Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  Emma paled and tightened her fists. Malachi wondered briefly if she'd strike him, but before she could act, he shoved against her and goaded her further. "What do you want, Emma? Some day to walk down a deserted street and be whisked into an alley by a foul-mouthed attacker?"

  Once begun, he couldn't seem to stop his rant. "Do you want him to do this?" He grabbed her arms and jerked her tighter, bringing his lips down on hers in a kiss more punishment than passion. He ground his mouth against hers, forcing it open and darting his tongue inside in a rough attack.

  Shocked by her instant flair of response, he gentled his assault. He covered one breast with his hand, gently at first, but when she moaned he pressed harder. "Do you want to be fondled like this? You enjoy it from me, but how would you feel if a stranger, stinking and drunk, did the same?"

  He felt her protest under his lips, but he couldn't make himself stop. Emma needed to understand that her life was different from most women. He slid his hand over the curve of her buttocks and around to cup her hard through the front of her skirt. "What about this?"

  "Don't," she finally groaned, though the word sounded less protest than desire.

  He finally flung her away from him, reminding himself that he'd gotten into the same kind of trap with his first wife. He'd learned from bitter experience how to fend off eager virgins.

  He chose the crude words to shock her. "Is that what you want? To be fucked?"

  She stared wide-eyed, mouth trembling, large brown eyes wet and shimmering.

  "That's the price that comes with voting, Emma. Are you willing to pay such a high fee?"

  When she remained silent he turned away savagely. "I thought not." He threw himself into his chair, picked up the notepad he'd been writing on, and ignored her.

  Long moments passed before he heard the swish of her skirt and looked up to see her entering the outer office. She paused, back to him, and whispered words so soft he wasn't sure he heard them. "What makes you so sure I don't want to be f – fucked?"

  He stared hard at the slammed door long after she'd gone, trying to hold on to his anger at her, but failing miserably. He doubted she'd ever forgive him for goading her into using such crude language.

  Chapter 11

  "Cowards die many times before their death." – Julius Caesar

  Emma jumped into the carriage she'd left in front of Malachi's office and whipped the horses into a wild frenzy. Her hands were trembling so badly she could scarce hold onto the reins. The light wind tugged at the feathers on her hat and her hair straggled down from its knot, strands sticking to her wet face.

  She traveled two miles before she looked back over her shoulder. Why did she bother checking? A man of logic and cool-headed emotion, Malachi Rivers wasn't likely to follow after her. Hadn't his pushing her away last night proved that very point?

  Damn! Why did she allow him to rile her? She slowed the horses to a trot and stared at the swooshing of their tails in front of her. Malachi was trying to punish her with his words, not educate her. Shock, not persuade her.

  She was not wrong on this. If Alma Bentley were guilty – if indeed she had killed Joseph Machado – she must pay the debt to society, the same as a man. If she were not held accountable for what she'd done, if she were granted favors – leniency – because of her sex, what hope was there for a future of true equality between men and women?

  Emma nearly approached the turnoff to her property before she slowed the horses to a stop in the middle of the rutted road. Why had she fled from Malachi? Running away was not part of her makeup. She and he were on the same side, the defense of Alma Bentley. Emma had already accepted his offer of work.

  Was she such a coward that she'd turn tail at the first sign of conflict?

  The pale early fall sun peeked through a mass of cumulous clouds, warming the seat beside her. The horses shifted restlessly, their beautiful manes glossy in the light. After several moments more, she made her decision and prompted the horses towards home.

  She wouldn't return to town in such a disheveled state. She would freshen up, change her now-dusty clothing, and have Ralston drive her back into Placer Hills. If she weren't going to work for Mr. Rivers – and he'd surely dismiss her after that outburst in his office – at the very least she could return to court to take notes for an editorial on the trial.

  She was a newspaper woman, after all, and she would report the news.

  #

  During the afternoon court session Charles Fulton was as cocksure as ever, apparently having recovered from Judge Underwood's ruling for the defense. Malachi settled in to endure the testimony of the last round of prosecution witnesses. Alma sat beside him, looking more dispirited and timorous, if possible, than on any previous trial days.

