw her, all right. She was madder than a peeled rattler.”

  “A peeled rattler,” Ambrose repeated for the benefit of the jury. After a dramatic pause, he asked, “And then what happened?”

  “They went at it hammer and tongs and she stormed out of the saloon.”

  Ambrose turned toward the jury as if to make sure they were paying attention. “And what did Mr. Davenport do?”

  “He . . .” A scuffle in the back of the saloon drowned out his voice.

  Brock swung around. Two men were punching each other. Catching a glimpse of Jesse watching the fight, he glanced at Grace, but she didn’t seem to notice. She’d have a fit if she knew her son was here, but there was no keeping him away.

  Soon as the sheriff restored order, the judge yelled, “I’m fining you both ten dollars for contempt of court.”

  One of the two rowdies reached into his hip pocket. “It just so happens I have a ten spot right here.”

  “Well, while you’re digging see if you also have thirty days in that pocket.” The judge waved his hand. “Take ’em away!”

  After the sheriff dragged both men out of the saloon, Ambrose continued questioning Haddock. “Let’s see, where were we . . . ? Ah, yes. Did you see Mr. Davenport after September ninth?”

  “Nope. That’s the last time.”

  Ambrose turned to Daniels. “Your witness.”

  Daniels stood and waited for Miss Watkins to signal that she was ready to record. “Didn’t you think it odd that your friend had suddenly disappeared?”

  Haddock shook his head. “Didn’t think it odd a’tall. If I was married to the Black Widder, I’d disappear too.”

  This brought laughter from spectators and jurors alike. The judge banged his weapon and Tall Pete’s head shot up. “Object-shun.”

  The judge glared at him. “Order!”

  Brock waited for the room to grow quiet before he continued. Something about Haddock didn’t sit right. Nervous as a dog with fleas, he kept putting his hand in his vest pocket.

  “Going back t
o the last night you saw him . . . did Billy-Joe say anything that led you to believe he feared for his life?”

  Haddock gave a derogatory laugh. “He didn’t have to. I could see his life was in danger with me own two eyes.”

  “You do know you’re under oath to tell the truth, is that correct?” Brock asked.

  “I don’t need no oath to tell the truth. I’ve been wedded to the truth since the day I was born.”

  “Oh?” Brock gave him a wry smile. “And how long have you been a widower?”

  “Objection!” Ambrose shouted.

  “That’s all the questions I have of this witness.” Daniels took his seat.

  Just before the church bells struck the noon hour, Ambrose rested his case.

  It was nearly two o’clock before the trial got underway again. Hackett called the court to order. “You may call your first witness, Mr. Daniels. And make it quick. I’m due in Denver day after tomorrow.”

  “Here we go,” Brock said under his breath. Grace felt a lurch of excitement. Maybe now the truth would come out. But as each witness testified, her spirits sank. Her lawyer would have gotten better results had he questioned a knothole.

  After questioning Myron Johnson, the owner of the mine where Billy-Joe worked, Daniels leaned over the table to whisper in her ear. “Ready?”

  Grace’s heart pounded but she managed to find her voice. “Yes.” No sense letting on how scared she was or that her knees were knocking.

  Brock winked at her, but that only made matters worse, for it made her heart pound faster and her knees tremble more.

  “I call to the stand the defendant, Mrs. Grace Davenport.”

  She rose and wiped her damp hands down the sides of her skirt. All eyes followed her to the ladder-back chair used by witnesses. All that could be heard were shuffling feet as spectators moved in to get a better view.

  Brock waited for her to be sworn in.

  “Please state your full name for the court,” he said. He stood directly in front of her, effectively drawing her gaze to him.

  “My name—” She cleared her throat and started again. “My name is Grace Elizabeth Davenport.” The room was so quiet that only the scratching sounds of Miss Watkins’s pen could be heard.

  Brock had gone over the questions prior to the trial, but testifying in the relative privacy of her cell was a whole lot easier than facing a crowded courtroom.

  “Opposing counsel has made much of your earlier marriages. Would you care to tell the court exactly how your two prior husbands died?”

  It was hard to talk about Geoffrey and Harry, but she forced herself. She doubted it would do much good; the townspeople preferred wild rumors to the honest truth, and nothing she said would convince them she wasn’t a killer.

  Daniels whispered for her ears only, “You’re doing great.” He then led her gently step–by–step through her marriage to Billy-Joe up to the night he was killed. “Why was that particular night so important to you?” he asked.

  “It was Jesse’s birthday and I promised him a new pair of boots.” She turned to the jury. “The ones he had were so full of holes he might as well have been going barefoot. Billy-Joe promised as soon as he got his pay, he’d pick up the ones we ordered.” She twisted her handkerchief in her lap. “Instead he lost all his money gambling.”

  “So your son didn’t get new boots for his birthday?” Daniels said, facing the jury.

  “No, he didn’t,” she said. He told her to answer the questions honestly but not to say more than necessary.

  “Did you see your husband after the night of September ninth?” he asked.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “That’s because you kilt him!” someone shouted from the balcony.

  “Ob—” This time Tall Pete wasn’t able to get the whole word out before his head flopped back down.

  The judge pounded the bar with his gun. “One more outburst and I’ll charge you all with contempt.”

