Angel

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Angel Page 16

by Danielle Carriere


  Understanding softened Olivia’s face, and then she said with urgency, “You must speak with Nathan before the trial begins.”

  Immediately, Oliva turned to Nathan, motioning for him to switch places with her. A wave of fear washed over Angel as Nathan moved to stand and Olivia slid by him on the bench. Angel’s mouth was dry. She felt dizzy and her breaths did not seem to come quickly enough. When Nathan sat, he glanced at her, smiling, his expression of relief mirroring the look Olivia had given Angel. Then, as he saw Angel’s condition he asked in concern, “Are you all right?”

  Angel shook her head, forcing herself to breathe slowly, counting the length of each breath. The trial had come together rapidly—more rapidly than Angel had even thought possible. When she had agreed to testify against James, she had thought she would have time to speak with Nathan, to gather her thoughts, but James, who the sheriff had apparently found drinking indifferently in the saloon, had been brought in that very morning without struggle only minutes after Clark had spoken with the sheriff. Angel marveled at James’s easy demeanor, wondering uneasily whether it was a perfectly crafted act or if he was truly as unconcerned as he appeared.

  Now, when the scarcest moment of opportunity for Angel to tell Nathan the truth finally presented itself, she was unable to do so—even knowing with complete and total certainty that if she didn’t tell Nathan now, he would hear the truth in just a few minutes.

  In those few minutes, Angel tried over and over to tell Nathan the truth, knowing that the misery she felt at that moment could never compare to the misery she would feel if the trial began before she spoke to Nathan, but fear petrified her, justifying her silence, reasoning that it would be better to wait, and before she could force herself to speak, the opportunity had passed. The judge stood to address the room, and almost immediately the room fell silent.

  She had been right. This was worse. Far, far worse. Panic seized her, and she turned to Nathan. “There’s something I need to tell you.” She wanted to run, but she was surrounded by people pressing in on her.

  Angel’s head felt light, distant, and her voice sounded strange and breathy, even to herself, and Nathan looked at her with increasing concern.

  “What in the name of—” he said anxiously.

  “We call Angel Bernard to the stand,” a voice from the front of the room interrupted, and time seemed to slow as Angel stood unsteadily. Shock spread across Nathan’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Angel whispered, so quietly that the words were more mouthed than spoken, and then walked to the front of the room.

  Chapter 18

  The part of me that knows I could have just dropped her off at home without anything else happening, the part of me that knows I could have stopped myself from pulling the trigger on that bartender, the part of me that knows I could have let my son leave with my brother after Effie died . . . that part of me refuses to drown.

  ***

  “Miss Bernard, were you a witness to the murder of Thomas Bernard?”

  “Yes,” Angel whispered. Nathan stared at her as though he had never before seen her in his life.

  “Louder, please, Miss.”

  “Yes,” she repeated, her voice sounding strained to her own ears.

  “What was your relationship to Mr. Bernard?”

  “He is—was—my uncle, sir.”

  “How did you come to be at the scene of the crime, Miss Bernard?”

  Angel flushed. “I lived at the saloon with my uncle after my parents died. The day my uncle was killed, I heard yelling in the main room downstairs, so I went to see what was happening.”

  She chanced a glance at Nathan. He was still looking at her like he might a stranger, and Angel felt her blush deepen.

  “Why didn’t you come forward with this information before now?” the man questioning her continued.

  Angel started. She had not expected that particular question, although she supposed she should have. “Sir,” she began slowly, “I . . . didn’t realize who the person was who had killed my uncle. When I came down to check on my uncle, I was injured. I fell and hit my head. Even now, some of my memories are fuzzy. But I do remember now the man who killed my uncle.”

  “And what exactly prompted this memory of your uncle’s murderer?” Disdain dripped from the man’s voice. It was clear he placed little faith in the truthfulness of Angel’s testimony.

  “I saw him. He spoke to me, and I recognized him.”

