In the Sheriff's Protection

by Lauri Robinson

  Leveling a serious stare on her, the judge asked, “Do you know the consequences of interrupting a court that is in session?”

  Blinking at the moisture blinding her, she shook her head. “I apologize, Your Honor. I’ve never been in a courtroom before.”

  He leaned closer to his desk. “Who are you?”

  Swallowing and hoping her voice wouldn’t crack, she said, “My name is Clara Wilson.” Embarrassed, yet knowing she had to explain, she tilted her head slightly toward the table Hugh sat at. “The defendant is my husband, Hugh Wilson.”

  The shouts behind her made her pull her shoulders up and duck her chin, bracing herself for the unknown.

  Standing up, the judge pounded his hammer against the desk again. “Order! There will be order in this court!”

  It took time, but the noise finally quieted.

  “Your Honor, a wife cannot testify against her husband,” Hugh’s lawyer said.

  Lifting her chin, she looked straight ahead. “I’m not here to testify against him, Your Honor.”

  The mumbles this time weren’t nearly as loud, and easy to speak over. “I’m here to give you this.” Lifting the valise she’d carried with both hands, she set it on the judge’s desk and unhooked the clasp. “I have no idea where any of it came from, but I found it in my son’s bedroom, and none of it belongs to us.” She then spread the sides of the bag wide so the judge could see inside.

  His eyes grew wide as he glanced from inside the bag to her.

  Without a word, she pulled harder on the side of the bag, and glanced down at the thing she’d shifted to the very top a short time ago while sitting in the back of the courtroom.

  The judge reached inside and pulled out the cameo.

  “That’s it! My mother’s cameo!” Miss Armentrout shouted. “Turn it over. I scratched her death date on the back.”

  Hugh shouted again, but was muffled so quickly that Clara wondered if Brett Blackwell had done something to quiet him.

  While the judge was looking at the back of the cameo, Clara said, “I’d also like to mention, Your Honor, that Hugh’s eyes are sometimes light brown, or a grayish color, but they turn green when he’s mad. Which is what color they probably are right now. Green.” Looking away for the first time, she glanced toward Miss Armentrout and said, “A light, unforgettable shade of green.”

  “They’re green all right!” A deep voice echoed off the ceiling. “A hideous green.”

  Chatter broke out across the room, but without Hugh’s shouts, the judge didn’t use his hammer as he spoke over it. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwell.”

  Then, when the room fell silent, the judge sat down in his chair. After a moment of staring at the bag, and then her, he asked, “Is there anyone here who can prove you are who you say?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.” The lump was too large to swallow, so her voice did crack as she said, “Sheriff Tom Baniff.”

  * * *

  Tom dropped his hat onto his seat and stood. He had to plant his feet firmly on the floor in order to not step forward. He’d seen Clara’s hands trembling as they clutched the handle of the valise while walking past him, and how she’d flinched every time Hugh had shouted, but it was the break in her voice when she’d said his name that had him wanting to rush forward. That couldn’t happen. She’d worked too hard, timed things too perfectly, for him to destroy it by giving away the impression he knew her better than he’d testified to.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Tom said, “That is correct, Your Honor. I was at Mrs. Wilson’s home when I apprehended Hugh Wilson.”

  Judge Alfords settled an almost understanding gaze on Clara. “You’re the wife who shot him?”

  Tom’s heart sank. He’d had to include that in his testimony, knowing Hugh’s lawyer would have accused him of hiding relevant information if he hadn’t.

  Her back stiffened and her chin rose as she said, “Yes, Your Honor. Right after Hugh had shot Sheriff Baniff, he turned his gun on me. I had a gun, too, and he told me to drop it. I refused, and told him to drop his. He then turned his gun on my seven-year-old son, and told me he’d warned me. I’d heard that before, and knew what it meant, so I shot him.” After a brief pause, she added, “In the shoulder because I didn’t want to kill him in front of our son.”

  Tom didn’t think his heart could go any lower, but it did while wishing she hadn’t said that last line.

  “I see,” Judge Alfords said.

