Phoebe remained silent as she had throughout most of the night. It was the only way to make sure she didn’t say too much and give herself away—or get herself into further trouble.
The way she almost had when she’d come within a hair’s breadth of smashing her fist into Rance’s face. How satisfying that would’ve been.
“He’s the youngest sheriff Carson City’s ever had, you know,” Martha continued in the same low, confidential tone. “I believe he feels the need to prove himself, but he’d rather bite off his own tongue than admit it. I shouldn’t have said it, but…”
They came to a sudden halt, with Martha spinning in place so suddenly, she nearly knocked Phoebe off the lower step. “Don’t mention that to him. Please. I only wanted you to see why he sometimes acts the way he does. He takes his responsibility very seriously.”
Phoebe said nothing, because she might say the wrong thing if she spoke. The very wrong thing. For instance, she might have informed Martha that many people took their responsibilities seriously. That Rance Connelly was not in the least bit unique. Her brother-in-law, for instance, had not only taken care of the ranch after her father’s death, but he’d also gone a long way toward making it more successful than ever.
He’d also become the brother the other girls never had. He protected them the way Molly did. Molly, who’d taken seriously the vow to care for her sisters when their mother died. A lot of people took responsibilities seriously.
Yet this young sheriff strutted about like a rooster, proud of himself for doing his duty. Indignation nearly choked her, and opening her mouth to vent her thoughts would have lessened the pressure. Still, she did not dare.
The kitchen was just as unkempt as the rest of the house, Phoebe noted as they entered. Hardly slovenly—Martha very clearly tried to keep control over matters, judging by the dishes soaking in the sink and a floor free from crumbs and refuse—but in need of a thorough scrubbing. There were webs in the corners, near the ceiling, and the wood-burning stove could have used a blacking. It looked dull and on the verge of corroding.
Then again, she reflected as she followed Martha through the house, it was likely that a mischievous little boy like Jesse took up much of his mother’s time—that, combined with the sense of sadness that hung about Martha like a shroud, might well leave her unable to keep house as well as she might.
Rance was waiting for them in the parlor, his body taut with impatience. “Ready?” he asked without looking at either her or his sister, then began climbing the stairs without waiting for them.
Martha seemed to take this in her stride, while Phoebe practically boiled. If she had stayed home, she would be safe and comfortable in her own bed. Reading one of her books, perhaps, or writing in her diary. There would be more than enough to write about upon returning home. Whenever that would be.
Rance came to a stop just past the top of the stairs. “What do you think?” he asked his sister, his face unreadable in the darkness.
“This will do.” Phoebe bit her tongue rather than asking whether she had a say in whether the room would do.
He opened the door to reveal a small, modestly decorated room which held little more than a sturdy bed and a small dresser. This might have been a child’s room, though the bed was larger than a child would need. Something to grow into, she decided. It seemed a shame no one slept there.
She stepped inside—with the three of them in there, one hardly had room to turn around—and waited. Now that they’d decided where to leave her, it seemed they had little idea of what to do next. The entire situation grew more absurd by the minute.
“Well, then.” Rance gestured to the bed. “Here you are. I’ll lock the door behind me. You stay put, and I’ll fetch you in the morning
Martha gave him one of her looks, the type that all but screamed of how she felt her brother was behaving like a bore. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the room on the other side of this wall.” She pointed to the wall behind the bed. “Don’t be afraid to knock on the wall.”
Rance looked at the ceiling. “Prisoners don’t get to make requests. Don’t knock on that wall unless you’re badly injured or on the verge of death.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” she replied as sweetly as possible, and was rewarded by his deepening scowl. When the door closed, the click of the key in the lock echoed in her head. The sound was louder than it should have been. It signified her loneliness.
The first thing she did was open the window and look out. Naturally, being on the second floor meant quite a drop to the ground below. Only the biggest fool, or someone in grave danger inside the house would jump. Perhaps if there was a fire or something.
She turned away, vexed. Was her only option to remove her shoes and dress and go to sleep? Was this truly how she was going to spend her night before returning to the jail cell?
No. She couldn’t accept that, and she certainly could not allow her sisters to find her missing in the morning. When Lewis rode out to town, as he most certainly would, he’d find her in jail, and the real ordeal would begin. She’d never live this down.
If only there was a way to get out of the house and away from town. The only name the sheriff knew her by was Peepsy, so there was little chance of him finding her. She could avoid her sisters ever finding out.
The house went silent, the minutes ticking by and becoming hours while she sat on the bed, unwilling to lie down. Lying down would be the same as admitting defeat, and she could not bear the thought much less the action. Yet every minute brought her a minute closer to her cell.
She ran her hands over the bedspread, distracted and fretful, praying to her mother and her father and anyone else in heaven who might be listening. Please, help me. Help me see a way out of this.
And then, as if her prayer was heard and answered, the solution presented itself to her in the form of the very bedspread beneath her hands.
She looked down, wondering.