  Daniels continued as if no interruptions had occurred. “Did you think it odd that your husband didn’t come back to the house? To collect his belongings?”

  “I figured he was too ashamed to face me after what he had done. But after a couple of days I went to the mine to talk to him, and the mine owner told me Billy-Joe hadn’t shown up for work.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  She nodded. “That’s when I got worried. Billy-Joe was real proud of his property. Said it was worth something now that Colorado was a state. It didn’t seem right that he would walk away from it. That’s why I went to see the sheriff.”

  “What did you say to the sheriff?”

  “I told him what happened the night I last saw Billy-Joe.”

  “And what did the sheriff say?”

  “He said he’d ask around. See if anyone knew where Billy-Joe might have gone.”

  “And you never saw nor heard from your husband again. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. “That’s correct.”

  Daniels turned to the prosecutor. “Your witness.”

  Ambrose rose and rubbed his palms together as if preparing for a feast. His questions started at a slow cadence, like a funeral march. He went into great detail about her two prior husbands and tried to poke holes in her testimony.

  “You expect us to believe that a man who spent his life on a farm wouldn’t know how to pick out a poisonous mushroom?”

  “You can’t tell just by looking at them,” she said.

  No sooner had she gotten the words out than he was on to the next question and the next. He hammered her until she felt like her most intimate thoughts had been turned inside out and laid bare for all to see.

  “In your testimony a few minutes ago, you mentioned your husband’s property. Who stands to inherit the land now that he’s deceased?”

  “Objection,” Daniels said, rising. “The property has no bearing on this case.”

  “’Course it does,” Ambrose argued. “I’m attempting to show motive.”

  The judge clamped down on his cigar. “Overruled.”

  Ambrose turned back to her. “Shall I repeat the question, Mrs. Davenport?”

  She stared at his predatory expression. “I inherit the property.” And with those four words she could feel the rope tighten around her neck.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE TRIAL LASTED FOR THREE WHOLE DAYS—THE longest trial anyone in Lone Pine could recall. At last, the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived; the jury had reached a verdict.

  Judge Hackett gave the bar a quick rap with his pistol, and a hushed silence filled the saloon. “The court will come to order. And hurry up. I’ve got a train to catch.”

  The jury had been out for less than forty minutes. Now they staggered into the saloon single file. Grace’s stomach knotted. She’d never spoken to any of these men, yet they would decide her fate.

  She gazed at Mr. Daniels’s stony profile. “It’s not a good sign, is it?” she asked. “The jury coming back so fast, I mean.”

  His gaze locked with hers and he squeezed her hand. “Whatever happens, we won’t give up. I promise.”

  He seemed sincere; probably was sincere, but so were Geoffrey, Harry, and Billy-Joe. At first. So, for that matter, was her father when he assured her that marrying at fifteen was the right thing to do. It wasn’t until much later that she learned money had changed hands. Her father hadn’t just given her away; he’d sold her like livestock.

  Quickly she banished the thought and focused on the jury. They refused to look at her now, just as her father had refused to look at her then. She clenched her hands and forced herself to breathe.

  The judge gulped his whiskey and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “Yep.” Buzz McGinnis, a thin, wheezy man with a rounded back and concave chest, stood. His pince-nez glasses kept slipping down his nose. “We got ourselves a verdict.”

  A shudder ripped through her and Daniels’s hand tightened on h
ers.

  She absorbed the strength of him and prayed. Somehow she had to be strong, for Jesse’s sake.

  McGinnis took a raspy breath and looked down at the paper in his hand. “We the jury”—he pushed his glasses up his nose—“find the Black Wid . . . uh . . . the defendant . . .” He dropped his paper and stooped to retrieve it.

  “Would you get on with it?” The judge’s voice was thick with impatience. “Just tell us if she is guilty or not guilty so I can get outta here!”

  “Not guilty,” Tall Pete slurred, waving his arm in a circle.

  “What’s that? What did he say?” a voice called from the second floor.

  “He said not guilty!” someone else yelled.

  “How can that be?” another called out. “We all know she done it!”

  McGinnis checked the paper in his hands and blinked. His glasses fell and he stooped to pick them up. He arranged them on his nose, but before he could read the correct verdict, someone yelled, “Done it or not, I say drinks on the house!”

  The floor shook beneath the onslaught of stampeding boots. McGinnis looked around, startled. Recovering quickly, he scrambled to reach the bar before the other eleven jurors.

  Grace sat rooted in place. She didn’t dare move for fear of waking from a dream.

  An incessant voice rose above the din. “Let me through.” The newspaper editor elbowed his way through the crowd and dashed out the batwing doors.

  From outside came the popping sound of gunshots—three to signal acquittal. The signal for conviction was only one.

  Still she didn’t move. Had she really been found not guilty? Ambrose apparently didn’t think so. He and Daniels stood arguing in front of the bar—arms flailing, faces red, voices drowned out by sheer pandemonium.

  Daniels finally made it to her side. Never had she seen such a wide grin. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her through the mass of heated bodies and overturned chairs.

  Outside, she stopped to inhale the fresh air. Never had it tasted sweeter. And the sun . . . Closing her eyes, she lifted her face toward the sky and absorbed its welcome warmth.