  A buzz of excitement and shock filled the room, and Tom shifted his gaze to Josiah, willing the man to do something, say something.

  It was Hugh’s lawyer who spoke instead. “Your Honor, we knew nothing about this witness. We should have been told! I motion for a mistrial. A mistrial!”

  “Shut up, Mr. Baldwin, or I will hold you in contempt!” Alfords said while slamming his gavel against his desk.

  Tom’s gaze was locked on Clara again, noting the way her shoulder shook, and how she raised one hand, swiftly swiping it across both cheeks.

  “In light of the evidence Mrs. Wilson has provided, the court will take a recess.” After checking his watch, Alfords said, “We shall reconvene at two o’clock this afternoon.” He then picked up the gavel, but before bringing it down on the desk, which would officially release everyone, he said, “Sheriff Baniff, please escort Mrs. Wilson from the room.”

  Tom’s hands never shook, ever, but they did right now. He flexed his fingers, and wrapped them around the brim of his hat while walking forward. As he stepped up beside Clara, Alfords leaned forward.

  “Take her out the side door, Tom, to the hotel,” the judge whispered. “If there’s not a spare room, she can use mine, number four.”

  Tom nodded and gently wrapped a hand around Clara’s elbow. She didn’t look up at his face and he didn’t look down at hers. At the side door, while pausing long enough to open it, he noted the pained look and the tears in Abigail’s eyes as the reporter attempted to smile at Clara.

  Outside, with the door firmly closed behind them, Tom said, “Just breathe, Clara, and put one foot in front of the other.”

  She glanced his way and he tightened his hold, stabilizing her as she stumbled slightly. The tears cascading down her face almost made him trip, too. Taking his own advice, he forced his feet to keep moving.

  The hotel wasn’t far, and once there, he rang the bell with one hand while keeping the other on Clara.

  Rollie’s wife, round and walking slow, came through the doorway behind the desk. “Hello, Sheriff,” she said shyly.

  “Mrs. Wilson needs a room,” he said.

  If the name surprised her, it didn’t show. “Number six is open,” Mrs. Austin said, taking a key off its wall hook. “Top of the stairs on the left.”

  “Thank you.” Tom took the key while turning Clara toward the wide staircase.

  He waited until they were halfway up the steps before asking, “Where’s Billy?”

  “With Brett Blackwell’s wife,” she answered quietly.

  “Do you want me to go get him?”

  “Not quite yet.” Drawing in a breath, she said, “I don’t want him to see me yet.”

  “All right, and don’t worry about him. Fiona’s a good person. She won’t let anything happen to him.”

  “That’s what Angus said, but I’ll have to go get him soon. He doesn’t know why we’re here.”

  Tom sucked in air quietly. The entire town, including the children, knew about Hugh’s trial. Billy probably did by now, too.

  Finding the room, he unlocked the door and opened it wide for her to enter. He didn’t want to, but had to release her arm as she crossed the threshold.

  Without turning around, she said, “Thank you, Tom. I’ll be fine now.”

  There wasn’t much time. Josiah would want to discuss what had happened, and try to guess how the judge would rule thi
ngs. Others would want to talk to him, too. Knowing all that, and that he’d have to be available, he entered the room and closed the door. He didn’t speak, or think, just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened at first, but then spun about and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  It shouldn’t feel this right to hold her, but it did, even as it pained him.

  He held her tight, and rubbed her back when the sobs racking her had her trembling. She cried, quietly, but hard, for several minutes before her shaking calmed to slight quivers. Then she released him and stepped back.

  Unsure what to do, he eased his arms from around her, but set them on both of her shoulders while asking, “What can I get you? What do you need?”

  She shook her head and attempted to smile. “Nothing. Thank you.”

  He hadn’t forgotten how pretty she was, and was just enthralled by it all over again. It left him tongue-tied, yet he felt as if he had to say something. The dress she had on was pale blue, with white lace circling her neck. “You...you look n-nice. That dress. It’s—”

  “Not mine.” She wiped her cheeks dry. “Angus brought it to me. Apparently, Otis’s wife is a seamstress.”

