Spirit, tied to the rail in front, swished his tail and scraped the ground with a hoof as if to say Let’s go.
The upstairs windows were dark, so even Scooter had retired.
If only she could talk to her sisters, but Josie was gone, and Meg needed her rest. Mama and Papa wouldn’t understand, and most of her friends had drifted away since she took over as sheriff. Never had Amanda felt so utterly alone.
She pressed her forehead against the door, eyes shut. How was it possible to feel both hot and cold at the same time? Oh, Rick…
Her body swayed from side to side as if unwilling to give up the memory of dancing in his arms. He made her aware of an inner part she never knew existed. A part that liked being held by him, touched by him, teased by him. Despite her protests, she even liked that he approved of her choice of undergarments. How was such a thing possible?
Her eyes flew open. Oh no! Now she sounded like her sisters. She was never one for silly schoolgirl crushes. Not like Meg and Josie who, in their younger days, had fallen in and out of love as easily as birds taking flight. But not her. She was too busy saving orphans, helping war veterans, supporting the poor, and marching for women’s rights.
How she’d hated the way her sisters carried on about their beaus and, later, the men they eventually wed. It was Grant this and Ralph that until, at times, she thought she would scream.
Now at long last, she understood. Loving someone changed the way the world looked. It changed priorities. It changed the depth and width and very shape of the heart.
Meg and Josie were contentedly married, but there would be no happily ever after for her. Where her sisters had fallen for respectable men, she was in love with a condemned killer scheduled to die.
She stared at the hand that would pull the lever and shuddered in horror. Had she known what her duties as a sheriff entailed, she would not have accepted the post.
Never had she felt so utterly miserable. So unbelievably bereft. She had no idea that pain could cut so deep without drawing blood. Her misery was so acute, she could barely manage to throw herself into the saddle. Once mounted, she looked up at the starlit sky, and the full realization hit her.
She’d been so busy learning to be sheriff that she’d forgotten to do one essential thing—she’d forgotten to safeguard her heart. Now it was too late.
Thirty-two
Amanda didn’t sleep that night. It was as if the night were alive with echoes from the past. But there was another voice, a stronger voice, a voice that could only come from the deepest regions of her heart. You, Amanda Lockwood, are in love with Rick Barrett, and there is no way you will participate in his death.
Every time the voice cut through her, she sat upright in her bed and whispered denials that were swallowed up by the dark of night. No, no, it can’t be. What she felt was pity, sorrow. She would feel the same for any man sent to his death.
It seemed foolish to deny what she knew in her heart was true, but old habits die hard. After vowing all these years to be her own woman and not depend on a man, it was hard to admit that she needed Rick. Needed to be held by him, loved by him. Needed him in her life.
She twisted and turned until the first glimmer of dawn crept though her bedroom window. Somewhere around three a.m., she had made her decision. She would hand in her resignation effective immediately.
Maybe that would postpone Rick’s hanging. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, his blood would not be on her hands.
She rose and quickly completed her morning ablutions, then dressed. After brushing her hair and pinning it into a bun, she attached the sheriff badge to her chest for what she supposed would be the very last time.
Lifting the picture frame from the dressing table, she ran her finger over the glass. “Sorry, Grandmama, but I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
She replaced the daguerreotype and left the room. Tiptoeing in the hall so as not to wake her parents, she descended the stairs.
A movement in front of the parlor window startled her. “Papa?”
He turned, his bulk outlined against the breaking dawn. “You’re up early,” he said.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Coffee’s ready.”
He followed her into the kitchen and watched as she poured herself a cup, a stream of sunlight capturing them in its path.
“Amanda—”
“Don’t say it, Papa. I know how much you disapprove of my being sheriff, and you are right. I should have listened to you.” She blew on the hot brew and took a sip. The coffee tasted as bitter as her words. “I’m handing in my resignation first thing this morning.”
He studied her from beneath a craggy brow. “Because of the hanging?”
“What they ask of me…” A pain unlike any she had ever known shot through her. “Could…could you put a man to death, Papa?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. If I thought he would bring harm to my family.”
She set her cup on the counter. “What if there was no danger to you personally? What if you thought he had been wrongly accused?” What if it was someone you loved?
He raised an eyebrow. “You think this man innocent?”
She drew in her breath. “He is, Papa. I know he is.”
He set his empty cup on the counter, and his thick eyebrows twitched. “Are you sure that’s not just wishful thinking on your part?”
She considered the question long and hard before answering. Love was supposedly blind. If that was true, then maybe she was just fooling herself. But was it really blind? Or did it open the eyes, allowing them to see what others could not?
“Yes,” she said finally. “I’m sure.”
“Based on what evidence?”
She told him about the knife and how it had suddenly appeared. “Someone wanted him to take the blame. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
His forehead creased, and he looked at her so strangely, she feared she’d given too much away. Had he guessed her true feelings?