  The final witness had taken the stand when Alma tugged earnestly at Malachi's sleeve. "Mr. Rivers, look. She's come again even though she wasn't here this mornin'."

  Malachi knew immediately of whom she spoke.

  Alma's awed voice told him even as she turned in her chair and leaned backward, extending fingers that peeked through a worn glove. "Thanks, ma'am. It means ever so much to me that yer here," Alma whispered before letting go of Emma's hand and turning back to meet the judge's frown.

  Malachi refused to glance Emma's way even though her attendance in court clearly meant something – a proffer of apology or a declaration of war. He'd find out soon enough which.

  The district attorney dispatched the next two witnesses with a swiftness that surprised even Judge Underwood. When the last one had left the stand, the magistrate banged his gavel once more.

  "Mr. Rivers, you've not asked a single question of any of the witnesses." He hefted his giant girth over the bench to squint at Malachi over the top of his spectacles. "I must ask you, sir. Do you intend to mount any sort of defense at all on your client's behalf?"

  Still standing, Fulton smirked at Malachi.

  "Yes sir, I do," Malachi replied, rising to his feet.

  Underwood waggled his eyebrows. "Mr. Fulton?"

  "The state rests, your honor," he answered as his two lackeys stood beside him. No doubt they already envisioned Alma standing on the hanging platform, a noose round her neck.

  "Court adjourns until tomorrow morning, then," Underwood proclaimed, his voice booming through the courtroom, "when the defense will present its case in the matter of Bigler County vs. Alma Bentley."

  The final sound of his gavel striking the wooden podium sounded like a prison cell clanging shut. Malachi's hand covered Alma's as he prayed that his best efforts on her behalf would be sufficient to save her.

  When the courtroom cleared and the defendant had been returned to her dungeon beneath the court steps, he stuffed his leather case with his notes and turned to leave. Emma Knight sat quietly on the last row of benches at the rear of the room.

  Their eyes met across the empty distance. Why had she remained behind? To apologize? Considering her obstinate nature, he hardly thought so. On the other hand she might expect an apology from him.

  There were so many things to be sorry for, he thought. Suddenly too tired for another confrontation with her, he trudged down the aisle to meet her.

  She rose and stood by the back door, her hand on the knob as though she'd bar his way. In her usual blunt manner, she began without preamble. "Am I still in your employment?"

  He frowned, confused not by her abruptness, but by the uncertainty he detected in her manner. She ought to be royally furious with him. "Would you like to continue working for me?"

  She bit her lower lip before nodding. "Yes."

  Curiosity sufficiently aroused, he couldn't refrain from asking. "Why? You appear to dislike everything about me and the case, the way I practice law, how I defend my client. Surely it cannot be pleasant to work for someone so despicable."

  "You are not so despicable," she muttered, "And I – I think I may learn from you." She stumbled out the words as if unfamiliar with the niceties of apology. "I don't have to agree with yo
u to respect you."

  He fancied she didn't offer respect to many men and felt absurdly flattered. "Do you respect me then, Emma?"

  "Of course. You are a fine lawyer." She spoke to a distant spot just over his left shoulder. "Sometimes I speak hastily and too passionately about causes I believe in."

  He smiled. "Is this an apology?"

  "Certainly not," she retorted. "I don't regret stating my beliefs."

  He sighed, took her arm, and guided her through the marble-floored foyer toward the outside steps. She would be contrary even when joking, but through her jacket the warmth of her arm against his fingers made up for her prickliness.

  "Are you sure, Emma?" he whispered in her ear, inhaling the fresh citrus of her scent. "I have heard many apologies, and I must say your words sound awfully like one."

  "Don't be silly," she answered but he caught the tugging of her lips in what certainly was the start of a grin.

  Had she forgiven him then?

  #

  Malachi suggested dinner at the teahouse so they could continue work on the case, but Emma knew their appearance together there would afford the local gossips plenty to chatter about. They stood at the edge of the lawn around the wide, grassy expanse surrounding the Bigler County Courthouse while she made a bold decision.

