A Lady Like Sarah

by Margaret Brownley

  She reached through the bars and stroked the baby's soft pink cheek. Elizabeth's little bow mouth curved upward.

  Justin beamed with pride. He settled the baby in the curve of his arm. "See? What did I tell you?" All too soon the smile left his face.

  She studied him, searching for the least sign of good news. Much to her dismay, he looked dead serious, her fate plainly written in the fine lines creasing the corners of his eyes and mouth. She felt her heart sink like a rock in a river.

  "Oh, Justin . . . If. . . Promise me, you'll take care of her."

  "Sarah—"

  "Make sure she learns her contraptions."

  "What?"

  "I mean . . . Conception."

  He stared at her. "I don't think we should rush things."

  She brightened. "No, no, I mean contractions. That's it. Make sure she learns her contractions so she can talk like a lady."

  "Sarah—" His voice was hoarse with emotion.

  "Don't you go stretching the blanket, none, you hear? I want the truth. They're fixing to lynch me, right?"

  "The marshal has granted you a five-day reprieve."

  She frowned. "Is that good?"

  "The good news is that he has agreed to spare your life altogether providing . . . uh . . . certain conditions are met."

  Something in his voice made her mouth go dry. "What. . . what conditions?"

  Justin hesitated.

  "Justin Wells, you tell me ev'rythin', you hear? What conditions?"

  He shifted Elizabeth from one arm to the other. "He says he will spare your neck if your brothers turn themselves in."

  She took a deep breath. "I reckon my goose is cooked, then."

  "Don't say that, Sarah. We haven't even begun to fight."

  "We ain't got but five days."

  "God doesn't need that much time," he said. "Just think, in only three days He went from Good Friday to Easter Sunday."

  Though she didn't feel much like smiling, her lips curved upward. "You always know how to make me feel better."

  "Help me, Sarah. I need your help to find your brothers."

  She shook her head sadly. "It's not going to work. My brothers ain't gonna hand themselves over on a silver platter to no marshal."

  He reached through the bars with his one free arm and caressed her cheek. "I only met your brothers once, but it was enough to tell me how much they care about you. They won't let anything happen to you."

  Her lips quivered and her knees felt weak. "They will if they don't know I'm in trouble."

  "I've got to find them."

  "You only have five days," she reminded him.

  "Maybe they're in Fort Smith looking for you. That's where George told you to meet them. If I send a telegram—"

  "No!" She shook her head. "No, that could be dangerous. We never use—" She stopped but not soon enough, for it was obvious from the look on his face that he had figured out what she had been about to say.

  He drew back. "You communicate with one another using a false name." He nodded. "That makes sense. What name do you use when you need to contact your brothers? Tell me. If not for your sake, then do it for Elizabeth."

  She stared down at the baby in his arms, the baby she now realized she would do anything to protect. "They'll never turn themselves in."

  "Maybe they'll think of another way to save you."

  She bit her lip. "I don't know—"

  "Please, Sarah, tell me the name."

  "If I tell you, it could put my brothers in danger, Justin. If you say that I'm going to hang, the telegrapher will know—"

  "Sarah, I've been around you long enough to know how to confuse words. I guarantee that no one but your brothers will have a clue as to what I'm talking about."

  Her shoulder pressed against the bars, she gently stroked his face. "You're so good," she whispered. "I don't know what you see in the likes of me."

  He closed his fingers around her wrist. He wasn't about to be distracted. "The name."

  She lowered her eyes to Elizabeth, and her arms ached to hold her.

  "She needs a mother," Justin said. "She needs you."

  "Cooper," she whispered at last. She pulled her hand away from him and covered her face. She would never forgive herself if her brothers were caught, and she prayed that George would know what to do. She dropped her hands to her side and clenched her fists in attempt to hold on to what little control she had left. "George Cooper."

  Justin turned to leave, but she stopped him. "Justin, wait." She dug into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a wad of money. Hard as it was to believe, Marshal Briggs was too much of a gentleman to search her, though he did take her gun.

