Gabriel's Lady (Leisure Historical Romance)

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Killing who?”

  “You can’t possibly mean—”

  “So where is she? Why didn’t you bring her home?” There it was already, Pa’s accusation that he hadn’t done enough.

  “I heard two shots out behind the wagons, and some whispered insinuations. Figured I’d better bring Rex and her horses back here,” he explained impatiently. “Last thing I saw was the sheriff and his deputy walking toward the wagon where Solace bunked. Ever since Cora exposed Sol Juddson as a girl in a man’s clothes and haircut, Solace has run short of luck.”

  “Sol Juddson?” Mercy’s face creased with an uncomprehending frown.

  Temple, too, looked doubtful about this news. “Why on earth would Solace cut off all her hair?”

  His father’s face grew solemn. He looked a little more lined from the weather and the years, but those hazel eyes still shone with a fierce love for the girl he’d delivered during a blizzard; another man’s daughter he’d loved as his own. “And all this happened where?” he asked quietly. He laid his hands on Mercy’s shoulders to settle her agitation.

  “Just the other side of town, at the fairgrounds.”

  “We’d best be on our way then.” His dad glanced at the shocked female faces on either side of him, and then leveled his gaze at Joel. “Let me get a few things together, and we can leave—”

  “Not going with you,” Joel insisted with a sharp shake of his head. “Apache Pete’ll see this as my doing. I talked Solace into auditioning, so it’s my fault the law came down on his show, after his lady friend got herself shot. I want no part of that.”

  Joel eased out of Mercy’s embrace. Better to break up this little reunion before anybody got ideas about how long it should last.

  “We’re just setting breakfast on the table. Surely you can stay long enough to eat a bite—to put some meat on those bones,” Temple insisted. She, too, had a few silvery streaks in her hair, but those coffee-colored eyes still watched for signs he was fibbing, like they had when he was a kid.

  He planted a quick kiss on Mercy’s forehead. “You know me. Once I accomplish what I set out to do, there’s no home like the road. Take care, now.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Solace jerked awake and was immediately sorry; every muscle in her body cried out, and her head was pounding so hard all rational thought was driven away. She was vaguely aware of being on a narrow cot, which she fell out of when she tried to sit up.

  I’ve died and gone to hell. But how did I get here?

  As she curled in to hold her knees, still lying on the dirty floor, Solace caught a whiff of sour vomit. She was wearing the long underwear she’d been sleeping in when…

  What happened? Why are those iron bars in front of me like a…

  “Mornin’,” a male voice said. “You’ve got visitors, Miss Monroe.”

  She winced. Why would anyone want to see her when she smelled so vile and probably looked even worse? At the sound of footsteps, she opened one eye.

  “Here she is, Malloy,” that same male voice said. “There was some confusion last night with the two new deputies on duty, but even so, I can’t think this is your girl they brought here.”

  “Thanks, Harry, but I’m hoping it is. I understand there’s been trouble at the fairgrounds.”

  “Yep. Lady sharpshooter from the Wild West show was found dead, around sun up.”

  Solace trembled and couldn’t stop. Fragments of dialogue came back to her…two men barging into the wagon…one pistol missing from its case….

  “Solace? Solace, can you hear me, honey?” A familiar, worried face swam before her eyes—and then the woman turned toward the outer room where the men were talking. “Harry Draper, you unlock this cell! My daughter will not lie here like a-a caged animal!”

  Solace’s eyes flew open. “Mama? Lord, I don’t know how—and Gabe? Is that you? Or…or are you angels come to save me from—”

  “Darn right we are. I don’t know what’s going on here, but we’ll figure it out, sweetheart. You’re going to be all right now.”

  Gabe Getty’s voice cut through the fear and confusion in her mind, and when her hand shot forward, he grabbed it between the bars. The next few moments went fuzzy again, but she heard jangling keys and the snick of a lock. Strong arms scooped her gently from the floor…she overheard her mother’s muffled disgust and saw dearly familiar faces that looked…confused. And very, very worried.