  “And is the man who shot Thomas Bernard in this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please point him out?”

  Angel pointed to Nathan’s father, and said, “That man there, sir. James Evans.”

  “What words would you offer to defend yourself?” The man spoke brusquely to Nathan’s father.

  James smiled and stood, and Angel felt the pit of her stomach drop. “Your Honor, I would offer truth. This woman is an unreliable witness. I regret to call the character of a woman into question, sir, but would an honorable woman, niece or not, live in a saloon?” James paused, then continued. “Normally I would hesitate to disclose this information for the sake of discretion—perhaps the members of the fairer sex should be allowed to leave the room before we continue?”

  The judge’s eyes narrowed, but he waved James on.

  “No?” James asked, then sighed as though he were speaking only with great reluctance and regret. “Well then, if you are certain, I suppose I must continue. This woman—Angel—and I were lovers. We did not part ways on pleasant terms. I suppose that is why she persists in telling these stories about me. I do not doubt she believes the things she says—I can only imagine the trauma that would have arisen from witnessing the murder of her uncle and how it would have affected her delicate female memory. I make no claims to be a good man, Your Honor, but this woman imagines I have committed more wrongs than I truly have.”

  Angel’s mouth fell open, and she felt a sharp intake of breath. The white noise of the room suddenly rose, becoming a near physical force. But she didn’t care. The only reaction she cared about was Nathan’s. She looked over Clark and Olivia, sitting between herself and Nathan, to finally meet Nathan’s eyes, dark with shock, eyebrows close together.

  The judge banged his gavel down, quieting the buzzing crowd. “Silence,” he bellowed. He looked coldly at Angel. “Is what he says true, Miss? Did you have”—his voice quieted as he uncomfortably whispered the word, “relations”—then rose again as he continued—“with this man?”

  Angel was stunned. She barely managed to speak as she tried to explain. “That isn’t what happened.”

  The judge glowered at her. “This is a simple question, Miss. I suggest you answer it. Did you or did you not have relations with this man—yes or no?”

  Angel stared at him, mouth still open. The room was silent as she whispered, “Yes, but—”

  The room roared, and her voice was swallowed in the noise as she screamed, “But it wasn’t my choice.”

  No one heard her.

  Again the judge banged his gavel down until reasonable quiet had resumed. “We will take a short recess. You”—he motioned to James—“will remain here with me. You”—he motioned to Angel, his voice growing colder and speaking with distaste—“may take your leave.”

  Above the crowd, James met Angel’s eyes. And smiled.

  ***

  Nathan curtly knocked twice on the door of the room before pushing it open. Angel had fled the courtroom as soon as she had been dismissed by the judge, but Nathan had easily guessed where he would find her. He had spoken briefly to Clark and Olivia, who had nodded their assent during the chaos that had followed Angel’s admission, and then Nathan had come straight to their house to speak with Angel. Clark and Olivia had remained to anxiously await the result of the trial.

  Angel’s eyes were wild as she turned toward the sound of the opening door. As she saw that it was Nathan, she relaxed briefly, then tensed and turned back to her work. Nathan glanced around. Even thoug
h Angel had few belongings, the room looked as though it had been struck by a small whirlwind. She clearly intended to ready herself to leave as soon as possible. Nathan wondered if she had intended to say goodbye.

  Leaving the door open, he silently walked into the room and sat down on a chair next to the desk, watching her. She ignored him for some time, but when he remained, Angel gave a sigh of resignation and turned to face him. As she turned, Nathan noticed a piece of paper resting on the desk out of the corner of his eye. The ink on the page had not even dried yet. Angel stiffened as she realized the letter had caught his attention, and without asking, Nathan began to read.

  My—but the “My” had been hastily scratched out, and the letter began—Dearest Nathan, I promised you that I would not leave without saying goodbye. I hope you will someday forgive me for saying in writing what I cannot bring myself to say out loud . . .

