by Lynda J. Cox
“Just that. She can’t go out in daylight. If she is in sunlight, her skin blisters. I’d been there about a week, and I was in the library of the house—it’s the only word to describe it. I asked Carroll if it was all right with him, and when I was done for the day, if I could borrow a book at a time to read. He said I would have to ask Varina, they were her books.”
Victoria couldn’t imagine being forced to never go out in the sunshine, to never feel that warmth on her face.
“I hadn’t seen her before then. Carroll told me to come back after dark. I could meet his daughter and ask her if I could borrow a book. Her appearance at first is very disconcerting.” Jon slid his hands up his thighs until he sat straighter. “But within minutes, what she looks like doesn’t even matter...she is so smart, and so charming. She made me read her favorite book first, before she would allow me to borrow any others from her.”
“What book?” Why the book title mattered, Victoria couldn’t say, but somehow, she felt it did.
A hint of a smile was visible through his facial hair. “Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. Before I could borrow the next book, we discussed and debated the meaning of nearly every word in those poems.”
She swallowed, trying to mitigate her suddenly dry mouth. Browning’s sonnets didn’t have titles, rather numbers. The numbers stamped onto the horrible metal collar that had been around his neck danced in front of her vision. “What does six-seven-five mean?”
Jon visibly shuddered, and once more huddled into himself, totally defeated. “That’s my release date. June of seventy-five. And for the last three years, it’s been my name.”
Victoria’s stomach knotted and then sank to the soles of her boots. “If I send that telegram, you won’t live to make trial for the death of that guard, will you?”
“The guard was alive when I left him. He was knocked out, but alive. Colbert’s elite guard, as he calls them, are his man-hunting dogs.” He remained hunched in a defeated posture. “I didn’t want to kill the dog, but they’re all trained to savage their prey.”
The recollection of his arm torn, punctured, and bloodied slammed into her with the force of a runaway train. He had been hunted, like an animal. Bile rose in the back of her throat. She had to get air.
Victoria opened the door. She froze when he spoke.
“I’m not afraid of dying. A clean shot or even having my neck broke by being hanged is better than how I will die if Colbert takes me back to Watonga.”
She walked out, pulling the door closed behind her. Her head reeled. Her heart felt as if it was being torn to pieces with the conflicting emotions careening through her like so many ricocheted bullets. She needed to talk to someone.
A quick scan of main street didn’t yield any answers. Her father’s horse was hitched outside the church. Paul Grisson was the last person on the face of God’s little green earth she could talk to. He would never understand why she was being torn over this. Deborah Hale and Isaac, the foreman at the Brokken Arrow, were talking to Curt Brokken in front of the general store. As much as she felt Deborah was a friend, this wasn’t a conversation to have with her, either. While Isaac usually had words of wisdom for Deborah, Victoria had never learned to be comfortable revealing personal information to the man.
What she wanted to do was talk to Abigail, but with Abigail’s delivery date imminent, she didn’t want to create any stress for her closest and dearest friend. Victoria shook her head. If she didn’t talk to Abigail about this, Abigail would be deeply hurt. Abigail was the only person she could trust to not repeat a single word to anyone.
She forced herself to walk with a measured tread to the doctor’s home. What she wanted to do was run as if she was a scalded cat. She let herself in the back door of the impressive, two-story home and immediately heaved a sigh of relief that Abigail was sitting in the kitchen.
“Vic.” Abigail grabbed the table and the back of the chair, attempting to lever herself to her feet.
“Don’t get up.” Victoria shook her head. “Please, don’t.”
“I won’t argue with you.” Abigail sank back into the seat. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Victoria shook her head, angry with herself for the emotional tears burning her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About Jonathan?” Abigail gestured to a chair across the table from her and added before Victoria could respond, “Grab a cup of coffee, that plate of cookies on the counter, and sit down. I made your favorite sugar cookies.”
Again, Victoria shook her head. “Where are Ethan and Mathew?”