  “Let’s set you right here and get you a glass of water,” Papa said as he helped her into a chair. “You can tell us what you know when you’re ready, honey.”

  Solace gulped greedily from the cup they held to her lips, gazing from her mother’s tear-streaked face to her papa’s concerned hazel eyes, to that bespectacled figure she’d seen in her dreams. Although she sensed her problems weren’t solved, she felt the supreme relief of knowing she wouldn’t be sorting them out alone.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she rasped. “I just remember bits and pieces. Must’ve passed out when the deputy grabbed me—and I never do that!”

  Gabe scowled, gently lifting her chin with his finger. “Follow this with your eyes,” he said. Then he moved his other hand back and forth.

  She obeyed as best she could. Why was everyone staring at her as though they weren’t sure who she was? “Wh-what’s wrong?” she mumbled. “What’s happened to me?”

  His expression wavered between concern and pain. “Your eyes look glassy. Your pupils have shrunk to pinpoints, like Letitia’s did when she’d taken too much laudanum. You were arrested for shooting a woman in the Wild West show—”

  Solace’s breath caught. “You know I’d never do that!”

  “—and from what little the sheriff can tell us, I believe you’ve been accused of this murder to cover someone else’s crime.”

  He straightened to his full lanky height then. “Mr. Draper, I suggest we ride out to the fairgrounds and question Apache Pete and members of his show before they move on. We might find some details that’ll be helpful if this goes to trial.”

  “And we’ll be taking Solace home,” her mother insisted. “You can’t possibly believe she killed anyone!”

  “Nope, I don’t. But Solace is feistier than most—and a better shot, too.” Harry Draper reached for his hat on the peg by the door. “You folks better be ready for the gossip. When word gets ’round about this shooting—and when they see your daughter with her hair all chopped off—folks’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  Why did his words have such an ominous ring? Solace watched the sheriff stride out the door behind Gabe, wondering how so many nasty things could have happened during her short career with the Wild West Extravaganza.

  “Where’s Rex?” she demanded in a faltering voice. “And what about Lee and Lincoln and—”

  “Joel brought them home, honey,” her father explained. “Let’s get you there, too, and we’ll sort things out when you feel better.”

  “And smell better,” Mama added with a grimace. “Then you’ll tell us why on earth you pretended to be a young man, and why you cut off all your hair. You have a lot to account for!”

  “Joel!” she rasped. “I’ve felt so lightheaded—so worried about Rex and the horses—I haven’t even wondered where he is. Why didn’t he stay with me when all this trouble broke loose?”

  Her mother’s smile looked sad and resigned. “Will we ever know why Joel acts the way he does? He headed out before we could even talk him into breakfast. Who knows when or where he’ll turn up next?”

  Solace sagged as they walked her toward the door. Life felt a whole lot trickier now that her memory was floating back. Too many pieces missing from this puzzle…questions she might never have answers for, if her one ally from Apache Pete’s troupe had disappeared.

  Why would Joel leave me? What did they do to me—to Rex!—while he wasn’t there?

  What if he’d run off because he’d killed Crack-Shot Cora? Framed his sister for his crime, figuring nobody wo
uld try her in court because she was a girl? And if she’d been drugged with laudanum, as Gabe suggested, who had done that to her? And why?

  “You’d better see that justice is done, Sheriff Draper. And soon!” Apache Pete spouted. “Because with Cora dead and Sol Juddson out of the show—and now a roustabout gone missing—this incident’s cost me way too much!”

  Gabe had listened very carefully, with his eyes as much as his ears, while various people from the Wild West Extravaganza gave Harry Draper their accounts of Cora’s murder. None of this was adding up: not the way Solace’s pistol had been found near her rival’s body, nor the way Faustina the fortune-teller insisted Solace and the dead woman had come to blows. In his mind he still saw her glassy brown eyes punctuated by such tiny black pupils…heard the fear and uncertainty in her voice. It was obvious to him that Solace Monroe had not killed Cora Walsh, but who had?

