Rosalee didn’t believe in fighting fair.
“I won’t risk losing you too, Stephen,” she’d announced. “Besides, what good would it do? The information we have is about Harris’s past—not his murder. I can wait a little longer to approach Lilah with the truth of my identity. I refuse to risk having you implicated in this crime.”
Stephen had given in to her demand, explaining his surrender was due partially to her extremely effective strategy, but also because he recognized that if he could be suspect, so too could she.
Now, as she watched her daughter grieve here beside her enemy’s grave, she deeply regretted the turn of events. Lilah could use her mother’s support right now, and heaven knows, she needed Lilah in her arms desperately.
A gust of wind blew across the hill and the veil over Lilah’s face flew up, exposing her features. Rosalee gasped. Fury cut through her like a knife. Glancing up at Stephen, she beckoned for him to lean close. “If the man wasn’t dead already, I’d kill him myself,” she whispered. “Look at how he hurt her!”
“If Burkett killed him, I can see why.”
Lilah’s face was a rainbow of bruises, and Rosalee cringed anew at the thought of the pain her daughter must have endured, now and in the past. Her hand lifted to clutch the locket around her neck.
As the service continued, the ministers of the local Baptist, Presbyterian, and Methodist churches all took aim at potential new converts, displaying their expertise with drawn-out prayers for the dearly departed. The man who had mumbled about the collection plate observed to no one in particular, “If they don’t get him planted soon, we’re liable to lose somebody else to old age and have to start all over again.”
Finally, the rite came to a close. As Lilah dropped a fistful of flowers into the grave and turned to leave, Rosalee set her mouth in a grim line. Surely there existed a special chamber in hell for men who abused women, physically or emotionally. I hope you’re miserable down there, Jack.
She allowed her own tears to fall freely as she watched her daughter walk away, followed by the gawkers and the mourners. Stephen put his arms around her, offering his comfort, and she buried her face against his chest and wept.
“Rosie, let me go to the sheriff,” he murmured. “You need to tell her who you are. She needs you and you need her.”
“No.” Rosalee lifted her head and accepted the handkerchief he offered to wipe her tears. “That can wait. I’ve thought of another way. We’ll need an excuse to remain in Cottonwood Creek. Perhaps you could investigate a business opportunity? Anyway, I’ll attempt to befriend her. It might be best that way, in fact. I can get to know her before she learns the truth, and then, it might be less of a shock for her. Would you do that for me, Stephen? Would you find a way for us to stay in this town for a while?”
“Oh, Rosie, you know I’ll do anything for you.” He gazed after the crowd, now scattering toward different destinations. He smiled at her, coaxing one in return as he said, “I might even make some money while I’m about it.”
“That goes without saying.”
Stephen pressed a kiss against her brow. “How long, Rosie? How much time does this plan of yours entail?”
She thought a moment, her stare instinctively searching for her daughter. “Well, at least until the trial. We’ll see how the trial goes, and then we’ll know better how to proceed.”
Stephen Carstairs nodded solemnly and said, “All right, Rosie. Until the trial.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JESS TANNER POUNDED HIS fist on the defense table and surged to his feet. “Your honor, I object!”
District Court Judge Thaddeus Mills stroked the curled tip of his mustache between finger and thumb and drawled, “Mr. Tanner, your legs must surely be tired from all that hopping up and down. Objection overruled.”
“But Judge, I have yet to state it.”
“Don’t matter none. It’s still overruled.”
And so it went. Before noon on the first day of the Burkett Bastard’s trial for the murder of Reverend J. P. Harrison, everyone in the courtroom realized the exercise in justice was simply a prologue to a hanging.
Zach hadn’t expected anything different. In the three weeks since the killing, the Cottonwood Creek Clarion had railed against the “shameless depravity” of the accused’s “contemptible, lamentable act” on a daily basis. Twice, enraged crowds had stormed the jailhouse demanding an immediate lynching. Zach recognized his dear daddy’s hand behind the scenes and had to admire the efficiency of the campaign Joshua Marston waged against his bastard son. Getting Zach hanged for a crime he didn’t commit did display a certain élan, something a schemer such as himself had to admire.
