by Maren Smith
“I can’t!” she burst, and that ocean’s worth of traitorous tears suddenly broke free. “I can’t!”
“Yes, you can,” he replied, but he had no idea what she truly meant because what he added next made no sense to her at all. “You just don’t have to do it alone. And that right there, sweetheart, is what you need to listen to.”
How wrong he was. She was alone. She had been for three years now. Her husband was dead, and she’d been ripped from the only family she knew and loved. And none of that was ever going to change.
Lydia broke completely. She draped over his knee, sobbing. Unable to keep back the cries that keened out of her, forced through gritted teeth, or that vast sea of tears, just as forced out no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t breathe. She sucked and coughed on air, but every hard inhale was broken up by the hiccups she just couldn’t make herself stop.
Although Garrett had. By the time she became aware that his spanking had ceased, it had been over for some time. Long enough for him to pull together the two halves of her underwear and tuck them over one another, though he didn’t retie the ribbon. He let go of her hands and opened the vise of his thighs to gently smooth her skirts down off her back, over her hips, letting her legs be modestly concealed once more.
He drew her upright and she was too broken, too sad, too miserable to offer any resistance at all when he sat her on his lap. Not even when he folded her in his arms, pulling her snug against his chest, and rocked her.
“It’s all right,” he murmured, one hand caressing the hair out of her face before stroking softly down her back. “I have you, honey. I’ll always have you.”
He didn’t know the first damn thing about her. It made her cry all over again.
“I’ll never forgive you,” she wept.
She thought she felt him smile in the kiss he pressed upon her forehead. For some reason, that felt just as lost and as weary as she did.
“I know,” he whispered, and for the longest time simply held her, and rocked her.
And never once did he let her go.
Chapter Eight
Citrine looked good as she walked into the town meeting hall with Stone holding onto her right hand and herself holding onto the good doctor’s arm. Having spent most of her time at the Red Petticoat chronically ill, Lydia couldn’t remember her ever seeming quite so healthy. Marriage, especially to Doctor Anson Norwood, had done her good.
They came down the aisle of hastily assembled chairs toward the makeshift podium where Judge Johnson was already seated at the table on the dais. Mayor Rockwell and Sheriff Justice were seated at a smaller table to his right. All three military officers—Captain Everson and his lieutenants—had been given front row seats to his left, near the windows that already stood wide open to let in as much breeze as possible. It wasn’t much. The only time Lydia felt that breeze was when the doors had opened to admit the doc and his family. Once they drifted shut again, the only air movement she could feel was that generated by the handheld fans each lady present sat waving for her own benefit. And there were a lot of ladies present.
Just about every gem who worked the Red Petticoat—both in the past and present—occupied a seat. So was Millicent. So were her steady supply of minions and even a few of the more respectable ladies of Culpepper Cove. But for every lady there, at least three times as many men stood packed together along the walls and sat upon what few chairs the women had not commandeered.
And then there were the soldiers. They guarded the door and the porch beyond in neatly assembled lines that trailed all the way out of the town meeting hall. Just walking into the place made Lydia nervous, almost beyond her ability to conceal. She felt as if she were facing down the whole of the U.S. army, on the verge of an enormous battle for which the only prize was a child. Her child. Perhaps that wasn’t fair to Stone, because he was in every bit as much as Paquah. Perhaps it wasn’t even true, but despite all the gems who’d abandoned work to be there with her today, Gabe and Jewel included, and even Garrett who waited beside Charlie and John with the other men who crowded behind her back row chair, she’d never felt so alone in her life.
“Everyone concerned is now present, I see,” Judge Johnson said, the deep boom of his voice carrying easily through the room and ending what little hush of whispered conversation had been taking place. “Listen up, because I don’t like repeating myself. This is not a trial.” He looked at the military officers over his glasses when he said that, and eventually swept the rest of the room with the same stern frown. “This is a hearing meant to validate the charges and decide whether or not they hold merit enough to warrant an arrest. Nevertheless, should the accused desire representation from a qualified attorney, Mr. Adam Barlow—” He waved his hand to indicate the slender lawyer in a dark suit, already seated to one side and deep in the perusal of the imposingly thick law book in his lap. “—has offered his services, free of charge, for the duration of this hearing only. Now, unless there are any objections, let’s begin.”
“I actually do have an objection,” Millicent said. Seated beside her husband in the front row opposite of the soldiers, with the support of her grown daughter Elizabeth—pretty, young Beth, with all that curly brown hair piled princess high beneath the lace and ruffle bonnet she wore—directly behind her, Millicent stood up. “I object to being arrested as if I were some common criminal. I was dragged out of my house—and I have the marks upon my arm where that beast of a sheriff—”
Sheriff Justice rolled his eyes.
“Sit down,” Judge Johnson said, interrupting her tirade before she could truly get it started and pinning her to silence with the absolute coolness of his stare. “You’re the reason we’re all here. As my only material witness to the complaints brought forth by these warrants, you will reside in your cell for every minute that we are not in this room until both hearings are completed. And you will consider yourself extremely fortunate, should I find the evidence that brought us here lacking, if you do not find yourself a long-standing resident of that cell when and if I find you in contempt.”