  "This is the money left over from what Robert gave me." She held her hand through the bars. "It's not much, but I want you to give it to Owen's widow."

  Justin took the money from her and stuffed it into his own pocket. "I love you, Sarah Prescott."

  She reached out for his hand and drew it up to her lips. "I love you, Justin Wells." She gazed up at him, at the baby in his arms, and her heart swelled until she thought it might burst.

  "Do you think God's got a miracle in store for us?"

  An easy smile slid over his features, all but melting away the lines of worry and fatigue. "I would say conditions have never been more right for a miracle than they are at this moment."

  "You ain't just sayin' that, are you? To make me feel better? I know I'm knee-deep in dung here, but—-"

  "That's one of the conditions for a miracle," Justin reassured her. "To be knee-deep in, uh . . . trouble."

  She flashed him a teasing smile. "Then I guess you could say I'm one lucky lady."

  Justin left the jailhouse and hurried toward the recently opened telegraph office next to a half-built railroad station. Rocky Creek would soon be a railroad town, and the clanging sound of Chinese workers spiking down tin plates echoed from the distance.

  The telegraph operator's name was Mason Smith, a young man in his teens. Tapping the telegraph key rapidly, Smith's head bobbed with each click as if the Morse code corresponded to some inner tune.

  Shifting Elizabeth into his left arm to free his right hand, Justin stood at the counter to compose his message and realized he hadn't the slightest idea what to say.

  He was more worried than he let on with Sarah. It was true that her brothers loved her, but he wasn't so naive to think they would turn themselves in. Still, they had the right to know that their sister was in trouble.

  He glanced up. The operator was too intent upon sending his message to pay him much heed. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. Heavenly Father. . . help me get the words right.

  He stared down at the blank paper. A voice from the past filled his head, surprising him with its clarity. Write the vision. It was his father's voice. Justin couldn't help but smile. How often had he heard those very same words whenever he was stuck on his schoolwork? And how many times had he turned to his father for advice only to hear him say,My son, if your heart is wise, my heart will rejoice?

  An agent for the American Bible Society, his father traveled from door to door to make his sales. A stoic man of few words, Justin never thought of him as religious. It wasn't until he attended seminary that Justin discovered his father's oft repeated phrases were really quotes from the Bible.

  On his deathbed, his father uttered his last five words, not to the family members who surrounded him, but to God.

  It was these last five words that rang in Justin's head as he wrote Psalm 38:22. Praying that his heart was wise, he signed his name.

  Twenty-nine

  The following morning, Justin rode out to the Owens' house. The town marshal's sister, Claudia Owen, lived in a stone house with a slate roof and wrap-around porch.

  Hat in hand, Justin stood on Claudia's porch and knocked on the door. The tidy flower garden in front was surrounded by a white picket fence.

  A black mourning ribbon flutter
ed from the front gate. That and the tightly closed draperies were the only outward signs of Owen's death.

  Justin visited the homes of congregation members in Boston. Nowhere near as many as he should have, he now realized, but some. He had grown accustomed to odd reactions whenever he appeared unannounced on the doorsteps. On several occasions he had been kept waiting on the porch, even in the dead of winter, until all alcohol or tobacco had been hidden. Dime novels were whisked off tabletops and replaced by open Bibles. Immoral paintings were turned over to reveal pastoral or religious scenes.

  Children's faces were scrubbed, husbands duly warned, and the house made to look chaste as a nunnery before he would be invited inside.

  The U.S. Marshal's widow, however, made no such effort to impress him. Instead, she opened the door and stared at him as one would stare at an unwanted salesman. Her skin pale, she was dressed in black, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.

  Evidently guessing who he was from his frock coat and dark trousers, she scowled. "What are you doing here? I heard you were helping that murderer."

  "I'm returning your husband's horse."

  She craned her neck to glance over his shoulder at Blizzard tethered in front next to Noah. She looked momentarily confused. "How . . . how do you happen to have my husband's horse?"

