A Match Made in Texas

by Margaret Brownley

“Just a little damage.” Tomorrow, she’d ask Mr. Woodman to look at it—again.

  He chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, but I don’t have much hope for that old thing. Maybe someone should take it off your hands while it’s still in one piece.”

  She fanned the smoke with her hand, but the blue haze continued to hang ghostlike in the air. She swept up the ashes that had drifted into the cellblock.

  “Sorry about the smoke. It reeks like the inside of a chimney.”

  His nose puckered. “I’ve smelled worse.”

  A serious look replaced his earlier smile, and she desperately wanted to say something to cheer him. “I asked my brother-in-law to look into your case. He’s a lawyer.”

  His face closed like a slamming door. “Why?”

  “I’m hoping he finds grounds for appeal. That would give us more time to get to the truth.”

  His eyes darkened with emotion. “I didn’t know it was your job to…uh…carry out the task.” He shook his head and looked away.

  Her breath caught in her chest. “I didn’t know it either.”

  All her life, she’d struggled with society’s stringent rules for women. Everything from the way a woman walked and talked to the way she wore her hair and clothes and spent her free time was dictated from cradle to grave.

  Women had the same capabilities as men and deserved the same opportunities. But this…this taking of a life was more than she’d bargained for.

  “There’s still time,” she whispered. “I haven’t given up hope.”

  He moved closer to the cell and held out his hand. “Amanda…”

  She leaned the broom against the wall and lifted her hand to his. “Don’t fight me on this, Rick. It’s the only way.”

  She heard his intake of breath. “What you’re tryin’ to do…I’m much obliged. I am.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. I haven’t got a chance of proving your innocence. A woman is better suited to making a cake than taking on the role of sheriff.”

  He regarded her with eyes too dark to read. “What I was thinking is that I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  “Are you saying that you wouldn’t be able to…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. The very thought of pulling a lever and watching a man—Rick—drop to his death made her feel physically ill.

  “Make a cake?” he asked, deftly lightening the mood. “Not in a million years.”

  * * *

  During the next two days, Amanda was driven like a gale-force wind. Any new evidence casting doubt on Rick’s guilt would postpone, if not altogether cancel, the hanging.

  Where to begin? Where bad men gathered, of course. Saloons. Not places with which she was familiar, but desperate times called for desperate measures. With her posse and deputy stationed nearby, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked into the first of the many town saloons.

  Soon, she had her approach down pat: she’d walk inside, rap the bar for attention, then lift her voice to ask if anyone had known the deceased man, Cooper. That was how Scooter said it was done in dime novels.

  Few admitted to knowing the man and then only from the faro tables. Cooper was a high-rolling gambler who lost bundles on the tables. So where did the money come from? Nothing found on his person or in his room provided a clue. Nor did the bank have a record of an account or safe deposit box in his name.

  While she and Scooter were at the bank questioning the clerks, Bullwhip, the stagecoach driver, walked in carrying two canvas bags of money, an armed guard by his side. She stopped to stare. Something about the bags triggered the start of a distant memory, but she couldn’t think what it was.

  “Wow!” Scooter said as they left the bank. “You sure do make one heck of a sheriff.”

  “Doesn’t she though?” Becky-Sue said and giggled.

  Scooter got all red in the face as he tended to do whenever Becky-Sue was around.

  Amanda turned to her posse and sighed. The women meant well, but canvassing businesses with such a large group turned out to be more of a hindrance than help. “We need to split up.”

  A mariachi band headed their way, forcing her to lift her voice to be heard above the music.

  She sliced her hand through the air to indicate an even division. “This group takes this side of the street, the rest of you the other side. Question every shop owner, every customer, every person you meet.” The man had to have done more than play faro and enjoy an occasional rendezvous with a good-time gal.

  “I want to know who Cooper talked to, who his friends and enemies were, and his every movement leading up to time of death.” Oh my! She was beginning to sound like an honest-to-goodness lawman.

  About time.

  “Deputy Hobson and I will take the barbershop and bordello.”

  “We will?” Scooter asked, turning beet red. “I mean, we will!”

  Thirty-one

  Madame Bubbles owned the only bordello in town. It was a two-story brick building sedately trimmed in green. Other than the red light that shone in the window at night, the house looked prim as an old maid.

  Amanda regarded the establishment with misgivings. She and her posse had combed the town, and still Cooper remained a mystery.

  She glanced at Scooter. “Ready?”

  “A-are w-we going in there?” he stammered.

  She drew in her breath and reached for the doorknocker. “You bet we are.”

  They were ushered inside by a young corseted woman in a bright-red dress who told them to wait in the parlor. “Madame Bubbles will be right with you.”

  Nothing prim about the scarlet wallpaper decorating the interior. The heavy velvet draperies, sofas, large paintings, and ornately carved tables added to the oppressive feel of the room, along with the stale smell of perfume and cigar smoke.

  Scooter looked up at the painting of an unclad woman over the fireplace, and his already red face turned purple. “Oh, wow!”

  Amanda hushed him with a finger to her mouth. “Watch your demeanor.”