Millicent stared at him, her mouth agape.
“I said sit down,” he reminded.
Too stunned at first to respond, eventually she sat.
“Now then.” Setting his spectacles on his nose, Judge Johnson unfolded the first warrant. “We’ll begin with the first boy, Stone Norwood.” In a deep clear monotone, he read out the entire paper, most of which was so twisted in legalese that Lydia couldn’t keep up with it. She rubbed her forehead, close on to tears for the second time that day. How could she possibly combat this if she couldn’t understand the charges being read?
She glanced at Mr. Barlow, but disregarded that option before it could fully materialize in her brain. Lawyers were only one step removed from soldiers, as far as she was concerned. They both worked for the government. That meant they did what ultimately the government wanted, and in this case, the government wanted her son. There was nothing he could do for her that she would be able to trust. And free of charge? Nobody did anything free of charge.
Lydia shielded the glare she shot him behind her fan and watched as Doctor Norwood ousted a willing gentleman from his seat near the front and gave it to Citrine. Stone climbed as far into her lap when she sat as her pregnant belly would allow, causing something of a whispered stir from the pinch-mouthed ladies surrounding Millicent, who promptly turned and laughingly whispered something back at them. Lydia couldn’t help wondering which “outrage” had earned the focus of their spite—the little Indian boy seeking affection and reassurance from the good doctor’s now-retired and properly wedded whore, or the fact that that whore was flaunting her pregnant belly in public.
Citrine hiked her chin, enduring the gossip with a coolness of composure that Lydia envied. She folded her arms around Stone, her stare unforgiving, practically daring any of those prim and decent “ladies” to say something directly to her. Just one thing. Anything. Citrine wasn’t as sickly as she use
d to be, and she’d always been a fighter.
Rapping the wooden gavel of his office upon the table, Judge Johnson commanded those malevolent whispers back to silence. “Unless you are a part of this hearing and I have asked you a question, you will remain quiet. One more whisper and I will clear this room, is that understood?”
He looked at Millicent when he said that. Facing forward again, she frowned, but folded her hands in her lap. The absolute picture of matronly decorum.
Approaching the judge, Doctor Norwood stood alone before him, feet slightly splayed, arms folded across his chest. He looked as if he’d been freshly rousted from bed. While most here had hurriedly changed into their Sunday best, he was dressed in nothing more than his casual working clothes. His white shirt was stained by dust in the front and the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. His tan pants were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them all morning (and if he’d been out all night tending a remote patient, he just might have), and held up by black suspenders. He stared down the judge, his normally handsome, smiling face grim and frowning, and completely void of welcome. It was the first time Lydia had ever seen him wear such a look. The fingers of his right hand were drumming upon his bicep as he waited for the first question.
Indicating Citrine and the boy on her lap, Judge Johnson wasted no time in asking one. “Is that Stone Norwood?”
Doctor Anson inclined his head in a very cool nod. “He is.”
“I take it by your stance, you have come to represent him?”
Ominous muscle leapt the chiseled length of the doctor’s tense jaw. His fingers drummed his bicep again. “I have.”
“Who are you to the accused, sir?”
“I am his father.”
“And that young lady with you, is that his mother?”
“She is—”
“That’s a lie!” Millicent vaulted to her feet, head high, her face shining with vicious glee as she pointed at Citrine. “That woman is a harlot! One only has to look at her to know she couldn’t possibly have given birth to that creature. She’s white as white can be, albeit by no means pure!”
The crack of the judge’s gavel slamming twice on his desk made everyone jump and Millicent shut her mouth. He pointed at her. “Five days jail time, one day community service, one hundred dollar fine, and you sit your butt in that chair. Don’t open your mouth again unless I ask you a question, is that clear?”
Millicent flushed. She fumed, but she also sat back down, squirming from side to side as if the effort to keep quiet were pricking at her right up through the seat of her chair. Myron reached over and lay his hand on hers. Jerking her arm away, she never looked at him.
“Please finish what you were saying,” Judge Johnson said to Doctor Norwood. “Although I will caution you to keep in mind that this hearing will determine whether or not your boy goes to trial. If I find you’ve lied to me, sir, I guarantee I will find the merits of this warrant sound, I will have him arrested, and he will go to trial.”
Culpepper Cove’s doctor grit his teeth once, but the aggravation that tightened his own grip upon his arm never touched his voice. His tone remained low and even as he said, “As I was saying, Della is his mother. She has been since the day she became my wife and, if you don’t mind my adding, I must say I find the entire premise of this hearing to be highly insulting.”
“So noted.” Johnson opened the warrant and laid it on his desk. From the briefcase leaning against the table leg at his side, he removed a thin sheaf of blank paper, a bottle of black ink and a steel nib pen. “Mrs. Crankshaw,” he said, dipping the pen in the ink and daubing it against the side of the bottle. “State your full name for the record.”