While a fellow named Waldrop testified to seeing the defendant board the Miracle the night of the crime, Zach shifted in his chair and allowed his gaze to trail around the courtroom. Every seat was taken and spectators lined the walls. The crush of bodies, scarcity of windows, and heat of spring sunshine made for a stuffy, stale atmosphere in the room.
The Marston family was well represented with both brothers and both spouses in attendance. Ginnie Drake caught Zach’s gaze, and she sent him a supportive smile. He winked at her in return, which brought an accusatory snort from the woman behind him. Eulalie Peabody left no doubt that she sided with his accusers. Patrick Callahan sat beside the widow. Earlier, when Zach had nodded a hello, the boy had met his gaze with a solemn expression.
As the prosecutor questioned Waldrop at length about the clothing the defendant had worn the night of the murder, Zach shifted position again and glanced over his other shoulder. Knowing in his gut he looked in vain, he searched the crowd for the one, glaringly absent face.
Zach felt certain he’d read about it in tomorrow’s Clarion. Morality Brown Burkett, the victim’s niece and the wife of the accused, had not bothered to attend the trial. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, other than that first visit the day of his arrest, Morality had not set foot inside the jailhouse.
That pretty well showed how much she’d believed his claim of innocence.
Jess declined the opportunity to cross-examine Mr. Waldrop, and the prosecutor called Mr. Stephen Carstairs to take the stand. Zach took a look at the witness and recalled that Carstairs was present when he’d gone to the riverboat with mayhem—not murder—in mind. The Easterner may have hung around to watch the fight, and a detailed retelling of the beating sure as hell wouldn’t do Zach any good in the jurors’ eyes.
As if it mattered. The verdict was a foregone conclusion. Zach wouldn’t have bothered to hang around for the trial if Jess hadn’t made him promise to hold off on the escape they had planned. Tanner seemed to think he had a chance at an acquittal, and that with a not-guilty verdict, their railroad scheme might work yet.
Zach knew better. Marston had bought the jury as sure as the new shoes on each and every juryman’s feet. He lifted one corner of his mouth in a rueful smile. He hoped to hell the jurors got more than a new pair of shoes out of the deal. It didn’t sit well to think he wasn’t worth more than that.
Carstairs placed his hand on a Bible, swore to tell the truth, and took his seat. The prosecutor rose to begin questioning, but Judge Mills interrupted. “Hold on there, Halford,” he said, addressing the attorney. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horned frog backward. Before you get started there, I think I’ll call a recess for some of Sally Parker’s chicken-fried steak over to the Bayou Cafe.”
One of the jurors spoke up. “It’s about time, Judge.” He turned to look at the prosecutor. “You buyin’ for everybody, Halford?”
“Just the jurors,” came the reply.
As the courtroom cleared, a hushed oath exploded from Jess Tanner’s mouth. He muttered on about kangaroo courts as he walked beside his client while the sheriff escorted Zach back to the jailhouse. Once in the relative privacy of his cell, Zach smiled and held up his hands. “See what I mean?” he softly asked. “Small-town justice. I might as well head for the canebrakes tonight.”
“Dammit, I’m not giving up.” Jess pounded the thick wooden wall with his fist.
“I appreciate your dedication, Jess,” Zach drawled. “As long as it doesn’t get me killed.”
Jess gave him a long look. “Come on, Burkett. Think back over the years. How many times have I broken you out of jail?”
Zach rubbed his chin. “Hmm, that’s kind of tough. Four?”
“Nope. Five. Three times as Zeke Burnett, twice when you called yourself Zeb Butler.”
“Zeb Butler—that was in Colorado, wasn’t it?”
“Denver.”
“You’re right. I think every time I went to Denver I ended up in trouble. They’re quick to jail a man for fighting up there. Must have something to do with the cold weather.”