  “We’ll need to take the pistol with us, Sheriff,” Gabe said when he saw they’d get nothing further from these performers. “And I’ll stop by the undertaker’s when we get back to town.”

  He faced Apache Pete then, taking in the little man’s pompous waxed mustache and his puffed-up presence while he again insisted that the sheriff saw justice was done immediately.

  “That means you and your troupe will need to remain in town,” Gabe pointed out, “because Miss Monroe has the right to a trial by a jury of her peers.”

  Pete’s eyes widened. “But we’re moving on to Enterprise—reorganizing the show, now that Sol and the dog aren’t—”

  “If you want justice, sir, you must cooperate with the same law you’re invoking against my client,” Gabe pointed out. “If you leave town, you’ll be taking all the witnesses with you and I will be forced to drop the charges for lack of evidence. Is that what you want?”

  “Drop the charges?” The raven-haired fortune-teller raised her black lace veil to glare at him. “You’re insinuating that a killer would run free.”

  “Not at all.” As he leveled his gaze at the Gypsy, tricked out in that black veil and layers of flowing fabric and jewelry, Gabe saw a flicker of something in those brazen eyes. “I’m just saying the justice you seek is as much your responsibility as mine. I suggest you hire a lawyer to present your case when it goes to court.”

  “A lawyer?” The ringmaster scowled. “Why should I put out good money—waste more of our time—when all the evidence points to Miss Monroe?”

  “Ah, but it doesn’t,” Gabe said mysteriously, gazing steadily at the showman and mustering the stern demeanor he’d used so effectively in St. Louis courtrooms. “Good day, sir. Feel free to let us know if you’ve reconsidered the charges. Ask for Judge Gabriel Getty.”

  When Harry had fetched the pistol, they returned to town on the lawman’s buckboard, riding in thoughtful silence for a while. “Not doubting your word, Mr. Getty, but I don’t see how you can act as Solace’s lawyer if you’re presiding over her trial.”

  “You’ve thought about that, but our man Pete hasn’t,” Gabe pointed out. “Before my court appointment, I’d have taken Solace’s case and run with it. But I’ll be finishing a trial my predecessor, Judge Ratcliff, began…and in the meantime, looking for evidence in Solace’s behalf while I find ways to discredit Apache Pete and Faustina Flambeau’s stories.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “You sound like a man who enjoys his work.”

  “It’s my mission to prove people innocent when they’ve been falsely accused,” he said. “The challenges of gathering evidence and quizzing witnesses…ferreting out the holes in a criminal’s alibis. Those things make the tedium of research and record-keeping worthwhile. They elevate the law to a calling, above an ordinary job.”

  Viewing lifeless bodies had never been his favorite part of that calling. But as he studied the evidence Gabe focused on finding a way to acquit Solace, instead of on how grisly this murder had been.

  Miss Walsh had a bullet hole through her shoulder and she’d been gut-shot, as well. Gabe clenched his jaw to keep from gagging at the dark damage done to her fleshy white body. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling of the undertaker’s workroom; her air of mild surprise suggested secrets that might never be revealed…unless he figured them out before she was buried.

  “Would you mind turning her over?”

  Roland Markham scowled. “Don’t see what good that would do, especially since you’re not family.”

  “Humor me. I have a theory.”

  With an impatient sigh, the lugubrious little man placed his hands on Cora’s shoulder and hip to roll her onto her stomach. “And?”

  Gabe’s pulse pounded faster as his hunch proved correct. “Don’t you see it?” he asked quietly. “How the bullet holes are smaller and cleaner from this side? It means that Miss Walsh—a sharpshooter by trade—was shot from behind. Which also means her killer was a coward. Too weak, for whatever reason, to face her when they pulled the trigger—even though she wasn’t armed herself.”

  Markham’s pale blue eyes widened. “Word around town’s that the Malloy girl killed her. Was trying for more fame and fortune in that Wild West show by getting rid of the competition. They say she cut her hair to—”

  “What they say and what we see don’t match up then, do they?” Gabe countered with a purposeful gaze. “Thank you for your time and cooperation, sir. When’s the funeral?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Ten-thirty.”

