A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  When his question was met with silence, he said, “I thought it needed more work, but Remington said it was fine. Phoebe cried a little, but then she’s a watering pot on account of the baby. Colt wanted me to mention him. I said I’d think about it.”

  Ridley put a finger to his lips. “Do be quiet. Yes. I’ll marry you.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Remington was at the stove frying bacon in a cast iron skillet when Ben walked in the back door. He cocked an eyebrow at his brother. “Just getting back from the jail?”

  Ben stayed by the door to remove his outerwear but the activity helped him avoid Remington’s interested gaze. “Yep. Night shift. Keeping the peace.”

  “So no dereliction of your duties.”

  “No. Not a one.”

  “And no injury to yourself?”

  Ben frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I stepped out to answer a call of nature this morning and saw there was a lamp burning in the doctor’s surgery. Then I saw you, and then I saw the doctor, and then—”

  Ben put out a hand, stopping him. “I get it.” He spun a chair away from the table, straddled it, and sat. “Where’s Colt?”

  “He just took a plate of eggs and bacon to his mother. Talk fast because he’ll be back, and even when he’s not listening, he hears everything.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Oh, no. Not this time.”

  “I didn’t poke my nose into what you and Phoebe were up to in the loft.”

  “We were married.”

  “I’m talking about before that. The only reason you didn’t think I knew was because I never said anything. You’d ride out. She’d ride out. None of that fooled me.”

  “Huh.” Remington turned sizzling strips of bacon with a fork. “Well, don’t mention it to Phoebe. She’ll be crushed to learn we weren’t as stealthy as we thought.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Crushed? No. Glad to know you’re even more observant than I thought. Makes me feel better about you wearing a badge. Don’t misunderstand. It was always in my mind that you’d be good at it. I like knowing you’re better than good.”

  Ben could feel the tips of his ears turning red and wished he’d kept his hat on. “Ridley’s waiting on Mrs. Rushton to arrive and then they’re both coming over. Don’t worry. They’re bringing food with them. You’ll be able to stop tending that bacon.”

  Remington said, “Good. Burned the back of my hand twice now.”

  Ben clicked his tongue, feigning sympathy. He stopped when Remington threatened him with the fork. “You mind if we talk seriously for a while?”

  “I thought we were.”

  “This is law serious.”

  “About the Gordons?”

  “No, not about them. Not right now. I want to talk about Jeremiah Salt.”

  Remington glanced over. “Talk.”

  “Ridley said something to you and me yesterday that’s still rattling around in my mind. She said that laws change after attitudes change. You remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “And then last night I taught her some new words, enriched her vocabulary, I suppose you’d say, and—”

  “I would never say that,” said Remington. “No one would say that.”

  “Um, I just did.”

  “Well, don’t say it again. I’m already trying to forget you said it once and putting the image of where you said it out of my mind, but so you know, I never figured you for spending the night at the jail.” Remington’s inattention to the bacon got him splashed with bacon grease a third time. He pulled his hand away and nursed it under his arm.

  “Serves you right,” said Ben. “Anyway, later on she got some ideas in her head, and when I pointed it out, she said, ‘When you give someone words, you give her ideas.’ Or something like that.”

  “Hmm, yeah, I bet you were distracted.”

  “A bit. My point is that there’s nothing I can do about Jeremiah unless he breaks the law, and right now the law favors him when it comes to his home, his family, and his marriage. So it got me thinking that maybe the answer is—”

  “Change the law,” said Remington.

  “Yes,” said Ben. “Change the law. I’m not talking about state law, that can come later, but local law? There’s no reason that can’t change now. The mayor and the council will have their regular meeting the first week of January. I figure you can draft something that will hold up under scrutiny before you head back to Twin Star and I can start working on attitudes.”

  “You’ll have to. The council is all men, and if there’s a split vote, the mayor decides. He’s a man.”

  “I know that, but what are you saying? They won’t agree?”

  “I’m saying that’s a lot of attitude to change. Maybe one of them beats his wife and you don’t know it. That man is going to be reluctant to support a law that could land him in jail. And there will be general resistance. The view will be that the law takes away a husband’s privilege to deal with his wife as he sees fit, whether or not that includes using his fists.”

  “I won’t be doing this alone. Jim Springer’s on the council. You know his wife, don’t you?”

  Remington made a face. “The leader of the temperance society?”

  “That’s right. There are a lot of people in this town who don’t have an opinion until she gives it to them, her husband included. Dave Saunders has a seat. His wife is one of Amanda Springer’s most devoted acolytes. Buzz Winegarten is on the council, too, and he’s not married, and even if he doesn’t have a personal stake, he has a gouty foot that Ridley treats for him. She could be persuasive there, and I learned a few months back that Buzz once courted Amanda Springer, so he’ll have two reasons to keep an open mind.”

  “That’s three. There’s six on the council, right? And then the mayor for the tiebreak.”

  “Uh-huh. Hank Ketchum is surly enough to vote opposite the others just because he can. Mickey Mangold could probably be convinced. It was his wife in the bank, so he might vote yes if he knows I’m in favor of it. There’s Mr. Washburn. I dare him to vote no.”