  "My cook Sarah has the best culinary reputation in the county," she pointed out. "Dining at my house can provide greater discretion than eating in public."

  After a moment's hesitation, he agreed. "But first I must visit my client."

  Alma Bentley's prison cell lay beneath these very concrete steps and Emma took a chance on this brief spate of friendliness between them. "May I go with you?"

  At first she thought he would refuse. After all, she was merely an employee of his law practice and woefully ignorant of the law. But since Alma had grabbed her hand in such friendly desperation in the courtroom today, Emma had a strange compulsion to speak to the woman again.

  Malachi peered into her face. "Why?"

  Emma felt her cheeks heat up. "I caused Alma's case serious damage initially." She didn't regret her decision about printing the interview and confession. That was her job, after all. "But if even the slightest possibility exists of her innocence, I don't want to be responsible for her death."

  Malachi set his mouth in a hard line as they descended the long, concrete steps. "I told you. Alma's not innocent."

  Emma nearly tripped on the bottom step, but righted herself. "I know, but – "

  "There will be rules," he warned.

  "Of course," she complied readily.

  They rounded the corner leading to the prison alcove. "You may not ask Alma any questions," he added.

  Damn. "Agreed."

  "Nor shall you confide in your uncle nor print anything which she says. You must treat her confidences as if they are sacrosanct."

  She nodded, impatient for the rule-listing to end.

  "Emma." His tone was skeptical and he lifted her chin with a finger. "Look at me." She complied, too aware of his touch on her skin.

  "Do you understand what I'm saying? You must not print anything about Alma in that newspaper of yours," he insisted.

  "If you cannot agree to this stipulation, you must tell me now." His blue eyes burned into her with the intensity of a bright summer's day. Although his words threatened, his finger became a palm to cup her jaw like a caress.

  "I – I promise I will keep her confidences."

  His brows lowered suspiciously. Had she agreed too eagerly? "And you will not feel you've been tricked into foregoing your civic duty?"

  She shook her head and his hand fell away from her cheek. "No, Uncle Stephen will manage the paper until the trial is completed."

  "Good." Malachi nodded his head in satisfaction. "Good for him."

  She placed her arm on his sleeve. "I only want to do the right thing, Malachi. I have no intent to harm Alma."

  His grin broke like a ray of sunshine. "We're back to Malachi, are we? Good."

  #

  The bailiff stood guard outside the prison cell that housed Alma Bentley, his spindly arms crossed over his chest. Emma saw at once that his presence was unnecessary for the heavy metal door of the cell effectively screened the prisoner from prying eyes.

  A tiny barred window set high in the door afforded anyone peering through nothing more than a gloomy interior filled with shades and shadows.

  Jacob Streetman jammed the metal key into the lock. "Don't knows as it's proper for a lady like Miz Knight to be in such a place," he grumbled, swinging the door wide open.

  "Judge Underwood has approved the request, Jacob." Malachi clapped the bailiff on one wiry shoulder. "I'll bang on the door when we're finished."

  Streetman hesitated as if he were afraid the small woman who sat on a cot in the darkened corner of the room would rise up and overpower them all. A ridiculous concern since Malachi stood nearly six and a half feet and Emma herself who was no frail reed.

  Alma looked up immediately from the congealing heap of dinner mounded on a metal plate on her lap. "Mr. Rivers, Miss Knight!" she exclaimed, a shocked look on her face as she started to rise from her place on the cot. "I – I didn't 'spect visitors."

  Malachi gestured with one hand. "No, Alma, please finish your supper. We'll wait."

  The woman sunk awkwardly onto the tick mattress while Emma took in the rest of the cell's meager furnishings. A rickety wooden stand with wash basin and cloth, a worn hair brush, a privy pot tucked beneath one end of the bed. Nothing else, no books or candle, no paper or pen.

  Emma smiled tentatively. "You're looking well, Alma."

  Malachi lifted one dark brow but remained silent.

  "Thank you, miss." Alma fixed her eyes on her dinner and raised another bite to her mouth.