“Have you done everything in your power to help him?” he asked. “As sheriff.”
It seemed like a strange question. “Yes. I think so,” she said.
What would Papa think if he knew that she’d gone as far as offering Rick a chance to escape? No doubt Papa would be furious. Appalled. Shocked, even. As much as he disapproved of her being the sheriff, he would never forgive her for doing something so lawless.
“Do you know who you were named after?” he asked, filling in the sudden silence.
Papa had a habit of abruptly changing the subject whenever it veered off in an awkward direction, but she refused to fall for that old trick.
“Did you hear what I said, Papa? I think Rick—the prisoner—is innocent.”
If he noticed her slip of tongue, he gave no indication. “I heard,” he said and after a moment added, “You were named after my sister.”
“I know.” Her namesake had drowned as a child, but that’s all she really knew. No one, not even Grandmama, had talked about her much except in general terms or hushed whispers.
Still, the deceased child haunted the family like a ghost refusing to be exorcised. Amanda’s earliest memory was of her father dragging her and her two sisters down to the river’s edge and making them swim back and forth until their bellies hurt and their little legs and arms ached. He was determined that no other family member would ever drown.
“She was only seven when she died.” Papa heaved a sigh and added in a faraway voice, “We were having such a good time that day.”
Amanda bit her lower lip. She knew about the drowning but hadn’t known her father had been present. Did he blame himself?
“I tried to save her,” he said, as if to read her mind. “And failed.”
His admission surprised her. Never had she heard Papa admit failure. “You were only a child.”
“Ten. I
was ten. Old enough to take care of her.” His voice drifted away. From the adjoining dining room came the sound of all twenty-two clocks, marking the startling revelations of the past with a cacophony of chimes.
Did this explain why he was so protective of his daughters? To the point of even keeping suitors away? It was only by sheer determination and Mama’s intervention that her brothers-in-law managed to court and marry her sisters.
“It was my idea to tie a rope to a tree so we could swing out over the water.” His voice broke. “When it was my sister’s turn, she dropped into the river smooth as a mermaid. I didn’t know she was in trouble. Not at first. She didn’t make a sound. Not a sound. Never did I know that death could be so silent.”
“Oh, Papa.” Moving to his side, she threw her arms around him. She hadn’t known the full story of his sister’s death, only the pain left behind and the constant fear that history would repeat itself.
They clung to each other, his voice rumbling up from his chest. “Silence always reminds me of her death.”
She pulled away to study his face. “Is that why you collect all those clocks, Papa?” Twenty-two in the dining room, twenty-two in the parlor. Heaven only knew how many in his shop. The constant ticks of clocks allowed for no silence, thus drowning out the memories of soundless screams.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.”
She never really thought much about clocks or the passing of time until her grandmother died. Somehow, the constant ticks and tocks widened the gap between life and death. The more time that passed, the further away her grandmother had seemed and the more her happy childhood memories faded.
“Why are you telling me this, Papa? Why now after so many years?”
“I’m still haunted by the thought that I didn’t do enough to save her. Had I realized sooner she was in trouble… In the end, that’s what we judge ourselves on. Whether or not we did enough.”
With that, he turned and left the kitchen.
* * *
Later that morning, Amanda sat Scooter down. Papa had asked her if she’d done everything in her power to save Rick, and it was a question very much on her mind.
She’d scoured the town, questioned tens of dozens if not hundreds of people, and found nothing to support Rick’s innocence. Not a thing. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, a stone was left unturned. For that reason, she couldn’t bring herself to resign as sheriff. Not yet…
She leaned toward her deputy and lowered her voice. “What I’m about to say is between you and me. It must not leave this office.”
Scooter’s eyes grew round as pie plates. “Oh, wow, it sounds serious.”
“Shh.” She glanced at the closed door leading to the cells. “It is serious.” Of all the things she’d done in the past—all the trouble she’d caused her parents, her teachers, the town—never had she tackled anything as crucial.
“I’m going to ask you to do something for me. If you don’t feel right about it, that’s okay. You don’t have to do it. Just let me know.”
Curiosity suffused Scooter’s face. “Does this have something to do with tomorrow’s hanging?”
“Yes,” she whispered, swallowing hard. Just the sight of the gallows looming out back made her feel ill. “Like I said, you don’t have to do it.”
“What is it?” he asked without hesitation. “What do you want me to do?”
As quickly as she could, she explained her daring plan. As she spoke, his eyebrows kept inching upward, and his face turned red as if he was holding his breath.
“Gee willikers,” he said when she finished. “That’s some plan.”
No cause she’d ever worked for was as urgent and important as this one. “You don’t have to do it, Scooter,” she assured him once again. “It’s not required by your job, and I don’t want you getting in trouble.”
His eyes flashed with excitement. “I’ll do it!”
She sat back with a frown. “You need to think about it.”
