Marshal Lappeus was on his way to the jail when he spotted Roxanne standing behind the jail in the rain. This wasn’t the first time he had seen Worthy’s daughter talking to her father. Duty demanded that he keep father and daughter apart, but each time he saw the slender girl speaking to the log wall of the lockup, another fragment was chipped from the stone wall that duty had erected around his heart.
The wide brim of Marshal Lappeus’s hat kept the rain off him, but Roxanne had no head covering. It only took a few moments of watching rivulets of rain run down Roxanne’s face to send the lawman trudging through the mud toward the young girl. Roxanne saw the marshal and froze in midsentence, certain that something bad was about to happen.
“Miss Brown,” Lappeus said, “you shouldn’t be out here in this rain. The cold and wet can make you sick. Would you like to visit with your father inside?”
Roxanne was too startled to speak and merely nodded.
“Then come with me, and I’ll see you in,” Lappeus said.
The rat-a-tat-tat of rain on the jail roof made it impossible for Worthy to hear what Lappeus had said to Roxanne, so he feared the worst. His heart began to pound when the marshal led her away. Several minutes later, Lappeus spoke through the opening in the cell door.
“Mr. Brown, I’ve brought your daughter to see you.”
Roxanne had heard her father’s voice many times since his incarceration, but she had not seen what the beating and languishing in the damp and cold of the jail had done to him. Her heart contracted with pity as soon as she entered the gloomy cell. Worthy had been iron and oak. The man who stood before her was stooped, gaunt, and old.
“Roxanne,” Worthy said, his voice filled with wonder.
Roxanne crossed the space between them and was enfolded. The marshal locked the door and motioned Amos Strayer to follow him to the front of the jail to afford father and daughter privacy.
Worthy held Roxanne at arm’s length. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You’re so thin, Daddy.”
Worthy saw concern etched into his daughter’s features. “I’ve been sick, child, but that ain’t anything for you to worry about. Now that you’re here, I feel a whole lot better.”
“The next time I visit, I’ll bring you food.”
“I’d like that,” Worthy said. “It looks like you been eating well.”
“Miss Heather treats me like a sister.”
“Knowing she’s taking good care of you has eased my mind.”
Roxanne leaned forward until her lips were almost touching his ear.
“I don’t know how long the marshal is going to let me stay here, so I have to talk fast,” she whispered. “You’re not going to hang.”
Worthy responded with a fatalistic laugh. “You know something I don’t, child?”
“I know where a gun is,” Roxanne replied evenly.
Worthy drew back, alarmed.
“If they convict you, I’m going to bring that gun with me, and we’re going to leave this place.”
“We’re not doing any such thing. You come to this jail with a gun and a harebrained scheme to break me out, and you’ll end up dead or in jail with me. Or, worse, you’ll kill somebody and live your life with that on your conscience. It ain’t happening.”
“I know you’re not hanging.”
“Roxanne—”
“Hear me out.”
Worthy decided to let Roxanne talk. When she was through, he’d explain why her plan wouldn’t work.
“I’ve seen signs, Daddy. I can read them just like I read the white people’s books. The signs all point to you being free. When I bring the revolver, I’ll make Mr. Strayer unlock your cell and we’ll go.”
“Where?” Worthy asked.
“Wherever we want. We’re free people.”
“If your plan works, we’ll be fugitives. The law everywhere will be after us. Be reasonable, Roxanne. Who’s going to hide two colored fugitives in these parts? How we going to blend in? I love you for wanting to risk everything to free me, but your plan won’t work.”
“Face facts, Daddy. If you’re sentenced to hang, there’s no way you could end up any worse.”
“That’s not true. If you were killed or ended up in jail trying to save me, it would be the end of me. I would rather spend eternity in hell than know you destroyed your life for me. The only thing that makes what’s happening to me bearable is knowing you’re safe and that good things are happening to you.”
“I can’t let you hang.”
“I haven’t been convicted yet.”
“But you will be in a white man’s court. I can free you. The signs I’ve seen are so clear.”
“Roxanne, there ain’t no such things as signs. That’s juju mumbo jumbo.”
“That’s African religion, like you told me about.”
“Those were children’s stories. All that about the wood spirits and the river spirits, it’s what I used to entertain you when you were little. Ain’t none of it real.”
“It’s what you believed in Africa.”
“And some good it done me. If the old gods are so powerful, how come so many Africans are slaves to white people?”
Roxanne sat up straight. “I read a book, Daddy. The one I told you about, the beautiful book all bound in leather.”
“With the gold writing?”
Roxanne nodded. “It’s called A Tale of Two Cities. There’s a man in it. He dies in the end, but he dies in place of another man who’s been sentenced to death. The man who is sentenced to death is saved. I’ve asked myself over and over why that book was left for me to find, and I believe God put it in my way to let me know you don’t have to die.”
