After settling the steed in the barn in back, she walked into the house. Mama and Papa had already retired, but the walls were alive with the sound of Papa’s clocks; twenty-two in the dining room, twenty-two in the parlor—all keeping the same perfect time.
Her sisters held conflicting emotions about the constant chimes that marked each passing moment. Oddly enough, Amanda found the timepieces comforting. As a child, she liked to stand on a soapbox and pretend she was a public speaker decrying the latest social injustice. The wall of clocks served as her approving audience, bursting into applause every quarter of an hour.
Tonight, the measured ticktocks reminded her of a bunch of old ladies clicking their tongues in disapproval. Making nice with a suspected killer, were you? Tsk, tsk, tsk…
The brisk night air had failed to cool her hot brow. A strange and unfamiliar heat flowed through her limbs, seeming to hold her in its grip.
Just so you know, your grandmother’s not the only one rooting for you.
She drew in her breath. Nothing Rennick said was worth beans. Not a word. It was all part of his ongoing attempt to win her over. Even that story about his mother was probably a bald-faced lie.
So why did his words keep repeating in her head? Why did his resonant voice still echo inside? Your grandmother’s not the only one rooting for you.
He was a prime murder suspect. He claimed he was innocent but failed to give an adequate explanation for his presence at the scene of the crime. It was also hard to ignore that he tried to escape. Wouldn’t an innocent man want to stay and clear his name?
Twisting her hands together, she paced back and forth in the dark parlor. It was no concern of hers. Innocent or guilty—made no difference. It wasn’t her job to decide. Still, there was the puzzle of the missing knife and…
Catching herself, she pounded her fist into the palm of her hand. Oh no, you don’t, Mr. R. B. Rennick. You’re not drawing me into your little game. He played on her inexperience and charitable heart. Worse, he’d used her grandmother for his own purposes.
Lies, all of it. He didn’t mean a word he said, and she hated—utterly hated—that she wished with all her heart that he did.
* * *
Amanda arrived at the office the following morning to find the cells packed and the place smelling like a bootlegger’s still. Scooter had arrested seven men during the night for drunk and disorderly conduct.
Rennick didn’t seem to mind the company. Instead, he was enjoying a rowdy game of cards with two of the prisoners. She pointedly ignored him. After a sleepless night, she was in no mood for his tricks. If he ever mentioned her grandmother again, she would slug him.
Some of his cellmates were local shop owners and farmers. Most were even family men. One was the mayor’s son.
“How did you manage to handle all those arrests by yourself?” she asked her deputy.
Scooter grinned. “They were too far gone to give me any trouble,” he explained. “So I just pulled out old Pete here”—he patted the firearm at his side—“and marched them to jail like a herd of cattle heading for water.”
“Fine them each five dollars and let them go.” She wanted the cells empty to make room for real outlaws, if she were ever lucky enough to catch one.
Scooter hesitated. “I’m afraid that’s gonna be a problem.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Between the clean cells, comfortable cots, and tasty grub, they said they’ve never had it so good, and they ain’t leaving.”
Amanda sank into her chair. “Oh, for crying out loud.” She didn’t have time for such nonsense. “If they won’t leave of their own accord, then force them to leave.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff!” Scooter did an about-face, pulled out his Colt, and marched to the back as if on the way to war.
Moments later, all seven men, motivated by the muzzle of Scooter’s gun, moved past her desk, hands held shoulder high.
“This ain’t fair,” muttered one. “A man has the right to stay in jail if he wants. I demand a lawyer.”
No sooner had Scooter and the prisoners left than the door swung open and Mayor Troutman barreled in, looking fit to be tied. He came to a skidding stop in front of her desk, his mouth moving like a fish gasping for air.
He stabbed the floor with his cane. “What’s the meaning of arresting my son?” he sputtered.
She sat back in her chair. “He was disturbing the peace.”
“He was letting off steam. That’s what kids his age do.”
She leaned forward. “That kid, as you call him,” she said, emphasizing every word, “is forty years old. He should know better.”
The mayor got all red in the face. Blue veins thick as rope stood out on his neck. “You’ve overstepped your boundaries this time, Miss Lockwood.” He continued to rant and threatened to have her head.
With a sigh, she let her gaze wander through the open door to her lone prisoner. Instead of his usual pacing, Mr. Rennick stood still and was soundlessly clapping his hands.
Just so you know, your grandmother’s not the only one rooting for you.
She quickly averted her gaze. Rennick’s show of support was all part of an elaborate scheme to win her over. Yet knowing it was a ruse did nothing to temper the effects. Already, she felt her defenses subside and confidence begin to build. It had been a long time since anyone applauded her or even approved of anything she did. Mama and Papa tried. Still, they couldn’t help but be perplexed by a daughter who shunned marriage and the possibility of a normal life.
With a jerk, she turned her attention back to the mayor, standing so abruptly that he stepped back.
“That’s Sheriff Lockwood,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “And as long as I’m wearing this badge, I’ll step over what boundaries I please.” She couldn’t believe the words spouting out of her mouth. And she’d said them with such authority. Sorry, Miss Brackett, but sometimes grace and charm don’t work.