“I did think about it.”
“What? For five seconds?” She sighed. “You do understand what’s at stake, right? If something goes wrong, you could go to jail. We all could.”
“I said I’ll do it, and I will.”
Fear for his safety almost made her change her mind, but then her father’s words repeated themselves in her head as they had dozens of times since their early morning talk. In the end, that’s always what we judge ourselves on. Whether or not we did enough. Papa still obsessed over the question after all these years. Rick too was haunted and continued to blame himself for not better protecting his wife.
Whatever happened, she wanted to know in her heart she’d done everything possible to save Rick. The hardest part would be getting him to cooperate.
“Okay, but if anything happens and we get caught…”
He grinned. “I’ll say I know nothing and you’d lost your mind.”
Despite her depression, she laughed. “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”
“What about you?” he asked. “You could go to jail.”
His concern touched her. “If it comes to that…well…let’s not cross that bridge till we get to it.”
“Wow. You really are somethin’, Sheriff.”
She smiled. “I don’t know about that.” She checked the time on her pendant watch and went over everything again, step by step. “When our red-feathered friends deliver Rick’s last…” She cleared her voice. “The food he requested. Tell them to return at eight o’clock tonight sharp. I’ll be waiting.”
Scooter glanced at the door leading to the cells. “Does he know?”
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Not yet. Now go…”
* * *
The mayor arrived at the office that afternoon with last-minute details on how the hanging was to proceed. He paced back and forth, stopping from time to time to stare at the charred hope chest that now resembled a burnt loaf of bread beneath the blackened walls.
“We pride ourselves on putting on a decent and humane hanging,” he said magnanimously, his thick stogie clamped in the corner of his mouth. “I trust you will continue our fine tradition even though you are a—”
“Woman,” she said.
Turning to face her, he pulled the cigar away from his mouth and flicked an ash on her floor. “You know what I mean.” His eyebrows drew together. “Some people think it’s unseemly for a woman to…uh…”
“Conduct a decent and humane hanging?”
“Exactly!”
She gritted her teeth. “Rest assured that I’m fully prepared to see that justice is served.”
“With no hysterics,” he said. “I wouldn’t want our out-of-town guests made to feel uncomfortable. I plan to run for governor of this fine state, so my political future hangs in the balance.”
Seething inwardly, she stood in an effort to encourage him to leave. It sickened her that he would use a hanging for political gain. On the other hand, it didn’t surprise her. “Then we’ll all just have to hang together, won’t we?”
Had he understood the irony of her words, he might have looked less pleased. “Glad you see it my way.” With another glance at the fire-damaged walls, he left her office humming beneath his breath.
* * *
At exactly seven thirty that night, Amanda kneeled in front of the hope chest and ran her hand over the charred surface. She had yet to ask carpenter Woodman to take a look. She’d had too many other things on her mind, but if anyone could repair the damage, he could.
The old chest had never much interested her, but now she studied it with new eyes. Originally, it had been her maternal grandfather’s betrothal gift to her grandmother. Why had she never before noticed the intricate carvings? The details were astonishing. According to family history, the carvings represented everything his future bride had loved. Horses, birds, and fl
owers graced all sides. The splendor of the magnificent sailing ship that eventually brought the couple to America had not been diminished by the fire.
Amanda traced first her Irish grandmother’s initials, then her mother’s. Her finger paused on J. L. for Josie. How she missed her oldest sister. Would Josie approve of what she was about to do? Probably not. Next, she ran a finger over M. L. for Meg, pausing when she reached the empty space beneath.
That’s where her own initials were meant to go. But unlike her sisters who dreamed of carving a part of themselves into the fine oak, she had always been more interested in carving out a place in the realm of women’s rights alongside such illustrious names as Lucy Stone and Susan B. Anthony.
With a pointed finger, she mindlessly traced her initials on the smooth surface below Meg’s name. Catching herself, she quickly pulled her hand away. The realization that she would gladly marry Rick if circumstances permitted not only startled her, but almost broke her heart.
With a shake of her head, she lifted the hope chest lid. No matter how much she reminded herself that marriage would hold her back and keep her from accomplishing all that she intended to do, she couldn’t help wondering what might have happened had Rick been found innocent.
Woodman’s wife had filled the chest with clothes for the poor farm. Now, she pulled out a woman’s blue calico dress and bonnet and shook out the wrinkles. Fortunately, the fire hadn’t penetrated the wood, and the clothes inside were good as new. The frock looked a bit small, but it would have to do.
Slinging the dress over her arm, she reached for the key on the wall. Bracing herself with a deep breath that brought her lungs no relief, she walked to the door separating her office from the cellblock.
Her hand froze on the brass doorknob. Panic began to well up inside her. But then a distant memory echoed from the deepest regions of her heart. You can do it, Amanda.
Thirty-three
Where was she?
A Match Made in Texas Page 22