  "I ran into your husband in Missouri. He had been shot. Miss Prescott and I—"

  At mention of Sarah's name, the widow tried to close the door, but he stopped her with a well placed foot.

  "Please, Mrs. Owen. Hear me out."

  Claudia's face twisted into despair. "I have nothing to say to you. My brother said you were helping her."

  "I promised your husband I would help you. It's not easy for a woman alone to raise three children."

  A small, freckled-faced boy peered from behind his mother's skirts, his eyes round with curiosity.

  Justin stooped and extended his hand to the child. "And what is your name, young man?"

  The boy glanced at Justin's hand but made no move to grasp it. "David."

  "I'm pleased to meet you, David." Justin pulled his hand back. "Did you know that there was a boy named David in the Bible?"

  The boy's eyes grew wider, but he didn't answer.

  "He was so brave," Justin continued, "that he fought a giant all by himself."

  The boy glanced up at his mother before asking, "Did he win?"

  "Not only did he win," Justin said with a wink, "but he grew up to be a king."

  The boy giggled and vanished inside the house.

  Justin straightened. His exchange with her son did nothing to lessen the dislike on Claudia's face. "As I was saying earlier, I promised your husband to help—"

  "I don't want your help," she retorted.

  He drew the wad of money from his pocket. "Some of this is from the church, and the rest is from Miss Prescott."

  "I don't want her money," she said, spitting out the words like hard-driven nails. "I want nothing to do with her."

  "Please," he forced the money into her hand. "Take it for the children's sake."

  "I'd rather my children go hungry than accept charity from an outlaw." With that, she threw the money onto the porch next to his feet.

  He made no move to pick it up. "Sarah did everything she could to save your husband's life."

  She stared at him, her face hard and unyielding. "So what do you expect from me? Gratitude?"

  "All I ask is that you talk to your brother. A word from you could save her life."

  She tossed back her head and glared. "Because of that woman, my husband is dead."

  "Sarah didn't put that bullet in him," he said. Claudia flinched and he regretted his choice of words. "Nor did she kill that passenger. And if she hangs, a baby will be without a mother."

  "My children are without a father."

  "For that I am deeply sorry." Justin knew if he hoped to gain her sympathy he would have to make her understand the full extent of Sarah's efforts to save her husband.

  "What I said about Sarah helping him is true. She removed the bullet from his shoulder. Worked night and day to keep the infection at bay. When he died, she found a spot on top of a hill overlooking the river and helped dig his grave. If it's any comfort, we gave your husband a proper funeral."

  Claudia lifted her chin, her eyes hard as two black pebbles. "If you're asking me to return the favor by digging her grave, that I will gladly do. But don't ask me to try and save her neck."

  She slammed the door shut with a bang that shattered what little hope he had that she would talk to her brother-in- law on Sarah's behalf.

  Leaving the money on the porch, he left, his heart heavy. Before mounting his horse, he glanced back at the house. David peered at him from an upstairs window. Justin waved and the boy waved back.

  He patted Noah on the neck. "It looks like we made a friend." With one more glance at the house, he mounted and rode into town intent upon tracking down Judge Fassbender.

  If anyone knew where he could be found, it had to be Hank Applegate, who watched the town's coming and goings like an old hound.

  Hank was at his usual place in front of Jake's saloon, his head circled in smoke from his corncob pipe.

  Justin didn't even bother dismounting. "Do you know where I can find Judge Fassbender?" he called.

  Hank removed the pipe from his mouth, cupping it by the bowl. "Last I saw him, he was headin' for Al's Saloon at the end of town."

  Justin tipped his hat. "Thank you."

  "If he's not there, you might try The Gold Coin or Stan's.

  He might even be at The Blue Bull or—" He rattled off the other saloons in town.

  Justin thanked him again and rode off.