She then pulled it back to reveal the sheets beneath. An idea took shape, crystalizing in moments, and before she knew it, she was stripping the bed with shaking hands and tying the sheets end-to-end. The bed was sturdy. It would bear her weight.
She tested the knots, dropping one sheet on the floor and standing on it while pulling up as hard as she could. They didn’t seem to budge. If only they would remain as strong when she needed them to.
This was an absolutely terrible idea, but it was the only hope she had of escape. To the devil with that Rance for giving her no other hope but this. Climbing from a window like a common criminal.
The fact that she was behaving like what he thought she was only added to her anger. She pulled harder than ever on the sheets until she felt secure in using them, then tied one end to the heavy bed frame. She tested this, too, with the ugly image of it giving way while she was still halfway down running through her mind all the while.
There was nothing left to do but to do it, then. She could no longer hesitate or put off what was inevitable. It was late enough that the chance of being spotted from outside was slim at best—a quick look back and forth while leaning from the window showed nothing but darkened windows and a silent street.
She lowered the sheet rope as carefully as she could, wishing to avoid the noise of it hitting the house or the ground. Then there was nothing more to do than climb down.
This was the part she dreaded. It was one thing to read of such narrow escapes, but another to manage one herself. Alone. With no one to catch her if she fell.
No, no, it would be easy. A simple matter of moving from one knot to the other, or even of sliding down with both hands wrapped around. Nothing more. She was strong, healthy, capable.
Terrified.
She sat on the sill before turning herself in place so both legs would dangle from the window. This was it. No turning back. Sheets in hand and her feet close together atop the nearest knot so as to keep her grip with them, as well, she allowed herself to drop from the sill.
And she ins
tantly regretted it, but there was nothing to do but get it done. One move at a time, holding on as tightly as she could, she worked fast. Before her nerves could stop her. Even though her hands shook, and her arms, and every other part of her body, she somehow allowed the sheets to slip through her hands slowly enough to lower herself without incident.
The first bit of luck she’d had thus far.
The house was still silent, telling her no one was the wiser. Let them enjoy their sleep. She would be on her way home before they so much as stirred from their dreams.
Skirts lifted and gathered close, she tiptoed down the length of the house and through the gate. It squeaked a bit, setting her teeth on edge, and thus she ran as fast as she could manage down the street and around the corner, onto Carson Street.
Thank goodness, she was finally free. For the moment.
The buggy was still in front of the mercantile, along with her horse. Thank goodness for that as well. Someone had thought to water the sweet grey mare, too, if the half-empty bucket before her meant anything. There were some good people in Carson City after all.
She untied the horse from the hitching post before leaping into the buggy and starting off down the street at a furious clip. The town was completely dark, the gaslights out, but the lightening of the eastern sky gave her hope. It would be morning soon, and she could be on her way.
What mattered now was getting the buggy far enough outside of town that she would have a head start. The moment there was enough light she would head straight for home and likely never leave its confines again.
8
Rance turned from one side to the other in bed, this time facing the window. The addition of grey light outside told him he was considerably closer to morning. There was no point in attempting to sleep any longer, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop trying. Even when he knew he’d only feel worse if he did manage an hour or two.
At this rate, he might as well have stayed in the jailhouse. He could’ve avoided going to the trouble of introducing her to Jesse. Of bringing her into his life, where there was absolutely no room for her.
He’d turned the situation over in his mind more times than he could count. If Jake Nielsen miraculously woke up that morning in a more generous frame of mind—unlikely, but one could hope—he might be able to get away with releasing the woman and washing his hands of the entire event.
More likely was the possibility that Jake would head for the courthouse and get Judge Cavanaugh involved. The judge would have no choice but to ask to see the girl.
What was there to do about it? None of this felt right, and that was a fact. The wallet had been returned, and no one was harmed. But Jake wouldn’t see it that way. Rance had known him long enough, had known him since back before he became deputy. He was a man prone to anger and to holding a grudge.
He wished he had never brought her home to see her smiling at Jesse. To see the way the boy took to her, like a bee taking to honey. He was a shrewd judge of character, that one, the way most children were. They didn’t know they were supposed to be nice, to put on an act even around people they didn’t like or trust.
They followed their instincts.
What were Rance’s instincts telling him? That something was wrong with this situation, something that didn’t have to do with the law or the loud, bold voices of those with money and power. If only he could work things out in her favor somehow. If only she would help him…
“Rance!”
Martha’s shrill cry sent him flying from bed. Images of a blue-faced young woman filled his mind. What if she had done her worst in a fit of despair? What if she truly was the wallet thief? What if she’d made up her mind to make a better life and thus stolen the wallet, but she’d been thwarted?
By him?
And he’d taunted her, insinuating she was nothing more than a trashy piece of baggage just to get a rise out of her. A reaction. What if she’d taken his cruel words to heart and hanged herself with the bedsheets? He’d seen men go to such extremes.
When he reached the bedroom where a white-faced Martha waited, he saw the bedsheets had been put to use after all. Only not in the manner in which he’d imagined.