  Tom nodded.

  She was nodding, too, and at the same time, they both said, “Martha.”

  Her soft giggle and how she closed her eye for a moment was memorable. All of her was unforgettable. It was so good to see her again. To touch her.

  “You didn’t tell me about her.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve never had a dress made.”

  She giggled again. “I suspect you haven’t.” Bowing her head slightly, she took another step backward.

  Reluctantly, he removed his hands from her shoulders. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask, but didn’t know where to start.

  “How’s your leg?” she asked.

  “Fine. How’s yours?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s good.” He looked around, trying to come up with something else to say. Talking with her before had been easy. Back at her place when they’d sat outside on the porch, watching the sun go down. He’d missed that, and thought about it, every evening since leaving her place.

  A knock sounded on the door. He looked at her, and waited for her nod before he walked to the door and opened it.

  Of all people, he didn’t expect to see Judge Alfords. “I’d like a moment to speak with Mrs. Wilson, Sheriff.” Glancing around him to Clara, the judge asked, “Alone?”

  Tom turned to Clara, waiting for her response. Judge or not, if she wanted him to stay, he was staying.

  She nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.” With another gentle smile, she said, “Thank you, Sheriff Baniff.”

  Alfords walked into the room and Tom glanced one last time at Clara, who gave another slight nod. With little else he could say or do, Tom stepped out of the door and pulled it shut behind him.

  Angus stepped off the last step and then rested both hands heavily on his cane while saying, “Is the lass doing all right?”

  “Appears to be,” Tom said, trying not to sound like his mind and body were completely out of sorts. The effects of holding Clara were still living inside him.

  “She’s a hearty lass, Sheriff,” Angus said. “You go on and do what you have to, being the sheriff of this fine town and all. I’ll be here. Right here.”

  The noise floating up the stairs indicated the hotel was filling up with people from the trial, and it was his job to keep the peace and order. A choice he’d never regretted until he’d had to put it up against Clara. Hearing his name being called below, he nodded to Angus. “Thanks. I appreciate all you’ve done for her.”

  With a twinkle in his eyes, Angus looked at the door to Clara’s room. “It’s been my pleasure.”

  Tom turned and started down the steps, only to pause when Angus spoke again.

  “You know, Sheriff, it’s a funny thing.”

  “What’s that, Angus?” Tom asked.

  “How we don’t even realize how much we love songbirds until we hear the right one sing.”

  He didn’t have the time or fortitude to contemplate Angus’s riddles right now, so Tom merely nodded again and walked down the steps to where a crowd had formed—of mainly women.

  “How is she, Sheriff?” Mary Putnam asked.

  “Oh, the poor dear.” Martha Taylor wiped both eyes with a handkerchief. “I can’t imagine what she’s been through.”

  “Can I see her, Sheriff?” Maggie Miller asked. “Having been arrested by you, I know how hard it is for a woman to be in jail.”

  There were other women, asking about Clara and demanding she not be arrested.

  He held up both hands. “Ladies! Ladies!” When the questions slowed, he said, “Mrs. Wilson is busy right now, but I assure you, she will not be arrested, so there’s no need for all of this.”

  “No need!” Martha pushed her way past the twins to stand directly before him. “You’re wrong, Sheriff. There is plenty of need. That woman needs our help and support.”

  “With what?” Tom asked.

  “Everything!” Martha insisted. “After all she’s been through, she needs folks to let her know we care. That we can help her with whatever she needs.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate hearing that, but right now you all just need to go on about your business.” As the women started talking among themselves, he added, “I’ll make sure Mrs. Wilson knows that you all want to meet her.”

  Josiah stood behind the women and waved a hand for Tom to join him. Walking that way, Tom said, “Go on, now, ladies. The best thing for Mrs. Wilson right now is for all of you to go about your business.” He wasn’t sure if that was the best way to go about things or not, but didn’t know what else to do.

  He started across the foyer as some of the women filed out the door, and others walked into the dining room with their husbands, only to be stopped short by Abigail White.