CHAPTER 42
Angry winds and vicious rains had forced Heather to stay inside for three straight days. When the weather broke, Heather escaped into the garden to savor the fresh air. The sky was clear and a pale sun was shining. No clouds obscured her view of the snowcapped mountains, the river, and the verdant foothills. Heather took one of the trails that led into the forest. As she walked at a leisurely pace between the tight-packed evergreens, her thoughts turned to Matthew’s odd behavior.
Heather had seen very little of Matthew since he had ended his convalescence at Gillette House. On the few occasions when they had met by chance, he had seemed nervous and distant. Heather wanted to believe that Matthew’s odd behavior was a by-product of the pressure Worthy Brown’s defense had laid on him, but she did not really believe that was the sole or even major cause.
Matthew’s personality change had started while he was recuperating at Gillette House, but she could think of nothing that had happened during his stay that would have provoked it, and he had been completely normal before he rode to Barbour’s home to offer to settle Brown’s case for cash. That meant the precipitating cause had to have something to do with the events on the evening Caleb Barbour died.
It suddenly occurred to Heather that something had happened that evening that made no sense. The more she thought about it, the more upset she became, because she did not like the place where logic was leading her. Heather had avoided discussing the rape and murder with Roxanne for fear of upsetting her, but she had no choice now.
Heather returned to the house and found Worthy’s daughter in the kitchen shelling peas.
“Can you come with me, Roxanne?” she asked.
Roxanne wiped her hands on her apron and followed Heather to the den. Heather closed the door to ensure their privacy before sitting on the couch and motioning Roxanne to sit beside her.
“Do you trust me, Roxanne?”
Roxanne suddenly looked wary, but she nodded.
“If I asked you questions about what happened at Caleb Barbour’s house on the evening Mr. Penny brought you here, would you give me truthful answers?”
Roxanne’s eyes wi
dened, her breathing grew shallow, and her body became rigid. She reminded Heather of a rabbit shaking in the shadow of a circling hawk.
“These questions . . . I wouldn’t ask them to embarrass you. Your answers may help your father when he stands trial.”
Roxanne did not move.
“Do you remember what happened to you in Mr. Barbour’s house before Matthew brought you here?”
Roxanne’s nod was almost imperceptible.
“Tell me what happened, Roxanne. It’s important that I know.”
Roxanne looked at the floor. When she spoke her voice was barely above a whisper.
“He . . . he touched me.”
“Caleb Barbour touched you?”
Tears appeared in the corners of Roxanne’s eyes. Heather watched them run down the girl’s cheeks.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked gently.
Roxanne nodded.
“Did he force you to . . . Did he force himself on you?”
The tears were a flood now. Roxanne’s shoulders folded in like broken wings, and her sobs shook her. Heather wrapped her arms around the quivering girl and held her. When Roxanne stopped sobbing, Heather eased Roxanne back against the couch.
“Did your father help you escape from Barbour?” Heather asked.
“No.”
“Then how did you get away?”
“I ran outside.”
“Was your father outside?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then who was there?”
BY LATE AFTERNOON, FOUL WEATHER had put in another appearance. The sky over Portland was slate-gray, and the cold cut Heather to the bone. The pedestrians she passed walked with hunched shoulders and grim faces. Heather hitched her buggy in front of the jail. When Amos Strayer opened the peephole on the second knock, he found Heather huddled against the wall, shielding herself from the wind. Strayer didn’t like the idea of a woman entering the jail, but he couldn’t leave Benjamin Gillette’s daughter at the mercy of the elements. Heather rushed inside as soon as the door opened.
“What’s this about, Miss Gillette?”
“I want to speak to Mr. Brown.”
“I can’t let you do that. Only his lawyer is allowed to talk to him. That’s the marshal’s order.”
“I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”
“I don’t know, Miss Gillette. That Brown is a killer. There’s no telling what he might try.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Strayer, but Mr. Brown should bear me no ill will. I’ve been taking care of his daughter since the night he was arrested.”
“And there’s still what Marshal Lappeus said.”
“I won’t be long with him, I promise.”
Strayer hesitated. He could see the meeting was important to Heather. And the marshal had let Brown’s daughter actually go inside his cell.
“Please, Mr. Strayer.”
“Well, all right. But I can’t let you in the cell. You’ll have to speak through the door.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
Strayer led Heather to Worthy’s cell. The prisoner was asleep, and it took a while to rouse him. He sat up slowly. The weak sunlight barely penetrated his cell, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes so he could see.
“You’ve got a visitor, Brown,” Strayer said when Worthy arrived at the door. “It’s a lady. See you treat her like one.”
“Mr. Brown, I’m Heather Gillette, Benjamin Gillette’s daughter.”
Worthy pressed his face against the bars in the small window in the door.
“I’m glad to meet you. Roxanne’s told me so many good things about you. I hope she isn’t any trouble.”
“No, no, Mr. Brown. She’s no trouble at all.”
“It’s been easier for me knowing she’s being looked after, and I thank you for your kindness.”
Heather turned to the deputy. “Mr. Strayer, may I talk to Mr. Brown alone? I want him to be able to speak freely, and your presence may inhibit him.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“I assure you I’ll be fine. There is a rather thick door between us.”