“You heard nothing?” he demanded, leaning over the open window ledge to look down at the ground. What did he expect to find? The girl, waiting for him, smiling up from the lawn?
“If I had, would I not have alerted you?” She followed him out of the room and down the hall, where she waited outside the door as he dressed in a hurry. “I didn’t think she had it in her.”
“I should have known better,” he muttered, more to himself than to her as he thrust his legs into a pair of trousers. “I should’ve seen it coming. Just because she was on the second floor, I told myself she’d stay where she was.”
“We both believed she would.”
“Yes, but I’m the sheriff. I’m supposed to know these things. To understand criminals.”
Martha peered around the edge of the doorframe, then stepped into the room once she saw he’d come close to finishing. “Maybe that was your mistake all along,” she suggested.
“What was?”
“Thinking of her as a criminal instead of seeing her for who she was. A frightened girl. Nothing more than that. A frightened girl is capable of anything.”
“She could have spoken up on her own behalf at any time,” he growled as he tied his boots. “What was I to think? If she was innocent, why did she never claim innocence? And if she was innocent, why did she run? There is no call for an innocent person to run. Running only makes a person look more guilty than before!”
“If she knew you would never believe her—”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it. Do you understand? Not another word.” He brushed past her on his way into the hall. His coat and holster were on the coatrack by the front door.
“Don’t take your anger out on me.”
Why would she listen to him? Why would she honor his request for silence? Another thing he should’ve known better than to believe.
He jammed his arms through the sleeves, hands fisted. “I wouldn’t be so angry if it wasn’t clear that you were on her side.” His jaw was tight enough to hurt, and he knew he’d be feeling the effects later in the day, but there was no helping his intense fury.
He could just imagine her dangling from those sheets, working her way to the ground, laughing to herself over how easy it was to escape him. He had failed.
“I’m on your side, Rance. I’m always on your side.” She stepped in front of the door to slow his progress.
“Let me past. I have work to do.”
“For whom?” she challenged, hands on hips. When she planted her feet as she was currently doing, there was no moving her. She might as well have been a mighty pine.
“For the town.”
“Do you truly think that girl’s presence has anything to do with the safety of the town? Do you believe she poses a threat to the hardworking people of Carson City?” She snickered. “If she has half a brain, she’ll be far away from here by now.”
“And she won’t pay for what she’s done.”
“What did she do?” Martha whispered, staring up at him. “Even if she stole a wallet, the wallet has been returned to its owner. She took nothing. If she was the guilty party, she was held overnight for no real reason. She never had the chance to spend so much as a note of the money.”
“Just because you don’t care for Jake Nielsen—”
“No one cares for Jake Nielsen but Jake Nielsen.”
“Be that as it may, I have to care for him whether I like him or not. He’s a citizen, and by law I’m—”
She held up a hand very near his face. Near enough that he almost slapped it away. “I don’t need to hear any of your insistence that the town is all you care about right now. I know it’s not the truth.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s supposed to mean your pride is the only thing that’s truly s
uffered. She escaped you. She wouldn’t give you her name, she refused to tell you what you wanted to know. She climbed out the window using bedsheets. And now, when Jake Nielsen comes to you and asks after the girl, you’ll have to tell him you were unable to bring her to justice. It’s a matter of your pride.”
He snarled so, she had no choice but to step aside. There was nothing to say to any of her accusations, nothing he could risk Jesse overhearing in the next room.
He jammed his hat on his head as he stepped outside, marching down the stairs and out through the gate. How had he not heard it squeak when he wasn’t even sleeping? Maybe he’d drifted off at one point, after all.
Otherwise? He was the worst excuse for a sheriff Carson City had ever seen.
9
It was well past dawn by the time Phoebe crested the last ridge before reaching the house. The sight of it brought tears to her eyes. For the briefest moment during her ordeal, she’d questioned whether she would ever see it again.
Moments later, a pair of horses galloped down the road from the house. On one sat her brother-in-law, Lewis Sutton.
On the other sat his wife. Molly.
And she was already screeching. The sound of her screams carried on the wind and were just as strong and chilling when they reached Phoebe’s ears. Was it any surprise that she was furious?
“Where have you been?” she bellowed as she drew her mare up beside the buggy. “Do you have any idea how we worried for you? Do you know how we sat up all night, fretting and fearing the worst? Cate’s been crying since just past supper, Holly has paced the floor so many times it’s a wonder she hasn’t worn a hole through the boards—”
“All right.” Lewis rode up beside her. “She’s here now, which is what matters most.”
“Don’t you try to placate me, Lewis Sutton,” Molly warned, turning her wrath on him. “Not just now. Not when you were just as concerned as the rest of us.”
“But now, there’s no longer a reason for concern.” Though the tightness of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders and back told a different tale. He was not as easygoing as he pretended to be. This was all for Molly’s benefit, even if it did little good.
A Sheriff's Fugitive Bride Page 5