  “You will tell her that the women want to meet her, won’t you?” Abigail asked.

  Tom had never liked thinking the worst of people, but Abigail had been known to write some very unflattering articles about people, and he wouldn’t have that happening to Clara.

  Abigail shook her head. “I’m not here as a reporter, Sheriff Baniff. I’m here because if anyone were about to shoot my niece, Teddy and Hannah’s little girl, Dorie, I would shoot them.” Tears fell down her long and narrow face. “And not in the shoulder. I would shoot them dead.” Lifting her chin, she continued, “Even threatening to shoot a child is not right, Sheriff. Not right at all.”

  “No, Abigail, it’s not,” Tom said. “It’s not right at all.”

  “I just want you to know how I feel, because if Hugh Wilson does not go to prison, I might.”

  Tom’s blood ran cold. “Abigail—”

  She’d already turned about and was walking out the door. Of all the people who lived in Oak Grove, he’d never have expected such justification from Abigail. He took a step to follow her, but someone grabbed his arm.

  “Judge Alfords say anything to you?” Josiah asked quietly.

  “No,” Tom replied, watching Abigail as she turned up the boardwalk. “He’s talking with Clara now.” He couldn’t keep calling her Mrs. Wilson. She was Clara to him, and deep down, he didn’t want her to be associated with Hugh Wilson in any way.

  “I sincerely hope it’s not ruled a mistrial,” Josiah said. “Wilson will get off for sure.”

  Tom’s blood was turning colder. This town would never be the same if that happened. May never be either way.

  * * *

  The hotel room was small, hosting one chair, a bed and a dresser. The judge had suggested she take the chair while he sat on the bed, setting her bag on the mattress beside him. Then he explained he needed to ask her some questions. She’d agreed, and he’d aske
d several questions about how long she’d been married to Hugh, and about Uncle Walter’s homestead and Billy.

  His only response to most of her answers was a nod, and ask another question, until he pulled the bag to his side and sighed.

  He was a tall, thin man, with curly dark hair and bushy brows that rose as he asked, “Do you know what a mistrial is, Mrs. Wilson?”

  “No, not really.”

  “It can occur when evidence, which could be considered unfair to the defendant, is improperly presented during the trial. Either side, the prosecuting or the defending, can request a mistrial. It’s up to the judge to decide to grant the motion, or let the trial continue.”

  As her stomach knotted, she nodded. There would be nowhere she and Billy could go if Hugh wasn’t convicted. Nowhere at all.

  “That’s you,” she responded.

  “Yes, it is, so you see, my reputation, my life’s work, is on the line as much as the defendant’s is. If I know evidence was purposefully withheld to sway the outcome of this trial either way, I can’t, in good conscience, make an innocent or guilty ruling.”

  “So it would be a mistrial.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Now, I need to ask you some questions. I can’t swear you in, but I need you to tell me the truth.”

  Her throat was on fire, so she nodded.

  “Did Sheriff Baniff ask you to bring all this here?”

  “No, I didn’t find it until after he left.” Tom was the last person to blame for all this. She had to make the judge see that. “Sheriff Baniff never told me why he was after Hugh. Actually, he never told me he was after Hugh.” Rushing on, she explained how she’d been ill when Tom arrived, and that after waking up, she knew he was a lawman, but that he’d never actually told her. She explained about the holes in his vest, and how she’d known Hugh was robbing places and people, but never asked because she didn’t want to know. It was a terrible thing to admit, but it was the truth.

  “How did you know to come here? To Oak Grove?”

  “Because th-the sheriff told me this is where he was from. That it was a nice town and the people here. He never said this is where he was bringing Hugh, but after they left, my son, Billy, was mad. Upset. And said that Hugh hadn’t robbed a train. That was the first I’d heard about a train robbery. Hugh must have assumed that Tom had told Billy and wanted him to think Tom was lying. When Billy told me that Hugh had been in his bedroom, I knew why. Years ago, Hugh used to hide stolen property in there, but had stopped because he was afraid I’d find it and use it to leave.” She didn’t bother saying she’d had nowhere to go.