  With a nod Gabe left the stuffy room in the back of Markham’s Furniture Emporium. He had a lot to think about between now and tomorrow, and establishing Solace as a victim whose naivete was used against her would be his biggest contribution to this case. It was more of a challenge than he’d faced with previous cases…more of a personal mission than dealing with clients in whom he had nothing invested.

  But Solace? How he craved her faith in him! How would he ever face her again if he failed to set her free?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Solace paused beside the buckboard, assessing those who had gathered around the open grave. She knew them all—or did she? They’d been friendly enough to her—or to Sol Juddson, anyway—as she learned the ropes of performing in the Wild West show. But one of them had killed Crack-Shot Cora.

  “So why are we making this appearance?” she whispered. “Won’t they think it odd that I’ve shown up when they believe I’m the killer?”

  Gabe tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her sedately toward the small graveside gathering. “You’re showing them what you’re made of, Solace. Proving you have nothing to hide, and that you’re a decent human being come to pay your respects.

  “And meanwhile,” he added, “I’m watching their every move and reaction. Cora’s killer is here, and may well distinguish himself—or herself—during the funeral service.”

  They stopped slightly behind the handful of mourners. Solace didn’t like it one bit that Hannibal Prescott would preside over her case…wondered whether Gabe couldn’t arrange to be the judge if he really wanted to. He dropped her hand to stand a proper distance from her. It was the professional thing to do, yet she yearned for more personal reassurance of his feelings for her.

  “Good morning,” she murmured when Apache Pete widened his eyes at her.

  The woman beside Pete, swathed from head to toe in black bombazine and lace, gasped indignantly behind her veil. “How dare you show up and taint our purpose here?” Faustina blurted. “Isn’t it enough that you shot—”

  “Hush, dear. You’re upsetting yourself needlessly.” The ringmaster slipped an arm around her, coaxing her to face forward as Roland Markham stepped to the head of the grave. “God is watching. Judgment—and justice—are in His hands, and we trust Him to carry them out for poor Cora.”

  Solace blinked. While he was absolutely correct, she’d never heard the swaggering Apache Pete invoke the name of the Lord…noticed how the words didn’t ring quite true coming from his lips—just as she realized the fortune-teller was a totally different character
without her Gypsy accent and clothing. Faustina Flambeau was as much a fictional character as Sol Juddson, weaving her illusion of mystery and romance whenever it would pay.

  Gabe leaned toward the ringmaster. “Your case has been scheduled for two weeks from today,” he said in a dignified voice. “That should give you ample time to arrange for legal counsel and—”

  “We’ll take care of ourselves, thank you!” Pete’s gaze flicked from the lawyer’s face to Solace’s, making silent assumptions about her and Gabe Getty. “God—and the law—are on our side, after all.”

  Solace nearly blurted a retort, but Roland Markham had opened his prayer book and seemed impatient to begin. At Gabe’s warning glance, she composed her face, stood demurely with her hands clasped in front of her.

  “We gather today to remember Cora Walsh and to commit her earthly body to the ground, whence she came,” the undertaker intoned in a dreary voice. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

  Solace’s mind wandered during the brief and uninspiring service. In front of her, the dozen or so folks from the Wild West show bowed their heads, but she felt their glances…sensed their discomfort because a lawyer—a judge—had accompanied her here. Gabriel Getty returned their gazes with straightforward solemnity.

  “Amen,” the undertaker said, and everyone echoed him.

  Faustina wailed mournfully and turned away from the open grave, bawling into her handkerchief. It sounded overdramatic to Solace—as did Pete’s gallant response.

  “She’s in a better place now, Faustina,” he soothed as he escorted her toward the waiting wagons. “Cora would want the Extravaganza to go on—just as she’s counting on us to avenge her death! We must all be strong.”

  “We must live for the moment my best friend’s killer is convicted!” Faustina turned, and even though Solace couldn’t see the fortune-teller’s eyes, she felt the sting of a daggerlike glare. “We must carry on so Cora’s life and death will not have been for naught!”