His Rip-Roarin' Bride

by Martha Hix

  “I do believe I can help you, sir.”

  Unfortunately, Wes managed to miss the miss who needed eyewear. He first had to deal with a youngster who purloined a peppermint stick from this very pharmacy, which meant a gentle but firm talk about the wrong in thievery, then a discussion with the lad’s mother. By the time he arrived back at the jail, Deputy Dub said that A.J. Hawkins left twenty minutes early to escort Miss Wilkins to court.

  “A.J. couldn’t wait on you. Judge Hanson sent word. His bailiff is sick, so A.J. needs to substitute.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Wes made into to the two-story clapboard courthouse and up to Judge Fleming Hanson’s court just as they reached the “all rise.”

  Fleming Hanson, the circuit-riding judge of the 99th District, had dewlaps resembling those of an English bulldog and a mop of white hair that stood straight out from each root, in an ongoing demonstration of Mr. Franklin’s electricity. It was whispered that during the War of Northern Aggression, Hanson freed his fifty slaves and then volunteered for the Grand Army of the Republic, just so he could serve alongside his friend from their days at Shiloh College, General John A. Logan.

  Today, here in jolly young Lubbock, quite a number of residents had gathered. This was big for the county. The mock-turreted, clapboard courthouse itself, with its two floors and notable accoutrements, lent the heart to this county and to the namesake small town. From the start, founders refused to hold court in somebody’s house or in a tavern, or any place that didn’t show Lubbock’ pride in itself.

  The aura inside the Honorable Mr. Hanson’s court was almost like an old-fashioned fair day. After all, most everyone had finished their Saturday marketing already, and entertainment hereabouts could be described as dry as a bison skull under the harsh summer sun.

  Striding down the aisle that separated the prosecution versus the defense, Wes heard a din of murmurs as the audience turned toward him. It was always this way. The people he served looked up to him. All his life, he wanted to be a lawman. He didn’t need the adulation. It often proved embarrassing. But he proudly wore the star.

  The defendant slowly turned his way, then stood to her feet. Why she stood, he hadn’t a clue, but he stopped in his tracks. This was the first look, really, that Wes had had of the willowy Lisa-Ann. He’d figured she might be nice to gaze upon—a gross underestimate.

  He was rocked by her Nordic beauty.

  Literally sparkling with cleanliness, her blonde hair had been plaited to make a coronet around her head. She wore a winter dress. Not a complicated, corseted one, like many modern women preferred. Blue, same as her eyes. Just a dress—but she made it special. Years earlier, when he’d been twelve or thirteen, his father suggested he list all the physical charms he would want in a wife.

  There stood the list.

  He felt his smile from head to toe.

  He nodded to acknowledge her, then forced his attention away and took a seat two rows behind the prosecutor, Grant Kincaid.

  Kincaid served as district attorney pro tem, while the authorities in Austin searched for a prosecutor, one who would be willing both to accept the responsibilities and to live permanently on the staked plains—the first settlers called it the Llano Estacado.

  He rose from his chair to address the judge. “Your Honor, the people charge Miss Lisa-Ann Wilkins, County of Kerr, with the attempted murder of Corporal Orville Bellingham of this county.”

  A tall hombre with dark hair, shaven face, and a perfect set of choppers, Kincaid paced the area in front of the bench. He wore a well-cut suit, with a pocket watch strung on a gold chain that nestled in a vest pocket. An ironed handkerchief tucked impeccably in a breast pocket, he’d seen to shining his shoes. He looked every bit the southern lawyer. Which he had been.

  Of course, everyone in town knew that Kincaid preferred to be seated at a round table, playing any sort of game of chance, with a preference for five-card stud. He would always be the archetypal riverboat-shady gambler.

  Kincaid spoke up. “Moreover, the defendant maliciously destroyed Miss Geneviève Benoit’s property, and if not for the happenstance of our sheriff, Mr. Westford Alington, being on the premises, we would be attending a funeral today, rather than a plea for justice.”

  The defendant shot up from her chair. “If not for the presence of your precious sheriff, a liar-thief-murderer would be stopped from injuring anyone else! If that S.O.B. were the upstanding person of his reputation, where is he? Why will the lily-livered coward not show his ass in this courtroom?”