“You can leave now. In fact, I insist.” Oh my.
The mayor looked momentarily rebuffed but soon recovered. “Not till you explain this!” He slapped a paper onto her desk. A quick glance confirmed that it was a bill she had turned in.
“You expect the town to pay for a frock coat and Bible?” he sputtered. “Your job is to arrest criminals, not convert them!”
“I know what my job is,” she retorted. Before she had a chance to explain the bill and further exercise her newfound confidence, the mayor spun around and stormed out of the office.
* * *
No sooner did the mayor leave than Mr. Woodman arrived with the newly repaired hope chest. She hurried to hold the door open for him. A wiry man of undetermined race and age, his skin was the color of honey oak.
“Whew! What’s got the mayor riled up this time?” he asked, his face damp from exertion.
“We arrested his son.”
“If you ask me, that was long overdue.” He lowered his chin to indicate the chest in his arms. “Where do you want this?”
“Put it over there against that wall.”
She waited for him to set the chest down before checking out the side that had been damaged by a bullet.
“The repair is hardly noticeable,” she exclaimed, running her finger along the smooth wood. If she didn’t know better, she would think the slight indentation was part of the carving. Woodman always did good work, but this time, he had far exceeded her expectations. “How much do I owe you?”
He handed her a bill, and she reached for her purse to carefully count out the right amount.
“The missus put some women’s clothes and stuff inside for the poor farm,” he said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Tell her thanks. I’m sure the Wendells will put the items to good use.” She paid him, and he left.
She stooped to take another look
at Woodman’s expert work. Wouldn’t it be great if all problems could be so easily resolved?
“What do you plan on doing with your hope-a-thingie?” Rennick called from his cell.
She straightened with a sigh. “I don’t know.” The hope chest served as yet another reminder of how she had fallen short of her parents’ hopes and dreams for her.
“Bring it here. I could use a footstool.”
“Certainly not,” she said. The very idea. Just because she had no use for it didn’t mean she would allow it to share a cell with a prisoner. “As I told you, it’s a family heirloom.”
“I kinda think of us as family. Look at all the time we spend together.”
“Not by choice, believe me.”
As for the hope chest… She had no need for it, and neither sister wanted it. Meg had no room in her tiny house, and Josie insisted that Amanda keep it. The tradition was to pass it along to the next unmarried woman in line. Like it or not, that was her.
The thing would just have to stay where it was till she figured out what to do with it.
Twenty-four
Each morning, Amanda arrived at the office to find the jail cells packed, along with a daily dispatch citing yet another judicial delay. Not only did this affect the start of Rennick’s trial, but also land disputes and other court cases, including dissolution of marriages and custody battles.
The town’s lack of its own sitting judge was only part of the problem. Scooter enthusiastically arrested anyone who as much as thought about breaking the law. Vagrants, drunkards, rabble-rousers, and other social misfits or morally depleted citizens were all marched to jail at gunpoint.
The fact that some lawbreakers also happened to be businessmen created an unforeseen problem. For that meant that shops and other establishments were closed while their owners cooled their heels behind bars. It got so bad that the town council toyed with the idea of limiting the number of arrests that could be made on any given day in order to keep the town running smoothly.
Amanda had arranged for extra cots, stored at the now-deserted fort outside of town, to be brought to the jailhouse. As long as she was in charge, no man would sleep on the floor or have to share a cot with another.
Prisoners were fed well, made to wash, given a change of clothes if necessary, and treated with respect. So much so that the only way to get some inmates to pay their bail and leave was the same way they came in—at gunpoint.
Bail money more than paid for prisoner meals and other necessities, and soon, the town coffers began to swell. But did that satisfy the town council? It did not!
The mayor was constantly harping on her to quit and let a man take over the job. The husbands of her posse accused her of being a poor influence on their wives. One woman’s husband, Mr. Granby, managed to get himself arrested just so he could enjoy a decent meal while “his wife was out gallivanting with outlaws.”
The Two-Time Gazette ran numerous editorials blaming her for dragging women off the path of righteousness and encouraging them to “play in the Devil’s playground.” Her name was even uttered from the pulpit in the same critical tone afforded the fall of mankind.
The criticism and complaints weren’t without merit. Some Red Feather members took a liking to Mr. Rennick and were constantly stopping by to ply him with baked goods, even when not working. Mrs. Perl knitted him a special red scarf, and Miss Read kept him supplied with his favorite peppermint candy. This raised more than a few eyebrows around town. It was bad enough that good-time gal Goldie was seen leaving the jailhouse with suspicious regularity, but visits from the minister’s wife really got tongues wagging.
If wasn’t just the Red Feather posse that had taken a liking to the Rennick—so had Scooter. He and Rennick were often seen with their heads together. But whenever Amanda questioned her deputy, he would shrug and act all innocent-like.