  He didn’t read any further but set the letter down back in its place.

  “You know, I can’t figure out whether you are running from my father, or me,” Nathan said quietly, the injury of the letter plain in his voice.

  Angel stiffened, and she planted her feet squarely, as though bracing herself to stand against whatever words he might speak. Her eyes pleaded with him not to ask the question that must have been plain in his eyes. But he needed to know.

  “How long have you known it was my father?” he asked quietly. Angel shook her head, looking away, but it was more a denial of the question than an answer, and Nathan knew it. His temper flashed, and almost simultaneously he rose from his seat at the desk and slammed the palm of hand down onto it. The wooden feet of the desk squeaked in protest as they skidded against the floor.

  “How long?” Nathan asked again, and this time there was nothing quiet about his voice. Still, Angel stared at the floor. She didn’t respond.

  “Angel.”

  Nathan’s voice around her name held a pull she could no longer ignore, and slowly she raised her eyes to meet his. Her eyes were wide-open, and she looked up at the ceiling, trying to contain the water they held. Then she blinked, and a tear slid out of the corner of her eye and down her cheek. She did not wipe it away.

  “Don’t play games with me, Angel. I deserve the truth.”

  At his words, Angel raised her chin, setting her jaw.

  Nathan impatiently repeated the question one last time, speaking with almost deafening silence, “How long have you known?”

  Angel matched his gaze, then spat, “Do you truly believe this is all a game to me—that I’ve found some twisted delight in your father’s depravity? You are still the boy who found me on the side of the road, who played with cruel words and made accusations he knew nothing of. You should know better, Nathan. I’ve never played games with you.”

  The words stung Nathan, but he repeated stubbornly, “Then answer the question. How long?”

  Angel took a step forward. She searched his face for what seemed like forever, then finally answered, “Since your father came back into town.”

  Nathan didn’t know what he had expected, but he hadn’t expected that answer. He stared at Angel, understanding dawning on him. He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice as he continued speaking. “The whole time, my father stood there laughing, asking you if I knew. I had no idea what he was talking about, and you never told me. I must have looked the fool.”

  He turned, coat in hand, poised to walk out the door. He clenched his jaw, biting his tongue against the words he wanted to say. He looked back at Angel, and when his eyes met hers, she seemed to crumple, but Nathan was unmoved. He hated his father, he hated that Angel hadn’t told him what his father had done, and more than anything, he despised himself for missing the truth that had stared him in the face. And he didn’t care if Angel knew it.

  “What he said wasn’t true,” she whispered. “It wasn’t by choice.”

  Nathan didn’t look at her. “I know,” he said, “but you should have told me it was him.”

  And then he walked out the door.

  ***

  Nathan felt the echo of the wooden floor against the heels of his shoes as he stepped into the saloon, doors swinging behind him. It was nearly empty, and he drew the attention of the bartender as he sank down to sit on the barstool. The bartender did a double take as he recognized Nathan, then relaxed. He walked up to stand in front of Nathan, polishing a glass with an old rag as he did so.

  “Thought you were your father there for a minute,” the bartender said conversationally.

  When Nathan turned sullen eyes toward him, the bartender added with a smile, “I’m sure glad you’re not.”

  When Nathan didn’t reply, the bartender asked, “What can I do for you, son?”

  Nathan held the bartender’s eyes for a moment, then said, “I need a whiskey.”

  The bartender leaned back almost imperceptibly at Nathan’s words. He turned to grab a bottle and then, with a smooth and practiced motion, wiped off a glass and placed it in front of Nathan.

  “Whiskey, eh? That always was your father’s drink of choice,” the bartender said casually as he poured the shot.

  Nathan considered the amber liquid as he twirled the glass between his fingers. “Really?” His tone was distracted, but it held the bite of sarcasm. “I didn’t know that.”