“Ethan is napping, and Mathew is out at the Brokken Arrow. Deb’s grandmother took another spell.” Abigail waved her hand in the general direction of the covered plate on the counter. “Now, grab those cookies, bring them here so I can have one, and sit down. Whatever it is, it’s always easier to talk about with a cookie in your hand.”
To her mortification, Victoria burst into tears. Abigail pushed out of her chair, waddled the few steps to her, and enveloped her in a fierce hug. The hug undid her. She sagged against Abigail, her head on her shoulder, and sobbed. As if from miles away, she heard Abigail’s soft, wordless, comforting murmurs, and was dimly aware she guided her to a chair.
When the worst of her tears subsided, she pressed the cool rag Abigail handed her to her eyes. The aroma of strong coffee wafted to her. She dropped the rag onto the table. A full cup of coffee and the plate of cookies were in front of her.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed? Instead of sitting at the kitchen table and waiting on me?” Victoria couldn’t make herself reach for a cookie.
“Oh, no. Mathew and I have already had this conversation. I am not going to lie in bed waiting for this baby to be born.” Abigail lowered herself into a chair with great difficulty. “Now that we’ve established where I’m not going to be for a while, tell me what’s wrong.”
Victoria drew a deep breath and repeated her conversation with her mother, the small things that gave her pause with the man held in her jail, and what Jon told her a little while earlier. To Abigail’s credit, she didn’t interrupt, other than to ask an occasional question to clarify something. When she finally finished, Victoria reached for a cookie, startled to realize they were all gone. She looked to Abigail in the face of her friend’s uncharacteristic silence.
Abigail stared at the empty plate, but her eyes were unfocused, and her brow knit in concentration. Finally, Abigail blinked, and lifted her head. “You, your mother, and I are the only ones who know he might not be Jonathan English. Do you believe his story?”
“Yes.” Victoria should have been surprised with how quickly she answered, but she wasn’t. “You hear more gossip than I do—”
“Are you accusing me of gossiping?”
“No.” Victoria pushed herself from her chair. “You do hear it, though, because for some reason, everyone in this town tells Mathew everything. I can’t imagine he doesn’t tell you.”
Abigail’s cheeks colored but she also didn’t deny Mathew shared what he was told. Victoria walked to the stove and picked up the coffee pot, returned to the table, and poured another cup. “How many people are talking about how Jonathan came back, and that I’ve kept him at the jail? Oh, dear Lord, I should have just let Mathew bring him in here.”
“What’s done is done. From this point on, if you’re thinking what I think you are, he’s Jonathan. The escaped convict, Jon Andrews, is still on the loose. We can’t stop people from talking and speculating about how he came back. Instead, we let them. The more they tell the story, the more it’s going to grow, until it can’t even be recognized.” Abigail sighed. “That means, for him to avoid being named as an escaped convict, he has to leave the jail and move back into his house.”
Victoria collapsed into the chair. Abigail leaned forward and caught her hand. “I’ll ask you again, do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
Abigail released her hand. “You need to go take y
our husband home.”
She heaved out a deep breath, then stood. Abigail said, “Vic, if you’re wrong and he hurts you in any way, I’ll kill him myself.”
Before Victoria could answer that in any manner, Ethan scampered into the kitchen. He raced across the floor to Victoria, throwing his arms around her in a hug. “Hi, Aun’ ‘Toria.”
He let go of her and climbed into the chair Victoria had just vacated. He looked at the cookie crumbs on the plate and his face fell. Before the outburst occurred, Victoria said, “I’m sorry, Ethan. I ate all your cookies. I’ll take you to Mr. McCoury’s tomorrow and buy you a couple of his peppermint sticks.”
“Licorice whips, no’ peppermin’.” Ethan turned his attention to Abigail. “I’m hungry, Momma. Wha’s for supper?”