  “Right!” Stepping back, he saluted her and practically knocked over a statue of a naked lady. Fortunately, he caught it before it hit the floor, but he was still wrestling with the female form when Madame Bubbles arrived.

  Even the madam’s painted face couldn’t hide her shock at seeing the partially unclad effigy in Scooter’s arms. Unfortunately, Scooter’s face was buried against the dummy’s bare bosom, which sported two strategically placed jewels.

  Amanda stepped in front of her deputy in an effort to distract the madam and held out her hand. “I’m Sheriff Lockwood.” Though she’d seen Madame Bubbles in town on many occasions, they hadn’t previously spoken. No respectable woman would be caught dead in the madam’s company. “This is Deputy Hobson.”

  Having rid himself of the statue, Scooter whipped off his hat. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, unaware of the shiny paste stone on the tip of his nose.

  While Madame Bubbles seated herself on a red velvet sofa, Amanda motioned to Scooter to rub the glittering stone off his nose and turned to the madam.

  Madame Bubbles smoothed the skirt of her purple taffeta dress. “How can I help you?”

  “As you probably heard, one of your…clients had an unfortunate encounter with a knife.”

  “You must be referring to Mr. Cooper.”

  “Yes, and I would like to speak to the person who discovered his body.”

  Madame Bubbles summoned the young woman who greeted them at the door with a snap of her fingers. “Send Charity in.”

  The young woman dropped a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.”

  While waiting for Charity, Amanda caught Scooter’s attention and rubbed her nose. It took several tries before he finally got the message.

  Moments later, Charity entered the room dressed in a housecoat. Her flaming red h
air trailed down her back. Without her face paint, she appeared years younger than she’d looked on the witness stand, no more than eighteen or nineteen.

  She seemed surprised to find Madame Bubbles had guests, and her hand flew to her bare face in a self-conscious manner.

  Madame Bubbles didn’t seem to notice the girl’s discomfort. “The sheriff wishes to ask you questions about that unfortunate incident involving Mr. Cooper.”

  Charity dropped her gaze to the floor and twisted her hands by her side. “I told them everything I know when I testified in court.”

  “I know that,” Amanda said, keeping her voice and manner relaxed and friendly. “But if you could go over it one more time, Deputy Hobson and I would appreciate it.” There was always the possibility she’d forgotten some small detail. “First, could you tell us when you last saw Mr. Cooper alive?”

  The girl thought a moment. “Sometime before he was killed.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I think it was the Monday before. Maybe Tuesday. Coulda been Wednesday.”

  “Are you sure?” Deputy Hobson asked, trying to be helpful.

  Charity nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “What happened the night you found Mr. Cooper dead?” Amanda asked.

  “The door was ajar when I got there. I called out, but when the client didn’t answer, I pushed the door all the way open.” The girl shuddered. “That’s when I saw Mr. Cooper dead on the floor and the killer standing over him with a knife.”

  “Is there any chance you could be mistaken?” Amanda asked. “About the knife, I mean.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I know what I saw. Just like I said in court. It was a knife.”

  * * *

  Rick was so wrapped up in his troubled thoughts, he didn’t hear the door to the cell room open. Instead, he sensed Amanda’s presence. Putting pen and paper aside, he rose from the cot, and a shiver of awareness rushed though him.

  Standing in the circle of yellow light cast by the gas lantern, she acknowledged his greeting with a weary nod. She looked serious as a banker, her solemn demeanor hardly seeming to fit her small frame.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Her gaze searched his. “For what?”

  “Putting you through this.”

  She moistened her lips and lowered her lashes. “I’ve hit a dead end. Grant, my brother-in-law, found nothing in the transcripts we could use.” After a moment, she lifted her gaze, and he almost drowned in the liquid pools of despair in her eyes. “We’ve questioned everyone in town about Cooper and…” She shook her head. “I even questioned the girl Charity, and she insists she saw you with a knife.”

  He rubbed his forehead and forced himself to recall the details of a night he’d gone over hundreds of time in his head. “The light was bad.” What could the girl have seen? The silver money clip he pulled out of Cooper’s pocket? Was that it?

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I reckon it’s the first time a condemned man felt worse for the hangman than himself.”

  She looked away, and he sensed her struggle for composure. Finally, she turned her gaze back to him. The light caught the golden tips of her lush lashes, and the desperation in the depths of her eyes near broke his heart.

  “Is there anyone you want me to contact?” she asked, her voice uncommonly husky.

  So they really had come to the end of the line. He turned to the cot and reached for the letter he’d struggled for hours to write. He folded the letter in fourths. “Would you mail this to my sister after…”

  She took the letter from him and slipped it into her divided skirt pocket. “Of course…”

  Now they were talking in half sentences.

  “Her name is Deborah Bradford. You can mail it general delivery to her in San Antone.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said. “What do you want me to do with your horse? I can arrange to have him sent to your sister, if you like.”

  “I want you to have him.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “My sister doesn’t need it, and there’s no one else.”

  An agonized look washed over her face. “I’ll…I’ll take good care of him,” she said.