  The bartender eyed Nathan, looking as though he was going to speak again, but before he could, he was called away by another customer. Nathan tilted the glass up until just the corner was resting against the wood of the bar. The edges of the glass shone, catching even the dim light of the saloon. As he stared at the glass, his reflection—his father—stared back at him. With an exhale of frustration, Nathan set the shot glass down harder than he needed to. When the bartender returned, Nathan was still staring into the glass, spinning it back and forth on the bar. The bartender watched for a while, then finally asked, “You sure you want to be here, son?”

  “Yeah,” Nathan answered without looking at him.

  “You sure you want to drink that?”

  Finally, Nathan looked up from the drink and met the bartender’s eyes. “I never said anything about drinking.”

  Nathan lifted the shot glass away from the bar and tilted it so that the whiskey trickled out, catching the light and sending it dancing as the droplets fell to the floor. Then he set it back on the bar in front of him.

  Gesturing to the now-empty glass, he said, “Pour another one.”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed, but he did as Nathan had asked. Again, Nathan poured the glass out, and again, he motioned for it to be refilled.

  “This is a waste of good whiskey,” the bartender protested. “And you’re making the floor a right mess.”

  “I’m paying you for the whiskey, aren’t I?” Nathan asked. The bartender nodded. “And you can’t tell me this floor hasn’t seen worse.”

  The bartender hesitated but couldn’t deny what Nathan had said.

  Nathan motioned from the bottle of whiskey to the glass. “Pour it.”

  Slowly, the bartender complied. He watched without words as Nathan emptied the shot glass for the third time. Nathan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make his request, the bartender held up his hands. “I know, I know, pour it.”

  After he had filled the glass, he eyed Nathan, then spoke, sarcasm lacing his voice. “Shall I leave the bottle?”

  Nathan nodded, and the bartender, shaking his head, set the whiskey in front of Nathan and walked away.

  With every shot Nathan poured out, memories flooded his mind. His father, passed out on the floor of the cabin. The ache of his bruised muscles from every beating his father had given him. The whispers that had followed him around town after his mother’s death like a swarm of buzzing insects. The sweat and blood he had poured into the homestead that was still in his father’s name. The fear in Angel’s eyes when she had looked at him for the first time after seeing his father.

  Some minutes later, the bartender returned to a still-sober Nat
han, a nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and a spreading dark stain on the floor.

  “What do I owe you for the glass?” Nathan asked.

  “The glass?” the bartender repeated, confusion covering his face. Nathan dropped the glass on the floor, and the crunch of breaking glass filled the silent air as he ground the heel of his boot against it and into the floor. Never again.

  The bartender was silent for a long moment, then said, “I’ll put it on your tab.”

  “Much obliged.” Nathan nodded as he stood to leave.

  “Nathan.” The bartender’s voice caused Nathan to pause in his exit, and he turned his head slightly toward the sound.

  “You spend too much time trying to prove what anyone with a brain can already see—you’re not James. You aren’t him, and you aren’t like him. Go home and get some rest. Sleep off whatever’s ailing you. You won’t find any answers in the whiskey, and there’s already a big enough mess on the floor.”

  ***

  Nathan’s words plagued Angel even as she continued readying herself to leave. Who was she running from—Nathan or his father? James terrified her. There was no question about that. Her stomach clenched whenever she thought of the man. But as afraid as she was of James, Angel had been even more afraid of what Nathan’s reaction would be to learning the truth about his father.

  But Nathan hadn’t reacted with the disgust she had feared. In fact, he hadn’t treated her much differently at all. He had been angry that Angel hadn’t told him the entire truth sooner and hurt that she had planned to leave without saying goodbye, but he had barely, if at all, reacted to the revelation of the identity of the father of Angel’s baby.

  The word Nathan had used—running—echoed over and over in her mind. She had run from the saloon. She had run from the people in her old town, from what they thought of her and would have thought when they learned she was pregnant. She had run from James. She had run from Nathan. She was so tired of running.

 

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