  “All right, maybe it won’t be as hard as I first thought, but just in case, what about the mayor?”

  “Drew Abernathy will be happier if he doesn’t have to vote, but whatever side he comes down on, it will be because he thinks it will sell newspapers.”

  “No conflict of interest there,” was Remington’s sardonic response. “You know this is going to rile Jeremiah when he gets wind of it.”

  “Maybe, but if he speaks out against it when he’s never been one for making noises about town affairs, then he’d be drawing attention to himself. Whatever you end up writing won’t specifically target him.”

  “All right. I’ll do it.” He said this as if it were not already a foregone conclusion. “I thought you were going to ask me to defend the Gordons.”

  “No. Hitch wondered if you would, but I explained you don’t do criminal law. Chris Whitt could do it if they don’t want to be tried separately. If they do, I should have some names to give them. Do you have any for me?”

  Remington didn’t have to think long. He named three attorneys practicing in the county. “I hear Colt on the stairs,” he said in a hushed voice. “Tell me quick, did you propose? There were some good words in there.”

  “You’re going to make me regret sharing that, aren’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  Ben was saved from responding by Colt’s sudden appearance. The boy threw his arms wide and announced gleefully, “Here I am again in the kitchen.”

  “As if there were any doubt,” Remington said out of the side of his mouth.

  Ben welcomed his nephew by spinning his chair around again and sitting in it properly. He patted his knee and Colt happily climbed aboard.
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  “Where’s your mother’s tray?” Remington asked.

  “She told me to leave it. She said you would get it later. May I have bacon?”

  Remington took a plate from the china cupboard and laid two bacon strips across it. He passed the plate to Colt. “Careful. They’re still sizzling. Do you want an egg?”

  “Sunshine up, please.”

  “Sunshine up, coming up.”

  Ben heard voices on the back stoop. “Cavalry’s here.”

  Remington practically sagged against the stove. “Thank God.”

  Ben urged Colt to answer the door, and when his nephew’s back was turned, he snapped a quarter length of one of the bacon strips and stuffed it in his mouth. “Damn, that’s hot.” He fanned his mouth.

  Colt opened the door and then returned to his uncle’s lap. “Hey! Some of my bacon’s gone.”

  “That’d be your uncle,” said Remington. “Good morning, ladies.” He turned a wide, welcoming smile on Ridley and her housekeeper. Mrs. Rushton actually blushed.

  “Away from the stove,” she said, making a shooing gesture. She set a basket on the table and looked at Colt. “I see you have bacon. Do you want an egg?”

  And thus the real morning meal got under way.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ridley accompanied Ben to the jail so she could examine both prisoners. Ben opened the cells one at a time for her and stood with his hand on the butt of his gun the entire time she was inside. Hitch remained in the entranceway prepared to act if he had to.

  While Ridley worked, Ben told the men about the attorney who would likely take their case and promised that Hitch would bring him around later. Tom and Michael decided they would take their chances together, so the names Remington provided were unnecessary. He explained Judge Miner’s schedule and the likelihood that the trial would be done quickly. He had nothing to offer them regarding the judge’s rulings in cases like these, but he did tell them about a train robbery some years back that didn’t go well for the desperados at trial.

  “Was it true what you said about those train robbers?” asked Ridley when they were alone in the front office.

  He held up his right hand. “Truth.”

  “Desperados,” she said. “That’s a good description for these two. They were desperate.”

  “You feeling sorry for them? That’s why I sent Hitch on his way. He needed the fresh air of reality.”

  “Not feeling sorry. But I can empathize, can’t I? Tom Gordon will stand trial because he loves his brother.”

  “He’ll stand trial because he tried to rob a bank.”

  “I’m speaking of his motivation.”

  “Tell that to his lawyer, and maybe Mr. Whitt will tell it to the judge.”

  Ridley glanced at her medical bag, which she’d placed on the bench beside her. “There’s nothing in there for the other Mr. Gordon.” She looked back at Ben. “I can’t say with absolute certainty, but it’s possible he won’t live until the trial.”

  “That’s only a week and a day away.”

  “I know, but he was diagnosed years ago. That’s when he should have gone to an arid climate. The cavities in his lungs are what cause the bleeding. From what I hear when I listen to his chest, I suspect there are holes in his airway. The difficulty he has breathing is a consequence of blocked passages. The disease progressed rapidly this past year. That’s when he and his brother conceived their plan.”

  “Ill-conceived their plan.”

  Ridley couldn’t argue with that. She merely nodded.

  Ben changed the subject. “I was speaking to Remington before you and Mrs. Rushton came by about an idea I had. It’s an idea you inspired actually.”

  “I inspired it?”

  “Mm-hmm. Laws and attitudes.” He told her what he had discussed with his brother, how a difference might be made, how there might be hope for Lily. “It’s not the turn of the century yet,” he said. “But we are making the turn into a new year. Perhaps Lily can wait that long. What do you think?”

