Innocent 'til Proven Guilty

by Tricia Andersen

  INNOCENT ‘TIL PROVEN GUILTY

  Tricia Andersen

  Historical Romance

  Innocent ‘Til Proven Guilty

  Copyright © 2015 Tricia Andersen

  ISBN: 978-1-51912-025-0

  First Publication: November 2014

  Cover design by Tricia Andersen

  Edited by Tabitha Bower

  Proofread by Ariana Gaynor

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  To my Mom – the best historian in Cedar Rapids. Thank you for answering all of my crazy questions.

  Love you!!

  INNOCENT ‘TIL PROVEN GUILTY

  Tricia Andersen

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  “All that glitters isn’t always gold, Livvy Randall. Remember that.”

  I squinted against the summer sunshine that flooded through the passenger-side car window. Miles of emerald green corn, as far as the eye could see, waved in the sultry breeze. As I brushed an auburn curl from my forehead, I thought hard about the words Pa had spoken as he’d driven me to the train station in Omaha.

  Pa had never been too thrilled about me going to college. He would’ve been more than happy if I would’ve just married Horace White, the boy down the lane, and become a farmer’s wife with a dozen children. Don’t get me wrong. Horace is a perfectly nice boy. He’s tall and blond. He played quarterback for our high school. Every girl would have died to be his girlfriend.

  But the day that I found Pa, Horace, and Mr. White talking on the porch when I came home, was the day I decided to go away to college and make something of myself. Their intense stares while I had climbed the porch steps had made me shiver. To them, I was no more important than a cow at market. I was a commodity to be sold.

  The next day, I had sent a letter to the University of Nebraska requesting admission the next term. The day after graduation, I had packed my suitcases and demanded that Pa drive me there.

  “All that glitters isn’t gold, Livvy Randall. Remember that.”

  I smoothed my black skirt with long, slender fingers then studied the silk stockings that covered my legs. I had lost my shoes beneath my seat shortly after the train had pulled from the station. It may not be proper for a lady to be barefoot on a passenger train, but I didn’t care. It was a long ride to Chicago, and I planned to be comfortable. Those tight, pinching flats wouldn’t do.

  Pa hadn’t been too keen on my decision to travel to Chicago so that I could pursue a career at the Chicago Tribune, either. He had been adamant that I needed the protection of a man, that I needed to be a wife and raise a family.

  He forgot how much I loved to write. He forgot how many hours I spent typing, cutting, and pasting stories together for the school newspaper. All he could focus on was his limited world and limited possibilities. Not my dreams and ambitions.

  The cornfields of Iowa thinned as the border of a town appeared. I read the sign as it flashed by—Cedar Rapids. I sighed as I nestled deeper into my seat. I was only halfway to Chicago, and it already felt like I had been traveling for an eternity.

  The train lurched violently. I gripped tight to my seat as my breath caught in my throat. Then, the steam engine smoothed as it chugged along. All was well.

  The train lurched again. This time it stopped.

  I slowly lifted myself from the comfort of my seat as the passenger car filled with the low buzz of chatter. I reached to the floor in search of my shoes, tugging each of them on my feet. I could feel a knot twist in my stomach as I glanced around at the other passengers whispering frantically to each other.

  The door closest to the engine flew open. A huge man with a barrel-sized chest came storming in, his brow knit tight making his eyebrows nearly form a “V” on his forehead. He stood at least a head and shoulders taller than Pa. He was dressed in the formal, navy blue suit coat of the rail line, the chest and wrists adorned in shiny, gold buttons.

  He growled as he made his way down the aisle. He was clearly on a mission. However, so was I. I reached out to touch his arm as he passed.

  “Sir, why are we stopped?” I demanded. The others murmured in agreement, several nodding their heads at my request. It seemed we all wanted answers.

  “The train has broken down. We aren’t going anywhere for a while,” the man growled, his ice gray eyes burrowing into my emerald green ones. He wanted to intimidate me. I was just a little woman, after all. Boy, was he in for a surprise.

  “How long is a while? I think we, as your paying passengers and guests, have a right to know.”

  “Tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. We’re having another train bring us the part that’s broken. It’s not something we can just wander down to the local Woolworths and purchase.”

  “Tomorrow?” I could hear the high-pitch screech in my voice. It made some of those around me flinch. I didn’t care. Tomorrow was unacceptable. “I have to be in Chicago for an interview with the Tribune. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  The man’s lips curled into a sinister grin. “Then I suggest you start walking, Missy. Chicago is about two hundred and fifty miles due East. Have a good trip.”

  All my bravado deflated at his words. With a sigh, I put up one last front. “Do you expect us all to sleep here on the train while you repair it? It’s summer. It’s hot. It’s humid. We’ll all sweat to death.”

  He pointed out the window I had just been seated beside. “There are several hotels in Cedar Rapids. Right down the street is Hotel Montrose. I suggest you get a room there. I wouldn’t want such a delicate little flower as yourself wilting in this heat. I’ll personally carry your things there if you’ll get off my train.”

  I swallowed back the snarl in my throat as I glared at him. “Don’t bother. This delicate little flower has thorns. I’ll see you in the morning…and I expect this bucket of bolts fixed and ready to leave when I arrive.”