  It was as if everyone in the audience gasped.

  “Are you finished?” Judge Hanson cocked his head, leaning toward her.

  “Yes.” She licked her lips nervously. “I mean, yes, sir.”

  Kincaid added, “Miss Geneviève Benoit charges the said Miss Wilkins with reckless abandon during the destruction of private property inside Miss Benoit’s establishment on A Street. Damages amount to thirty dollars, Your Honor.”

  “Thirty bucks? Good gravy,” said someone in the audience. “Did she burn the whole place down?”

  A chorus of chuckles caused the man in charge to bang his gavel and demand order in the court.

  Kincaid lit into the story, telling the judge the particulars, each sentence punctuating the rottenness to the core of Miss Lisa-Ann Wilkins. “Let us not forget that the defendant with malice aforethought and armed with loaded firearms, one being a buffalo gun—a Sharps, even—rushed into Miss Benoit’s place of business to murder Corporal Orville Bellingham, a man we should all revere.”

  The accused again surged to her feet. “That is not the Orville I know!”

  “Sit down, young woman,” Judge Hanson ordered, banging his gavel in a tattoo of affront. “Sit down and hold your tongue.”

  “Am I not to have a voice in my defense?”

  “Miss Wilkins, have you been to the Philippine Islands?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then you have no eyewitness knowledge of that particular soldier’s military service, so sit down and be quiet.” The judge turned his attention to Grant Kincaid. “Where is the good corporal?”

  No one said a word, not until the judge asked Wes Alington to speak up.

  Wes answered from his seat in the second row. “Evidently, he’s abandoned his residence, Your Honor. His sister has not seen him since early Sunday morning.”

  The shieldmaiden obviously couldn’t help herself. She just had to speak up. “I have to wonder what Orville did to be worthy of a Medal of Honor. In fact, I don’t believe he is worthy of any sort of honor.”

  She kept running her mouth, even though the judge pounded his gavel over and over. His face grew florid, his dewlaps jiggling.

  “Do I not have a voice in this? Will you send me to the penitentiary, on the strength of a broken mirror and several bottles of rotgut whiskey?”

  “What about the two gaping holes in the walls?” Mr. Kincaid asked.

  “May I please, Sir Judge? May I please just have a moment to explain myself?”

  The prosecutor jumped to his feet. “This is highly irregular.”

  “Where is your lawyer, young lady?” the judge asked.

  Dead silence.

  “This is not some kangaroo court,” the judge said. “This is the United States of America. This young woman has every right to representation. Mr. Kincaid, who can we call on to represent the defendant?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Behind her and from across the aisle, Wes could see that the defendant’s shoulders were drooping. She needed help and he had the urge to give it.

  The first rule of a good lawyer was preparation—know all the answers to every question, before going in. This option not available, Wes knew this would be an awful gamble, but what else could he say? He stood to face the bench. “Your Honor, I will act on her behalf.”

  The defendant’s lovely face became the image of distrust. At least that was what the sheriff read.
Then she slowly smiled and visibly let out her breath. He walked up to her, patting her hand, feeling his own smile. It was all he could do not to bring her knuckles to his lips to press a tender and reassuring kiss on each one.

  At this moment, as he recalled the first time they met, when she cataloged the requirements for her hero. The oddest sensation suddenly went through Wes Alington. He wanted nothing more than to be Lisa-Ann Wilkins’s knight in shining armor.

  Man alive, I am in trouble now.

  Chapter 3

  What’s happening? she wondered as her benefactor took his place behind the defendant’s table. The audience clapped. At one point A.J. had said that this bantam rooster of a sheriff carried a lot of weight in Lubbock. Even the judge now had a smile jacking up his wrinkles, like a swag lifting a window curtain.

  She glanced at Deputy A.J., who had replaced a sick bailiff. As to be expected, he had a worshipful look on his face, his attention on the sheriff.