“You are always hungry, Ethan Knight.” Abigail’s struggle to push herself from the chair further stalled Victoria.
“Do you want me to stay and help with supper?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, thank you. Supper’s in the warmer. You have something to do.”
VICTORIA WALKED TOWARD the jail. Out of habit, she glanced up and down the main street. She slowed and then made her way to the general store. Curt was behind the counter, taking inventory, if the paper pad, pencil, and the notations he made were any indication.
He looked up when she crossed the freshly oiled floor. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
Victoria paused at a long table filled with men’s clothing. “I know you aren’t in the habit of extending credit, but I could use a new pair of shoes, trousers, two shirts, and appropriate undergarments for Jon...Jonathan. I’ll pay you when the town pays me the beginning of the mon—”
“Sheriff, my brothers and I, we owe you.” Curt cut her off and set the pad and pencil onto the top of the glass display case. “You take what he needs and between me, Fritz, and Karl, we’ll cover it.”
Victoria’s gaze strayed to the back wall, where half a dozen repeating rifles stood in a display case like so many soldiers. “Thank you. There’s one other thing. I need a deputy, Curt.”
The shop-keep’s silence pulled her attention from the rifles. “I can’t give the badge back to Jonathan until he’s stronger.”
Curt leaned one elbow onto the display case. “Why’s he been locked up in jail, Victoria?”
“I wasn’t sure it was him, until a little while ago.” As it went, it wasn’t exactly a lie. It wasn’t the whole truth, either. Victoria quelled the whisper of her conscience.
“I heard when Doc brought him in, he had to get Peter to strike manacles off his wrists and ankles.”
“Is that the story going ’round?” Victoria hoped her laugh didn’t sound either fake or forced. She picked up a pair of denim trousers she felt would fit Jonat—Jon once he regained his weight. “You know how things get more and more exaggerated with each telling. Anyway, I was thinking, I need a deputy. Someone everyone in town knows, someone level-headed and calm under pressure, and I thought that you’d make a good deputy.”
“What’s it pay?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to take the idea to the town council and get their approval to hire a deputy, and then I’d have to give them a figure for a salary, but if you’re interested, that gives me some leverage.” She added a chambray shirt and a linen shirt to the denims she held and placed those on the counter. “You wouldn’t be away from the store much, either. It would just be when I’d need someone to cover my back.”
“I’m interested.” Curt pulled the clothing a little closer. “I’ll find one of the old receipts and add a pair of boots in his size to this. Want me to add a shaving set, too?”
“Please. And, bring it all to the house later.”
“I’ll bring it all over on my way back to the ranch after I close up for the night.”
Victoria let herself out of the general store, more than surprised to note the lateness of the day. The five-oh-five should be arriving at any moment. A distant whistle, matching the wail earlier from the eleven-thirty, reached her. Her steps took on a determined, rapid rhythm. She’d left Jona—Jon alone, believing she had gone to send a telegram that would seal his fate.
He was still sitting on the edge of the bunk, and he lifted his head when she opened the door. “I’ve got seventy-two hours, give or take, right?”
Victoria’s heart clenched with the desolation shading his eyes and expression. “No.”
“Less than that...I guess Colbert’s riding horses into the ground to get to the nearest train station to get here.” He lowered his head again. “I’ve heard a bullet to the heart is quick. Usually the person shot is dead before they hit the ground.”
“I’m not shooting you, Jon.” She walked closer to her desk. This was insanity. Other than his word, her mother’s rather faulty intuition, and a few easily explained away differences, she had no manner to prove he wasn’t Jonathan English. Except that the same heart her mother had said was so badly scarred it couldn’t see the truth kept saying this wasn’t Jonathan.
“I guess that would be murder and that would weigh heavy on almost anyone’s conscience.” He shook his head, desperation entering his voice. “You wouldn’t let a rabid dog get killed in the manner he’s going to kill me. At least have the same pity for me you’d have for that dog.”