  The only window fixed into the heavy door behind them allowed a tiny bit of fresh air into the room through the metal bars. The stifling, fetid odor of unwashed flesh and stale breath, along with the distinct smell of fear and desperation, clung to the stone walls.

  The dampness of the interior chilled to the bone in spite of the unseasonably warm day, and Emma shivered as she drew her cloak closer. "Is there no fire?" she wondered aloud.

  Another foolish question which she promptly regretted. She looked around for a place to sit, but saw no chair in the room. How could Alma receive visitors?

  Perhaps no one visited a murderess.

  Malachi lowered his brow and followed the direction of her gaze as if he'd also just noticed the lack of amenities. "Sit beside Alma on the bed," he said, pointing to the dark woolen bed cover.

  When she fingered the blanket, Emma felt the prickly texture through her thin gloves. Poor Alma, to be treated so! The prisoner scooted away from her with an apologetic smile as if her threadbare clothing would rub off on Emma's finery.

  "I'm near finished now, ma'am." Alma stuffed the last remains of bread sopped in gravy into her mouth and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  Shame and embarrassment for her own gaudy wealth hit Emma like a blow. Malachi was right. She knew little of the travails of low-born women like Alma, understood neither their poverty nor their circumstance. She had no right to sit in judgment of them.

  Malachi squatted down on his heels, set the tray aside, and took his client's roughened hands in his. "How are you doing today, Alma?"

  "Oh, I can't rightly complain, Mr. Rivers. It's a bit cold in here, but the sheriff made them bring me another blanket." She ran one hand over the bed covering. "It ain't much, but it keeps me a bit warmer."

  "I'll see that you have something more."

  The intense look on Malachi's face disquieted Emma. He bore an expression of great compassion as he rubbed the poor woman's chapped hands and looked deep into her eyes. Uncomfortable, Emma squirmed. She didn't belong in this intimate moment.

  "Am I goin' to die, Mr. Rivers?" Alma asked quietly.

  The question shocked both of them for Emma saw the stunned look on his face. She
stared at him as he gazed back at her for several long moments.

  If found guilty, Alma Bentley would be hanged for her crime. Was she doomed to such an ignominious end to her young life?

  "Not if I have any say in the matter," Malachi answered, his voice firm and certain. "Don't fear, Alma. We'll beat this thing yet."

  The woman rose and walked to the crude heavy door. "I'm not afraid to die," she murmured. Her back to them, she looked through the bars of the tiny window although Emma knew she could see nothing but the brick wall of the courthouse. "But I should like to be a mite older."

  Malachi sat beside Emma on the cot and shook his head when she would've spoken. "Of course," he said to Alma. "You're a brave young woman."

  Her smile was hapless at best. "Don't feel so much like bravery to me." She frowned and rubbed her hands down the sides of her sallow face. "I can't get over one thing though."

  "What's that, Alma?"

  "Honest to God, Mr. Rivers." She turned toward them, her face twisted again in that peculiar expression she had, as if the words were painful traveling from her brain to her tongue.

  "I just shot that pistol one time. I remember 'cause it were so loud, you see. Bang!" She clapped her hands together to demonstrate. "Like a giant thunderclap, it were."

  Emma stared at Malachi as he rose. What did Alma mean? The sheriff had testified that he found two bullets in Joseph Machado's dead body.

  Malachi put his hands on the woman's shoulders. "Are you sure, Alma? You were frightened and confused."

  "It scared me so bad I dropped the gun and just run. Run like the very devil was on my heels." Alma looked vulnerable, her eyes wide with fear and wet with unshed tears as she twisted out of Malachi's grasp and sunk to the floor. "So when did I shoot again? How'd I do that, Mr. Rivers when I was running away?"

  Emma understood immediately what Alma's allegation meant to the woman's defense.

  Malachi squatted down beside Alma, put a hand on her shoulder, and peered into her face, his voice low and urgent. "Are you positive you shot Mr. Machado only once?"

  She hesitated but a moment before nodding slowly.