Jess folded his arms, the smile fading from his lips, as he said in a serious tone, “You’re taking this all a bit lightly, Zach. It surprises me. We’ve worked hard setting up this scheme, and now it’s on the verge of collapse. I don’t mind so much for myself. I can get my father another time. But this might be your only shot, especially if the country goes to war.”
“I’ve put some thought into that,” Zach replied. He took a seat at the end of the cot Jess had demanded for his client. “Even after I say my farewells to these accommodations, I believe that with a little finesse, it’s still possible for us to win. To be honest, seeing this morning how easily Marston herded all the townsfolk into his pen has upped the ante for me even more.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Zach lowered his chair to the floor and opened his mouth to speak when an arm—a feminine arm—reached through the window bars and dropped a folded piece of paper. “What’s this?” he said, his gaze captured by the sheet of white floating toward the floor. He felt of rush of anticipation. Morality? Bounding from his chair, he stepped to the window. “Morality?”
Even as he searched the limited area of sight, Zach realized the woman could not have been Morality. This lady had worn a ring on her hand, a large emerald surrounded by diamonds. The only ring Morality wore was the plain gold band he’d bought for her in Nacogdoches.
Disappointment washed through him and he swore on a sigh. What did it matter that she’d made herself scarce? She wasn’t his concern. Morality Brown was just another person he figured to use—no more, no less.
That’s right, Burkett. Then why were you stretching your neck in the courtroom looking for her? Turning away from the window, he glanced at Jess. “Hate mail?”
Shaking his head slowly, Jess looked up. “Why don’t you hold off on the escape plans a little bit longer?” He held out the note.
Zach read, “ ‘Ask Carstairs what happened two hours after Burkett left the Miracle.’ ”
“Where were you two hours after your little tête-à-tête with Harrison?” Jess asked.
“Rifling the files at Marston Shipping. What’s this about, Jess? Is someone trying to set me up?”
The lawyer tugged the paper from Zach’s hand and read it again. “It’s a possibility, but in all honesty, I doubt that’s it. Why would anyone bother? You’re as good as hanged in that courtroom as it is.”
Zach lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “He finally admits defeat.”
“No, not at all. This letter may well be a true attempt to help us, and if so, you realize what it suggests?”
“Carstairs might have seen the killer.” Zach returned to his cot and stretched out, hands pillowing his head. “Hell, Carstairs might be the killer.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know. He wasn’t around when I first arrived in Cottonwood Creek. Must be a newcomer. I haven’t exactly been a social gadabout the past few weeks.”
Jess paced the tiny floor and thought aloud. “I think I’ve met him before. Where or when I can’t say. If I could remember, that might help.”
“You didn’t meet him while you were with me. The first time I laid eyes on him was on board the Miracle. Maybe he’s with another railroad. Maybe that’s where you know him from.”
Jess shook his head. “I don’t think so. Word has it around town that he’s here to open a new business—dry goods, I believe. His wife is a stunning woman, and—” He broke off in mid-sentence and looked toward the window, his expression thoughtful. “She wears an emerald and diamond ring.”
Zach eyed his friend. “So, Mrs. Carstairs wants Mr. Carstairs to testify as to his whereabouts two hours after his meeting with the pulpit pounder. Might be some private fight between the two of them. Maybe he was with his mistress or something.”
“It’s possible, but it’s difficult to imagine,” Jess said, frowning. “I’ve yet to see a woman in town who could hold a candle to his wife.”
“She can’t be prettier than Morality,” Zach scoffed, pulling his hat down over his eyes.
“Older, but still a fine-looking woman, I’m telling you. And there’s something else. Since you’ve been locked up, Mrs. Carstairs has become downright friendly with your wife.”
“Well, hell!” Zach exclaimed, his hat slipping from his head as he sat straight up. “What does that mean? Are the Carstairs for us or against us?”
Jess took a deep breath, then exhaled a loud sigh. “We’d better not use it, Zach. I won’t have time to question him beforehand, and no good attorney ever asks a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. Maybe we should just plan the escape.”