She picked up the keys and unlocked the door. “He’s not coming. We’re going home.”
Chapter Seven
Jon snapped his head up and over to her. “Home?”
“I believe you.” She pulled the door open and stepped to a side. “I believe that you didn’t do any of the crimes you were accused of doing. And, I’m breaking every promise I ever made about being a sheriff by doing this.”
He forced himself to stand but his feet wouldn’t move toward the opened door. “Home?”
She nodded, a long strand of hair falling along the side of her cheek from the loosely gathered bun. “Home. It’s a walk in your shape, but I’ll help. It won’t be the first time people will see me helping my husband stagger home.”
“He drank?” Jon managed one step closer to the freedom offered.
A smile painted with deep sadness brushed along her lips for a moment. “Every time he would lose his temper and hit me, he would go to the saloon.”
So, the bastard drank after beating on her. Probably bragged about putting his wife in her place. Jon’s stomach flipped with that thought. Another step and he was close enough to touch her. He looked down into her face, into dark eyes the color of rich, warm coffee. He slid his unbandaged hand into his pocket to keep from brushing that long strand of dark chocolate hair off her cheek. “I don’t drink. I never did. I don’t intend to start. I’ll go back to Watonga before I’ll ever raise my hand to hurt you.”
Her audible gulp let him know how difficult this was for her. A watery smile brushed her lips. “I may be a fool for this, but I believe you.”
Jon turned his gaze to the still open door of the jail. “Which way once we’re out the door?”
Victoria gestured to the street. “Right for half a block, and then left. The house is six houses up on the right.”
As much as he wanted to walk without her assistance, Jon had to accept Victoria’s steadying arm around his waist before they had turned onto the street she said was Austin. “How much farther?”
She pointed to a small, modest house mid-block. “It’s right there.”
Victoria’s arm tightened on him when a graying, imposing man rode closer. She tilted her head to his ear and said, “My father, Pastor Paul Grisson. Jonathan always called him Paul.”
Though his head was spinning, and he was light-headed and shaking with exhaustion, Jon recognized her assistance to avoid a slip that could call into question his identity.
“Jonathan,” Grisson said, as he drew his horse to a halt. “I’m thankful to see Victoria came to her senses and released you from jail.”
He caught the clenching of her jaw in the corner of his eye. “’Afternoon,
Paul.”
“Father, I’d like to get Jonathan home. He’s still very weak.”
Jon took the less than subtle hint and took another step closer to the house. Grisson reined the horse out of their way. Jon glanced up at Grisson, adding his own excuse to be away from the man. “I’m just not fit company yet, Paul.”
“I’ll be around in a day or two. We’ll talk more then.”
“Looking forward to it,” Jon managed.
By the time Victoria helped him stagger into the house, Jon shook with exhaustion. Her strength kept him upright until he collapsed onto a large, over-stuffed chesterfield in what he assumed was a formal parlor. He didn’t even have the strength to sit upright and fell to his side.
He let his eyes slide shut as he struggled to catch his breath. The front door closed, the sound of the latch catching carrying to him. Her footsteps faded as she made her way deeper into the interior of the house. When the sound of her footfalls returned, he almost had his breathing leveled.
Her cool hand brushed his sweat-soaked hair from his brow. “I’ve brought you a glass of lemonade. I’ll help you sit up.”
“I can manage.”
“I was just offering to help.”
The tightness in her voice forced his eyes open. He levered himself into a sitting position and offered what he hoped to be a sufficiently chagrined smile. “I wasn’t snapping at you. I appreciate your help, Vic.”
She sat on the ottoman directly in front of him, running her fingers up the glass, wiping away condensation. “This is hard for me.”
“I’m not him.” He leaned forward and captured her hand between his and the cool glass. Her sharp inhalation with the simple contact was enough to warn him to tread carefully. He took the glass from her and balanced it on his knee, holding it steady in his hand. “I will need your help if people are going to believe I am him.”