“Why?” Millicent replied, just as frostily. Folding her arms now too, she remained seated. “It’s obvious you made up your mind before you ever started this ‘hearing’. You may as well dismiss the little redskin. It’s become more than clear to everyone by now, I should think, where your loyalties lie. Tell me, Mr. Johnson, life as a circuit judge in a territory as vast as this one must get so lonely at nights. Have you your own assortment of squaw wives to keep warm company with and half-breed children cheering your return and calling you ‘Pa’? Do you buss your wife’s cheek with a kiss before joining the other degenerates down at the Red Petticoat, vying for Emerald’s savage attentions? Does she put on her animal skins and do her special da—”
“Ten days jail time,” Judge Johnson interrupted, his tone as frosty as his stare. “Five hundred dollars fine and three months community service, all added to what you’ve already earned.” Even Lydia jumped when he banged his gavel against the table. Everything in that room had fallen still—every person, sitting or standing; every newspaper and fan. Nothing moved except Everett Jackson’s frantic pen as the judge folded his hands before him, leaning forward as he pinned Millicent with the unforgiving hardness of his stare. “Do you or do you not have anything pertinent to add to this hearing? You thought you did. Apparently, you had plenty to say when you issued whatever complaints and grievances required the issuances of this warrant!”
He shook Stone’s arrest warrant at her, and Millicent’s face reddened. Her mouth flattened.
“Well?” he thundered. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Eyes flying open, she jumped from her seat. “For myself?!”
“What has this boy done for which he should be arrested?”
“He’s a menace to this town, that’s what!”
“In what way?”
“Look at him!” She flung both hands in Stone’s direction. Though she didn’t move much, Citrine’s arms tightened about him, instinctively seeking to protect in the same way Doctor Anson so obviously did when he took those two ominous sideways steps, planting himself, head slightly down, a hard, angry, glaring rock braced between her and his family. Millicent didn’t even notice. She was too busy shouting back at the judge. “He’s a savage! Bred from murderous stock! They rape, torture and kill with little to no provocation!”
A low murmur of agreement rippled her tight cluster of supporters, though Elizabeth did glance nervously about her as they did so.
The judge was less than impressed. “Are you saying that boy is a rapist who has tortured and killed?”
Millicent scoffed. Lydia felt so sick it was all she could do not to leap up after that venomous woman and claw her eyes out. Either that or lean over and vomit, right here on Everett Jackson’s shoes while he hungrily wrote this all down. His pen scribbled every ugly word for the evening print.
“Little Indians grow into big ones,” she declared loudly enough for it to carry through the whole of the room.
“The law is not concerned with what he might do someday when he grows up. The law is only concerned with what he has done. Now, have you any actual transgressions to report or have we all been summoned to listen to nothing more than gossip and conjecture?”
Millicent knuckled fists to hips. “He’s a thief!”
“Splendid.” Dipping quill into inkwell, Judge Johnson scraped off the excess and made a note on the first page before him. “On what day did this occur?”
Huffing, Millicent rolled her eyes. “Oh, just pick a day. They’re all thieves. Everybody knows it!”
Closing his eyes, Judge Johnson ever so briefly let his head hang before laying his quill aside. He drew a deep and calming breath before pinning Millicent with another look. “Once more, the law is not concerned with gossip or conjecture, only actual fact. Now have you or have you not borne actual witness to an act of theft?”
“This very morning!” Turning, Millicent stabbed her finger back at Lydia and in that moment Lydia very nearly lost her gut. Chairs creaked as people turned and looked at her. It had been the best and greatest decision of her life to leave Paquah at the Red Petticoat so he wouldn’t have to witness this. “At Singleton’s Mercantile, her brat threw merchandise all over the store and stole candy—”
“We aren’t talking about her boy; we’re talking about that one!
” Turning to the doctor, Judge Johnson asked, “Sir, I expect the truth now. Has your son been the instigator of thievery?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Anson replied.
“Sir?”
Chairs creaked again as people turned around, craning their necks to see over and through the tightly gathered crowd to the very back of the room, where a familiar shop keep was squeezing through far enough to be seen and heard.
The judge narrowed his eyes. “I have not addressed you, sir.”
“No, I know that, your honor. But my name is Sam Singleton and I own the general goods store here in Culpepper Cove. I would like to say for the record that there has never been one occasion that Stone Norwood stole, not from me nor any other shop keep that I’ve ever heard. And since store owners talk, sir, had he done so, I would have heard. That’s a fact.”
“Well, let’s just get this done with, shall we?” Clearing his throat, the judge addressed the room. “Has Stone Norwood stolen from any man or woman present here today?”
There were murmurs, but no one came forward or spoke up louder.
Frowning at Millicent, he called out loudly, “Has anyone here been raped by the boy?”
A smattering of appalled chuckles broke out, but those were quickly shushed.
“Has he killed anyone?” the judge continued.