  Ridley stood and crossed the room to where he sat. She didn’t know that she put herself in his lap with the enthusiasm that was the equal of what his nephew had shown. “What I think is that you give me too much credit. This is you. You did this.”

  “Nothing’s done yet,” he reminded her.

  “It’s a brilliant plan.”

  “New words. New ideas.”

  Laughing, she planted swift, teasing kisses at his temple, his jaw, his chin, and finally at the corner of his mouth. When her lips moved to his, the kiss lingered just as it had that morning in her surgery when they were parting.

  It was Ben who found a measure of sense first, and he wasn’t particularly grateful for it. He lifted his head; his eyes fell on her splendidly full lips and the tip of her tongue, which was visible for the briefest of moments. His sigh was long and heartfelt. “I’m thinking I should board up the windows in this office so I can do whatever I like without public scrutiny.”

  Ridley turned her head. She half expected to find people staring through the glass panes on either side of the entrance. There were no passersby, although Dave and Ed Saunders stepped out of the land office carrying brooms. She watched them sweep away the dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. Sunlight glanced off the flakes they flung into the air.

  She started to move off his lap, but he held her fast. “What about public scrutiny?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “That fast? You are mercurial, Sheriff.” Ridley pecked him on the cheek, and this time when she began to remove herself, he let her go. She returned to the bench, but rather than sit, she remained standing to study the notices on the wall. “You’ve rearranged these.”

  “Hitch did. He said something about looking at them fresh, but I think he was bored.”

  Ridley nodded absently. Photographs of wanted men were the exception, not the standard. Where a photograph existed, it was almost always because the criminal had been previously arrested and jailed, or he was so famous that he actually posed for the camera. Artists, using witness descriptions, rendered the majority of the faces on the posters. Sadly, one often looked too much like another, depending on the source of the information and the artist’s talent. Some felons, though, distinguished themselves with their grooming. There were men sporting waxed mustaches and hair slick with pomade, some with wooly sideburns and eyebrows as thick as caterpillars, and finally a few men who had never been introduced to a comb or a brush, whose shaggy hair and beard were so overgrown that it would take a few swipes of a sickle to tame them.

  Ben asked his usual question as he observed Ridley’s interest in the posters. “See anyone you know?”

  She raised a hand above her shoulder and crooked her finger. “Come here. See what you make of this.” When he was beside her, Ridley pointed to the poster of one Tobias Granger, whose aliases included Toby Grant, Theodore “Teddy” Granville, and Tate Glasser. Mr. Granger’s broad face was largely concealed by his unruly beard and mustache, which the artist had carefully drawn to show both salt and pepper coloring. His hair, also thick and overgrown, fell below his collar. He peered out from the poster with dark eyes.

  The charges were robbery, rustling, and murder. The reward was five hundred dollars.

  Ridley said, “How old do you think he is?”

  “Difficult to know with mountain men. They live hard and grow old before their time.”

  “Why do you think he’s a mountain man?”

  “His appearance for one and his charges for another. A man who thinks he’s carved out a place for himself in the mountains doesn’t take kindly to trespassers. It’s conceivable he was protecting what he claimed was his own. Cattle could have strayed into his territory, robbery might have been relieving a stranger of his gun, and murder could have been self-defense. You can’t read
too much into the charges until you know the story.” Ben turned, tipped Ridley’s chin toward him, and kissed her squarely on the mouth. When he lifted his head, he was grinning. “In this case, though, we can walk back to the first cell and ask Thomas Gordon to explain it all himself.”

  “You see it, too?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “It’s the eyes that caught my attention. The artist took pains to show the contrast of silver threads to the darker ones in his beard, but there are no wrinkles at the corners of the man’s eyes and no creases across his brow. I remember looking at Mr. Gordon in the bank and thinking he was younger than he appeared at first glance.” She leaned over the bench and placed her hands on the poster on either side of Tobias Granger’s cheeks and jaw. She managed to cover most of his beard and give a new outline to the lower half of his face. “He has a square jaw. It takes a little imagination, but you can almost see it.”

  “Unbelievable.” Ben looked over the posters again, all of them. “I don’t see his brother here.”

  “I don’t either. Maybe this is the first time his brother joined him.” When Ben did not share his opinion, she asked, “Which one of the names do you suppose is his true one?”

  “None of these. I’m betting he’s Tom Gordon, and that he used his real name so his brother wouldn’t have to remember a false one.”

  She sighed, shook her head. “I suppose even a heart hardened by robbery, rustling, and murder can have compassion for a much-loved brother.”

  Chapter Forty

  For once, word of interest to the entire town was spread by means of Drew Abernathy’s newspaper. Timing was part of it since the weekly edition was being prepared for printing, but it was Ben who supplied the story of Tom Gordon’s capture and previous crimes before it could become fodder for the gossips. He also supplied a photograph to run alongside the artist’s rendering on the wanted poster. Mr. Abernathy sold every paper and even printed extras to be left at the depot for visitors who only stepped off a train to stretch their legs. He was a happy man, happier when the story was reprinted in papers from Stonechurch to Liberty Junction to Falls Hollow and finally to Denver in the prestigious Rocky Mountain News.