  Starting at the end of town, he began to check the saloons one by one, recognizing many of the patrons from Jake's. He greeted each familiar face with a tip of the hat, only to be met with glaring looks and hasty departures. A saloon packed when he walked in was nearly empty by the time he walked out.

  "Don't worry," he said lightiy, walking into the Blue Bull. "I'm not going to preach. I only work on Sundays." It was an old joke among preachers, who rarely got credit for the many hours they ministered.

  No one looked amused at his comment, and his attempt at humor did nothing to stop the mass exit.

  He found the judge in the Silver Bell, the fourth place he searched. The bartender pointed to a man slumped at a corner table. He turned to look, but all he could see were men scrambling to make their escape, pushing and shoving their way outside.

  By the time he walked to the corner table, most everyone had left. The only evidence of the hasty departure was overturned chairs and the swinging of bat-wing doors.

  The man reeked of alcohol and sweat and appeared to be out cold. "Judge Fassbender?"

  No response.

  Justin shook him. The judge groaned but didn't open his eyes. Drool rolled down his unshaven chin. He wore black pants, a waistcoat, and scuffed boots. A tangle of uncombed hair more gray than black fell to his shoulders.

  Justin shook him again, harder this time, and the judge lifted his head, his eyes red and unfocused.

  Justin lifted his arm to catch the bartender's attention. "Do you have any Arbuckle's?"

  The man scoffed and spit out a yellow stream of tobacco. "This ain't no Harvey House, and I ain't no Harvey girl."

  Without coffee, Justin had no idea how to bring the judge out of his stupor. Maybe some fresh air. He tried lifting the judge out of the chair, but the man flopped forward, knocking over a half empty bottle of whiskey. Justin quickly uprighted the bottle, but not soon enough to prevent the contents from getting in Fassbender's face.

  Justin jerked on the judge's collar, lifting his head off the table. He drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the man's wet cheek.

  The judge twisted his head from side to side, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. FOs eyes opened, but all Justin could see were the whites.

>   The judge sat back in his chair under his own power, staring at Justin through slotted eyes. "W-hat. . . what are you trying to do to me?"

  "You have my heartfelt apologies."

  Fassbender shook his head as if trying to clear it. "Who are you?" he slurred.

  "Reverend Justin Wells. I'm the new pastor."

  "You have no right b-baptizing people without their thay- thoo," he stammered.

  "Don't worry," Justin said. "Your sins are safe. Baptism by whiskey doesn't count." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "I need to talk to you."

  The judge flinched. "Don't yell," he said, though Justin spoke in a normal voice.

  Justin leaned forward. "Does the name Sarah Prescott ring a bell?" he asked.

  Fassbender gawked at Justin with bloodshot eyes and shook his head.

  "You sentenced her to hang," Justin said, forgetting to lower his voice.

  The judge looked confused. "Bres—?"

  "Prescott. Sarah Prescott."

  Fassbender waved his hand in the air. "Killed. . . someone."

  "No, she didn't." Justin moved closer.

  "Killed someone," Fassbender repeated. The man's eyes cleared and he almost looked lucid.

  "She didn't kill anyone," Justin said.

  Fassbender combed his fingers through his hair. "How do you know she didn't?"

  It was a fair question for which Justin had no real answer. He believed Sarah, but her word alone wasn't likely to impress the judge. "How do you know she did? Were there any witnesses? What about the other passengers? The driver? What did they say?"

  The judge looked confused by all the questions. His eyes rolled, and he slumped forward again, his head on the table.

  Frustrated, Justin slapped a fist against his palm. This was a waste of time and he had so little to spare. He stood, pushed in his chair and started to walk away. The judge's voice made him stop.

  Justin whirled around to face him. "What did you say?"

  "I said, have you ever asked yourself why. . . why bother?" Fassbender's words were muffled. He lifted his eyes to Justin. "How many people have you saved, Reverend?"

  "I-I don't know," Justin said, surprised by the question. After all, God saved. All Justin did was help pave the way. He sat down again. "It's not something I keep track of."