  Lisa-Ann had arrived for court this afternoon to fight tooth and nail for her freedom, but Wes himself would defend her? She didn’t know what to think, although he did look good in a fog. He smelled pleasant, too. Truth to tell, everything was in a fog. Chalk that up to her poor vision and the fear of her unknown. Damn, I sure hope he can hold out on getting paid. Worse, I hope he doesn’t propose taking it out in trade. He can kiss my ass on that, and I don’t mean as partial payment.

  Standing next to her chair, he patted her shoulder, squeezing lightly in what was meant as what—an act of reassurance? She stole a glance at his profile. An odd yet reassuring feeling washed through her.

  Her heart said that he wouldn’t double-cross her.

  Dammit to hell, do you never learn? Watch out! Be careful. He’s a lawman. Remember how, when it came down to it, lawmen ignored the Wilkins family, over and over.

  She told her head to shut up and to listen to her heart for once.

  Her champion stood quietly as that mean prosecutor strode to the bench. Grant Kincaid had all the earmarks of a good-looking swain, if a woman fancied a dandy.

  He appealed to the judge. “This is highly irregular, taking a member of the audience as counsel to the defense. I bid you please to postpone the trial, Your Honor. If we have, say, two weeks, we—I—can find an advocate with credentials to help Miss Wilkins. It would not be fair to her, continuing on today. Both sides would need another two weeks to prepare their case properly.”

  “Two weeks! Ain’t happening, folks.” She was shaking her head for emphasis. “I’ve got a horse to support and—”

  Wes busted her rant. “There’s no reason to burden the taxpayers for two weeks of feeding and sheltering this defendant.”

  “You call it food and shelter? Huh!” Shut your trap, girl. The food is fine, and what is with all these clothes? They were fashionable, although a bit short. She preferred to dress for work—britches and shirts, boots and spurs. “And here I thought you were on my side!”

  “Please forgive Miss Wilkins, Your Honor. Her worst enemy is her childish mouth.”

  “You’ve got a nerve,” she shouted at Wes.

  “Young woman, have you no couth?” Judge Hanson shook his finger at her. “Sit there. Be quiet. Allow Sheriff Alington to speak for you, and do not correct him!”

  “I refuse to sit on my hands while a bunch of strange men twist my fate into more tangles than a crocheted tablecloth!”

  Every damned one in the audience laughed, so she stuck her tongue out at what must have been fifty thrill seekers. The judge and attorneys? They ignored her.

  The prosecutor paced, shaking his head. “Mr. Alington is our sheriff. He’s a fine one. But he cannot defend this obviously troubled young lady. He is no attorney.”

  “That, Mr. Kincaid, is where you are wrong,” said Judge Hanson. “You’re not from around here, so you don’t know. Sheriff Alington did in fact graduate from Baylor Law School down in Waco.”

  Kincaid sat down.

  Why the hell would anyone settle for being a sheriff when they could make a better living from sending folks to prison? The sheriff sure did strike her as odd.

  So what? It’s not your business.

  The proceedings continued, until Wes called her to the stand. For a moment she feared trickery. When he smiled, she couldn’t help but ease down. After taking the witness chair and swearing to be nice, Lisa-Ann prayed for the strength to meet this challenge.

  Wes posed several general questions, then asked, “Miss Wilkins, have you ever met Corporal Orville Bellingham, and if so, will you please explain your relationship?”

  “Yes, I know him. We met about three years ago, when he took a job as cook at a large ranch next to my family’s small goat holding on The Divide. That’s in the Hill Country, northwest of Kerrville. A long way away from here, I can tell you. My grandmother and I baked for that ranch, the XO. Cakes, pies, breads. We were saving money—”

  “Miss Wilkins,” Judge Hanson said evenly, “all you need to mention are facts relevant to the case. It’s not important, why you saved money or what you baked, although my mouth is watering, thinking on them. If we need more information, please let counsel do the asking. And don’t speak unless you are spoken to.”

  “I thought you wanted the whole story. Oh, never mind. How can I put it...” Lisa-Ann ran through her head what she wanted to say to avoid rambling. A couple of times a week, the cook would drive the buckboard over to pick up the baked goods. At other times, when he drove in to Mountain Home or Kerrville for supplies, he would bring us milled flour from Castroville, sugar, vanilla, and chocolate brought in from Mexico—so delicious—and even shaved coconut. “Did I tell you, Granny Fan and I did all the baking for our neighbors, the Schneiders?” My cousins, actually. “Orville picked up the baked items. Or brought us ingredients. That’s how I met the man.”