  It wasn’t long before I was trudging up the sidewalk, dragging my bags behind me. The other passengers from the train mulled around me like lost sheep let out of their pen. I stopped to huff a deep breath. I rued my quick temper. I didn’t have just one bag. I had three, and they were all heavy. I was determined not to ever go back to Lincoln. Had I just bitten my tongue and not given the train engineer a piece of my mind, perhaps he would be carrying them for me.

  I glanced up at the buildings around me as I started my journey toward the hotel once more. All I had seen of Iowa was tall corn, farms, and the occasional small town. Witnessing a city amongst the fields was a welcome sight. It reminded me of Omaha, but on a much smaller scale. I smiled as a sign caught my eye—Hotel Montrose. I tugged my bags sharply to my side to hurry out of the hot, humid, Midwest sun.

  A line had already formed at the front desk. I took a moment to soak in the place. The lobby was cavernous with the finest of furnishings, from plush couches to brass chandeliers. A large staircase at the far end led to the rooms upstairs. I hoped it wouldn’t take all the money I had to stay at such a place.

  Finally, it was my turn.

  “I need a room for one person. Only for tonight. I will certainly check out in the morning,” I requested.

  A plump woman with curly, silver hair smiled as she took a key from the wall of hooks behind her. “That’ll be three dollars and twenty-five cents.”

  I stared at her, stupefied. Three dollars and twenty-five cents? I stared into my purse then looked out the window
at the hot, summer sunshine. I sighed. No doubt, the hotels in Chicago were far more expensive. “I’ll take it.”

  A loud bang from a maintenance closet tore everyone’s attention from checking in. A bald, rotund man, his face flushed a beet red and dripping sweat, stormed out of the room. He spun on his toe then pointed in the direction he had come. “Frankie O’Carney, I swear if it kills me, I will see you fired!”

  “Ed, you aren’t man enough!”

  The slight Irish brogue caught my ears like an enchanting melody. I looked up from my bags. The most beautiful pair of sapphire blue eyes I had ever seen locked with mine. The body that possessed them put that beauty to shame. Covered by filthy work clothes, he looked like he was chiseled from granite. His hair was thick, rumpled, and black. No man had ever taken my breath away. This one did.

  He smiled as he winked at me. Then, with a snarl directed at Ed, he stormed past our group of weary travelers and out the front door of the hotel.

  * * * *

  Curse my short, hotheaded, Midwest temper.

  Once everything was settled with my check-in, I trudged across the cavernous lobby of the Hotel Montrose, lugging my bags along with me. The flock of sheep that had wandered from the broken down train to the hotel now congregated around the lone, hotel elevator, waiting for their turn to be taken to their floor. With a snort, I chose the staircase.

  Once I reached the third floor where my room resided, I realized what a huge mistake that had been. My aching arms clenched my bags for dear life. I sighed. I always let my temper get the best of me. I needed to be more sheep-like. Take life as it came. Try not to get worked up over such little things.

  However, if I did that, I’d still be in Nebraska, married to Horace White with four kids at the tender age of twenty-two. Perhaps I was better suited with a quick wit, hot temper, and sharp tongue.

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t shake the black-haired man in the lobby from my mind. I let go a lovesick exhale. Ever since I had laid eyes on him, my heart was racing. I had spent four years at the University of Nebraska and not one man had turned my head. I had stood in this hotel for five minutes and his blue eyes had turned my knees to jelly.

  What had the large man called him? Oh, yes. Frankie O’Carney.

  I leaned against the wall outside my room as I fumbled for the key, carefully balancing my belongings. As the tip of the key touched the keyhole, a force of nature slammed into me. My bags went flying. The one holding my unmentionables popped open for the whole world—or at least the occupants on the third floor of the Hotel Montrose—to see the contents. I snarled as my head snapped up to find the twister that had accosted me.

  Sashaying down the hall was a woman in a mauve, floral dress. Her black curls cascaded down her back. Her buxom hips, the ones that had sent me flying, swung as she walked. I couldn’t help myself. My lips opened and the words flew out.

  “How rude!” I hissed.

  She spun at me, rage at my supposed insolence clear in her eyes. “Rude? See here, missy. You need to watch who you call rude!” Then, she rotated on her toe again and stormed down the hall.

  I slumped to the floor to gather my things. A voice beside my shoulder startled me. “Please forgive my wife, Vivian. She has quite the temper.”

  I turned. A finely dressed, well-built, older gentleman knelt beside me. He brushed a gray lock from his forehead then offered me his hand. “H.M. Goodrich. And you are?”

  “Olivia Randall. Livvy for short.” I shook his hand.

  “Henry!” Vivian commanded.

  “Excuse me, Livvy.” H.M. Goodrich rose to his feet. With a sigh, he shuffled after the screeching voice demanding his presence.

  A rumble like thunder echoed through the hall. I felt my face flush red in embarrassment as those around me gave a puzzled look. There was no rainstorm outside. The sun blazed cheerily through the windows.