That morning when she walked in and caught Scooter coming out of the jail block with a guilty look on his face, her suspicions grew.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, ducking behind his new camera. It was a large mahogany box with maroon bellows balanced upon a tripod. “Say cabbage.”
Amanda frowned. “I hate cabbage.”
“Yeah, but the word relaxes the mouth so that it photographs better.”
“Nothing like a relaxed mouth,” she said. “Cabbage, cabbage, cabbage.”
“Hold it!” He squeezed the rubber ball in his hand. A bright light flashed from the magnesium lamp, followed by gray smoke and a shower of white powder.
It seemed like forever before he yelled, “You can move now.” His head popped up from beneath a black cloth, and he patted the camera like a parent patting the head of a child.
“Very impressive,” she said.
He reached into a leather portfolio. “Here’s the first photo I took,” he said, laying a photograph on the desk in front of her. “It takes clearer pictures than my old camera.”
The unexpected image of Rick took her by surprise, and her breath caught in her lungs.
Half his face was in shadows, but even so, the camera had captured the inherit strength she had come to know so well. Now she studied the high cheekbones, strong square jaw, and chiseled nose at her leisure—a luxury normally denied her.
Whereas the light side illuminated him, the dark side only added to the mystery. The burning question of his guilt or innocence remained. “So that’s what you were doing when I arrived.”
“If you don’t like it, I can take another,” Scooter said, looking uncertain.
“What? Oh, no, I think it’s…a great likeness.”
He looked pleased. “I’m starting a criminal file, just like the Pinkerton Detective Agency.” He explained that the agency was creating a library to be used by lawmen across the country. “Just think, we could be the only sheriff’s office with its own criminal library.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” she said.
The door opened, and Rennick’s lawyer popped his head into the office.
“Got a minute?” he asked, indicating with a toss of his head that he wanted to talk to her in private.
Exchanging a look with Scooter, she shrugged before joining Birdseye outside.
“Miss…uh…” Mr. Birdseye removed his hat upon addressing her but seemed at a loss as to how to proceed from there.
“You can call me Sheriff,” she said briskly. “What can I do for you?”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve met with your prisoner many times, as you know. I’m afraid none of our meetings have been productive. The man’s as closemouthed as a clam.”
What he said came as no surprise, but she wasn’t sure why he was telling her this.
“I wonder,” he continued, “if you could tell me anything about him.”
Oh yes, she could tell him plenty. She could tell him that Rick was the most stubborn, arrogant, and annoying man she’d ever met.
But of course, she wouldn’t.
When she hesitated, Birdseye added, “His background. History? Anything would help.”
“I know he once owned a horse ranch. That’s all I can tell you.”
Birdseye grimaced. “I’ve never had a more difficult client. He refuses to talk about himself. He claims he’s innocent but won’t explain why he was in Cooper’s room. He refuses to plead guilty, self-defense, or even insanity.”
“What about the missing murder weapon?” she asked. “He had no time to hide it. Someone must have walked out of that room with it, and we know it wasn’t Rick.”
“That’s the one and only thing in his favor,” he said.
Since he didn’t sound all that confident, she asked, “And if the jurors don’t buy that argument?”
“Let me put it this way. If I was the prosecutor, I’d be jumping for joy about now.”
* * *
/>
Rick looked up from the newspaper as Miss Sheriff stormed into the cell room. One look at her face told him she was loaded to the muzzle.
Standing, he gaped at her. Never had he seen her horns in such a tangle. “What’s got you so riled this time?”
She glared at him, eyes flashing blue fire. “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again!” The red feather on her hat shook as she spoke. “I am not letting you go. So you can just get that out of your head.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “All right.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I mean it.”
“I heard you.”
Her eyes blazed with doubt. “Whether you like it or not, you’re standing trial. Your lawyer—”
“So that’s what this is about. Birdsh…uh…talked to you.”
“He’s trying to save your neck.”
“By having me admit to somethin’ I didn’t do!”
She blew out her breath. “If you work with him, justice—”
“Justice? Justice! I spent five years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. Five years! That’s what justice did to me.”
She gasped as if someone had just punched her in the stomach, and he immediately regretted his hastily spoken words.
“I-I didn’t know,” she stammered.
There was no way she could know. His breath whooshed out of him. He hated arguing with her. She wasn’t to blame for any of this. The endless court delays and failed efforts to find the real killer frustrated him, but it wasn’t fair to take it out on her. He sensed that she truly cared about and wanted to help him—or was that just wishful thinking on his part? All he really knew for sure was that he needed someone to believe in him, and he wanted that person to be Amanda.
“They thought I killed my wife,” he said quietly, the previously unspoken words sounding strange even to his own ears.
Her lips parted and eyes widened, but otherwise, she didn’t move. “Go on,” she said as he struggled to continue.
And so, at last, he told her the whole ugly story. Each word weighed heavy, like it carried a piece of his heart with it. How he found his wife dead. The long, drawn-out trial. The fact that it took five years before a witness came forward. He told her everything except perhaps the most important thing of all—that the man he was now accused of killing was his wife’s real killer.
A Match Made in Texas Page 16