Zach thought a moment, then shook his head. “No, not yet. I’ve always liked a good gamble, and I don’t see what I have to lose. Ask him the question, Jess. Let’s see what Mr. Carstairs has to say for himself, shall we?”
“But Zach—”
Zach’s cheeks dimpled in a grin. “It’s my hanging, isn’t it?”
IN THE parlor of the Marston home. Morality nervously twisted her wedding band as she listened to her new friend, Rosalee Carstairs, outline reasons why Morality should attend the afternoon session at the courthouse. “I don’t think so, Rosalee,” she said. “I’m afraid I’d end up crying or screaming or something equally as foolish.”
“Nonsense. I don’t believe that for a moment. You are a strong young woman, Morality.” Rosalee reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m proud to call you my friend.”
“I feel the same way about you. You have been so dear to me throughout this troublesome time. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I’ve never really had a woman friend before, and if ever there was a time when I needed one, it’s now.” Morality glanced toward the doorway of the ladies’ parlor, making sure they were alone, and added in a low voice, “Louise has been ever so kind to me, but Reverend Uncle’s death has had a profound effect on her. She will hardly look me in the eye.”
“Because of Mr. Burkett?” Rosalee inquired, sipping her tea.
Morality shrugged. “That’s what I thought at first, but I’m not so certain anymore. It’s almost as if she feels guilty about something.”
“What would Mrs. Marston have to feel guilty about?”
Morality looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. She wasn’t very good with secrets; she considered them shades of a lie. Over the past weeks as the friendship between her and Rosalee had developed, she’d confided the circumstances of her marriage. She had not, however, mentioned the diary or the fact that Louise had sent her looking for Zach on the eve of the ice storm.
“It’s a long story,” she finally replied. “Suffice it to say that I probably wouldn’t be married to Zach if not for Louise. But I still think something else is bothering her.” She set her cup of tea on the table between them. “Perhaps it is grief. Patrick tells me she spent a lot of time studying with my uncle while I was gone.”
Wryly, Rosalee said, “I imagine Mr. Marston was thrilled about that.” She ignored Morality’s reproachful look and brought the conversation back to the beginning. “Please come to the courthouse, dear. You need to be there, otherwise you’d not have met me at the door with a barrage of questions. And as I told you e
arlier, I need your support. I do not like that judge one bit—or the prosecutor for that matter. I’d like to have a friend with me while my Stephen is testifying.”
Morality closed her eyes, tension taking a grip on her heart. If she went, she’d see Zach. She’d be forced to deal with the hurt and confusion she’d been avoiding for weeks. Not making a judgment as to his guilt or innocence had been a decision in itself. If she went to the courthouse, she knew she’d be forced to confront the question she’d taken such pains to evade up until now. “I’m such a coward, Rosalee.”
“No you’re not. Have faith, Morality.”
“Faith? In whom? My husband? My uncle? Both men lied to me.”
“Believe in yourself. Have faith in yourself, and you will find your answers.”
Morality gazed beseechingly at her friend. “And once I have these answers, then what do I do?”
“Listen to your heart, Morality. Listen to your heart.”
ZACH SPOTTED her the moment she walked through the door. She’d lost weight. Her cheeks looked gaunt and the yellow dress hung loosely on her frame. But at least she wore yellow, not the black he’d have expected. Could that be a sign of some sort?
Yes, Burkett. A sign that she’s cheery over the prospect of your hanging.
Jess nudged him, gesturing for him to turn around and face the front of the courtroom. Zach ignored him and stared at his wife, silently commanding her to meet his gaze.
When she finally did, it was only for a second. In Morality’s fleeting glance, Zach saw a surcharge of emotion that made him ache. She was suffering. She looked as if the bruises she’d worn the last time he’d seen her had sunk inside and settled in.
She looked as though she had lost her faith.
Zach wanted to hit something, anything. Anyone. He glanced toward his father, who had reclaimed a seat directly behind the prosecution. Joshua Marston was the person he wanted to hit.
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