  No, that noise was my stomach issuing a complaint. The events of the day had taken a toll on me. I was starving. I did my best to gather my waylaid items and stuff them into my suitcase. I closed it and dragged all my things into my room. After taking a moment to refresh myself, I hurried down the stairs to the dining hall.

  It was of the finest luxury in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The tablecloths were perfectly pressed and dishes set for the next patron. The fixtures glimmered golden in the sunlight that bathed the room. Every wall was covered with a painting of corn waving in the breeze. Chandeliers fashioned to look like corncobs hung to light the room at night.

  These people sure liked their corn.

  A young man dressed in a crisp, white dress shirt, red vest, and trousers showed me to my table. I settled in the soft, plush seat then laid my napkin across my lap just like my mama had showed me. She had wanted to make sure that I showed proper manners in college. She would be proud of the way I had behaved. Which was far better than most of the girls in my class. You would have thought they’d never seen a boy before.

  I glanced around the room at the sparse patrons enjoying a late lunch as the waiter rushed off to get my iced tea. Many of them were also from the train. They were probably famished as I was. My eyes stopped at the couple in the corner. Talk about boys and not behaving…

  Frankie was back in the hotel and enjoying a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The muscles in his arms rippled beneath his still-filthy work shirt each time he lifted his fork. He must have felt my eyes watching him. He turned for a moment and returned my stare. Then, he smiled at me, winked his beautiful, blue eyes, and went back to eating.

  Across the table from him was a girl with ebony black hair and bright, green eyes full of unshed tears. She was really pretty. Frankie looked concerned as she whimpered her troubles to him. There was affection for her in his eyes. As they talked, he reached over, wrapping his hand around hers protectively.

  I sighed. Well, that was that. Frankie already had a girl. I chuckled as I fought back a sting of tears. Why was I upset? In the morning, the train would be fixed, and I would once again be on my way to Chicago to start my career.

  Only after I traveled the world as a famous journalist would I worry about finding the man of my dreams.

  Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be Frankie.

  * * * *

  One lone lamp lit my hotel room. It had easily been the longest day of my life. I let go a long, sad sigh. I had been stranded in a strange town, spent more money than I had desired to stay for the night, and had been assaulted by some wild woman’s hips.

  Oh. And I think I fell in love.

  Tears burned my eyes again. I was trying to forget about that.

  I pulled back the comforter encasing the bed and crawled beneath the sheets. I closed my eyelids tight. I wished to the depths of my soul that sleep would claim me. Because all I could think of was Frankie and his thick, black hair and his beautiful, blue eyes. I wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped in his arms.

  In school, I had never been to a petting party. Truthfully, I had ridiculed the girls in my dormitory who had gone. I had told them that nothing would come from them locked tight to a young man’s lips.

  Had Frankie invited me to a petting party, I would have been there in a heartbeat. I shook my head violently to dispel the thought. Frankie had a girl. It was time to get rid of him. Still, I felt another piece of my heart break.

  A loud bang echoed through my room. The hopeless romantic in me was quickly replaced by the investigative reporter. I could trust her more, anyhow. I hopped out of bed, wrapped my robe over my flannel nightgown, and ventured out into the hallway.

  It seemed that the noise had attracted nearly everyone. The burliest of the men congregated around the doorway not far from mine. The women and children huddled near their rooms. I squared my shoulders and stomped down the hall, weaving my way through the men.

  My stomach turned at the sight. I wish I had stayed in my room.

  H.M. Goodrich, the gentleman I had met earlier, lay motionless on the floor, three crimson stains blossoming rap
idly against his starch white shirt. He wasn’t breathing. He was certainly dead.

  Standing over him in only a pair of trousers was my Frankie. A gun dangled precariously from his right hand. He shook like a leaf in a tornado. My instincts demanded I go to comfort him. But he had just murdered—

  “There he is, officer!” Vivian shrieked over the murmurs of the crowd. “That’s the man who murdered my husband!”

  I watched in horror as the constable latched the heavy cuffs onto Frankie’s wrists. As I met Frankie’s terrified gaze with my own, I frowned. Something didn’t add up. I thought about my lunch in the Iowa Room. I worked past the couple to the meal Frankie ate.

  My heart raced as I ran back to my room. I quickly tossed off my nightwear and redressed in the clothes I had worn earlier that day. I couldn’t waste time.

  The constable had arrested the wrong man. I just needed to prove it.

  A thick blanket of humidity smothered me as I ran beneath the dim light of the electric street lamps. My shoes clicked relentlessly against the pavement with each of my strides. The Cedar River rumbled beneath my feet as I crossed the bridge to the jail.

  I took a moment to catch my breath before I stormed into the prison. I was stopped before I stepped two feet inside the door. I was face-to-face with the sheriff himself.

  “How can I help you tonight, miss?” the burly official growled.

  I squared my shoulders back and narrowed my eyes. There was no use for frivolous emotions like love right now. There was too much at stake. “I’m here to post bail for Frankie O’Carney.”

  The sheriff’s laughter echoed off the walls. His deputies joined in the guffaw. It must have been the best joke they’d heard all week. I fought the snarl from my face. “Miss, Frankie O’Carney committed murder.”

  “Frankie is innocent. I can prove it to you,” I insisted.