  “Thank you,” Wes said. “Do go on.”

  “To start with, he talked about himself constantly. He was a big bragger, always ratcheting his jaw about his valor, fighting the Spaniards in the Philippines. Mrs. Rosa Schneider said he sucked the air out of every room he talked in.”

  Several people began to speak.

  “Right, I reckon!”

  “I suspect he was the one who wrung my sweet kitty Pinochle’s neck.”

  “I never trusted his shifty eyes, I can tell ya.”

  “Yeah, but he sure plays pretty piano. I was hoping we could get him outta Jenny Benoit’s den of inequity, where he could play during Sunday services.”

  Of course, the judge kept banging that gavel; he quickly got Bailiff A.J. to remove the hecklers from the gallery.

  Once everything got peaceful, Lisa-Ann continued. “Orville got to where he was a nuisance. I didn’t believe him half the time—and one of the XO hands said he’d seen the medal and it was the kind all the soldiers got. But I did listen to Orville. I’ve always had an interest in things outside of Kerr County, and occasionally he would say something about the army or the beauty of the Pacific. I especially loved his description of the flowers. He even talked about knowing our own President, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, but I hear tell Mr. Roosevelt never set foot on the Philippines.”

  “The fact remains that Mr. Bellingham fought for our flag on those foreign shores,” the lawyer on the other side pointed out. “What sacrifices have you made for this country? Baked it a cake?”

  “That’s enough, counselor.” Wes Alington slammed the bottom his fist on the table. “Do not insult my client.”

  She liked the way Wes stuck up for her.

  She said to the prosecutor, “I could get right sick of looking at you, Mr. Kincaid. Well, sick of listening to you, that is.”

  Some man behind her shouted, “I bet there ain’t a man in this place that’d ever get sick of gazing at you!”

  That really made the judge furious. He banged and banged his gavel, even rising to his feet. His face red as a beet, he shouted, “You back there—get out this instant! M
r. Hawkins, escort that man out of here. Anyone else has a comment, that person or persons will be spending the next week in Sheriff Alington’s jail.”

  Once court settled again, Wes prompted, “Go on, Miss Wilkins.”

  “One time when I was visiting the XO—Mr. and Mrs. Schneider have two daughters about my age—I heard someone playing music. I’d never heard anyone play that big piano in the parlor. The sound was so beautiful. I found out it was Orville making music. I so love music—must be the German part of my heritage. He later said he learned how in Louisiana. His mother taught all her children to play.”

  “Did Corporal Bellingham court you?”

  “Not that I knew of. Not until it was too late.”

  “Would you please tell the court how you came to realize this?”

  “Early one evening in the late spring of last year, Orville showed up at the home I shared with my grandmother. He was unannounced. Stunk to high heaven of bay rum, had his hair plastered down with pomade. He brought a bottle of schnapps he’d stolen from Mrs. Schneider’s pantry, and he carried a bouquet of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. In springtime wildflowers grow knee-high on The Divide.

  “Anyhow, he asked if he couldn’t share in the peach pie I’d baked that afternoon. We have peach trees on our home place, and they bore fruit early that year. But the pie was for the Schneider girls. My cousins, actually, but not first cousins. Their father and mine were second cousins, I think. Anyway, Gertrude and Magdalena were visiting, and I didn’t want to share them or the pie. Gertie and Maggie—those are their nicknames—were home for a few days from Austin. They go to the university there, because their mama doesn’t want either one to marry a rancher.”

  “Again, Miss Wilkins.” The judge frowned at her. “Could we just stick to the facts, please?”

  “Excuse me, but I’m not used to being in a court of law. The truth is, Orville asked to marry me, right in front of my grandmother and our visitors. Even before I said, ‘No thank you, but I do appreciate the offer,’ Gertie and Maggie were simpering. They could be snotty, but never to me. The way they acted, and with the fact that Granny Fan didn’t approve of Orville—which she did nothing to hide—he got embarrassed. I didn’t enjoy seeing his feelings hurt.”