  “I expect nothin’ less.”

  Their gazes locked for a moment before she looked away. “You’re entitled to a special…last supper. Do you have any preferences?”

  Food was the last thing on his mind, but if this really was his last meal, he might as well make the most of it. “Maybe some of Mrs. Mooney’s biscuits,” he said. They were the best he’d ever tasted. “And Mrs. Walker’s blueberry pie.”

  Her eyebrows rose as he continued. “Mrs. Granby’s fudge and her special corn bread would be great. And maybe Miss Read’s almond cookies. That is if we can keep them away from your deputy.” He paused for a moment. “Speaking of Hobson, have him bring me some of those hot cross buns.”

  She tilted her head sideways. “Anything else?”

  He gazed into her eyes. Oh yes, there was something else. Before he died, he longed—ached—to take her in his arms and taste those pretty pink lips of hers.

  “There’s just one more thing…” He hesitated. “Would you have the last dance with me?”

  * * *

  Amanda stared at him in confusion. “What?”

  He pushed both arms through the bars and silently beckoned her to come to him.

  A surge of excitement rushed through her, followed by warm shivers that reached all the way to her toes. Even so, she didn’t want to go to him, touch him, feel his breath in her hair. It would only bring them closer together and deepen the pain. But even as she fought it, the temptation proved too great, and she moved toward him as if drawn by an invisible rope.

  Taking her hand in his, he pulled her as near as the steel door allowed and slid an arm around her waist. His manly smell filled her head, and the gentleness of his touch sent a flood of heat spiraling through her. She lifted her hand to his shoulder, silently cursing the bars that separated them.

  “Ready?” he asked, his voice husky. He was so close, she could see the gold flecks in his eyes.

  “I’m not much of a dancer,” she whispered.

  “Somethin’ else we have in common.” He assessed her openly, as if he could see into the depths of her heart. The smoldering flames in his eyes took her breath away.

  “Dare I ask if you’re wearin’ red beneath your sheriff attire?” he asked.

  “You may not,” she said, blushing. Never had she imagined discussing such an intimate topic with a man.

  He feigned a look of disappointment. “Would you deny a condemned man this one small pleasure?”

  Heart pounding, she felt her cheeks blaze. “I’m wearing red,” she said with unaccustomed shyness.

  Her reluctant admission was met with an appreciative grin. “That’s my girl.”

  “I’m not your—”

  “Shh,” he said, touching a finger to her lips and all but setting her mouth on fire. “Tonight, it’s just the two of us. Nothin’ else exists.” His hand returned to her waist. “We’re on one of those—what do you call them?—tropical isles.”

  He rocked her gently to the rhythm of a soundless tune. Their feet didn’t move, but their bodies swayed in perfect harmony.

  “There’s a big full moon overhead,” he murmured in her ear, his warm breath on her neck.

  His smooth, soft voice lulled her into believing she actually saw the things he described. Like an artist, he painted a vivid picture in her mind. As if by some magic, the bars seemed to melt away, and she almost imagined her head on his chest, the sound of his beating heart in her ear, the surf curling around their ankles.

  “Over there,” he murmured softly, “is the Big Dipper.”

  In her mind, she saw the
sky, and never had the stars looked so bright. And the ocean! She swore she could hear the gentle lap of waves rolling past them onto a sandy beach. Great guns, she could almost feel the soft tropical breeze brush against her flushed body.

  Oh God. If this wasn’t love…

  How long they danced, she didn’t know. Time and place held no meaning. But eventually, the vision he created in her head faded away, and stark reality took its place. Swallowing a sob, she stared up at him. Day after tomorrow, this man would hang, and he would be lost to her forever.

  A pain shot through her and lodged in her throat. She felt as if her heart had broken, filling her chest with a thousand little pieces. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Please, don’t cry.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, and his gaze fell on her trembling lips. “None of this is your fault,” he murmured.

  She reached through the bars to press her hand against his cheek. “I can’t—”

  Tenderness lit his eyes. “The last time I was locked up, something unexpected happened. A witness confessed on his deathbed.”

  “And you think something like that will happen again?”

  He smoothed a strand of hair away from her face, his knuckle brushing her damp cheek. “Lookin’ at you makes me believe anythin’s possible.”

  She wanted so much to believe that too. Believe in a miracle. Believe that her prayers would be answered. Instead, an anguished cry rose from her depths, shattering what little control remained. Pulling out of his arms, she turned and ran.

  “Amanda, wait!”

  His voice ringing in her ears, she fled from her office, but this time, there was no escaping reality.

  Her hands shook so hard, it took several tries before she could turn the key and lock the door.

  She shivered, but not from the cold night air. Hugging herself, she looked up and down Main. The yellow glow of gas streetlights barely penetrated the thick veil of night. A crescent moon floated high above, curling like a pale-yellow feather.

  The wooden scaffold couldn’t be seen, but its skeletal frame cast a gloomy shadow over the town. She couldn’t think of any other explanation for the unusual quiet. No gunfire rent the air. Only the thin sound of a fiddle wafted from a distant saloon, but even the music lacked the usual verve.