Strayer was reluctant to leave. “He can reach you through the bars, Miss Gillette. Stay back from the window.”
“I will.”
“And holler if he gives you any trouble.”
Strayer walked down the narrow corridor casting occasional glances over his shoulder. When he was out of earshot, Heather stared into Worthy’s eyes.
“Roxanne needs you, Mr. Brown. She needs you very much.”
“Why are you telling me that when there ain’t nothing I can do about it?” Worthy asked, his anguish evident.
“We both know that isn’t true. We both know you shouldn’t be in here.”
Worthy’s features hardened. “What do you mean?”
Heather lowered her voice so there was no chance Amos Strayer could hear her.
“Did Matthew Penny kill Caleb Barbour?”
Heather heard the prisoner’s sharp intake of breath.
“Did he kill him?” Heather repeated. She tried to read Worthy’s expression, but he’d stepped back a pace, cloaking his face in shadow.
“Why you asking me that?”
“I’ve talked to Roxanne. You weren’t at Barbour’s house when she and Barbour ran into the yard. Matthew was.”
“That girl was shook up bad. She don’t know what she’s saying.”
“I know Matthew killed Caleb Barbour. Otherwise, the timing makes no sense. You were arrested almost an hour after Matthew brought Roxanne to my house. Why would you stay with Barbour’s corpse? Why didn’t you follow your daughter to find out how badly she was injured? You didn’t accompany Roxanne to my house because you weren’t present when Barbour died. You didn’t come to Gillette House because you didn’t know where she was.”
Worthy turned his back on Heather and sat down on his bed.
“Roxanne told me you weren’t in the yard when she ran out of Barbour’s house. She saw Matthew in the yard. I think Matthew saw what Barbour had done to Roxanne and killed him to protect her.”
“I killed Caleb Barbour,” Worthy replied in a flat voice.
“Roxanne needs you, Mr. Brown. Tell the marshal what really happened. Don’t die for a crime you didn’t commit.”
“Mr. Penny would hang if I did what you want.”
“If he killed Barbour to save Roxanne, he can claim self-defense. All the facts would come out in a trial. Roxanne can tell the jury what Barbour did to her.”
“Ain’t no one gonna believe her, Miss Gillette. They’d be thinking she was lying to save me.”
“Not if Matthew backed up her story.”
“And died instead of me? I thank you again for taking care of my Roxanne, and I understand why you come here, but you have to let this lay quiet. I killed Barbour. That’s the end of it.”
HEATHER HITCHED HER BUGGY IN front of the building that housed Matthew’s office and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She found the lawyer working at his desk. Matthew looked up. His handsome features were ravaged by exhaustion, and his eyes were red-rimmed.
“Are you working on Worthy’s case?” Heather asked.
“No, this is work for another client.”
Heather hesitated then she remembered Worthy’s desolate cell and Roxanne’s anguish.
“There is an easy way to set Worthy free,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’ve talked to Roxanne and Mr. Brown.”
“About what?” Matthew asked warily.
“I know what happened at Caleb Barbour’s house.”
Matthew gave himself time to think by using a cloth to remove the excess ink from the nib of his pen.
“What did they say?” he asked as he set the quill down.
Heather stared at him without flinching. “Caleb Barbour violated Roxanne. That’s why she was naked. She ran from the house as you rode up. Barbour chased her, and you killed him to protect Roxanne. Worthy Brown was nowhere near Barbour’s house when Barbour was killed. He’s protecting you because you saved his daughter.”
Matthew felt sick. He didn’t know what to say.
“You can save him, Matthew. You must tell the district attorney. You’ve committed no crime. Barbour was a rapist. The law protects you. You killed to protect an innocent child.”
When Matthew answered, he sounded like a man who had abandoned hope.
“I didn’t remember what happened because of the blow to my head. When I remembered, I went to the jail and told Worthy that I was going to confess. He said that he would not let me take the blame for killing Barbour. He insisted that he would confess if I tried.
“I went to W. B. Thornton’s office anyway. I did what you want me to do: I confessed. He wouldn’t believe me. He said I was imagining the murder, and, in truth, I have no clear memory of it. I just know that I killed him. But Worthy won’t back me out of a misguided sense of loyalty because I saved Roxanne.”
“Roxanne will tell them what you’ve said is true.”
“She never saw what happened. Roxanne wasn’t in the yard when I killed Barbour. She was in shock, and she ran into the forest to escape from him. And Thornton wouldn’t believe her anyway. He’d say she’s lying to save her father from the gallows.”
“This is insane. You are not a murderer. You saved Roxanne from a rapist.”
“It wasn’t that way,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.
Heather looked confused. “What else could have happened?”
Matthew looked up. Heather had never seen anyone look so tired.
“I didn’t kill Barbour to save Roxanne. I killed him in a rage after Roxanne was safe. I killed him because he insulted you.”
“Insulted me?” Heather repeated, unsure she’d heard Matthew correctly.
“Roxanne ran into the woods, and I stopped Barbour from going after her. He was furious and he called you a . . . a name. I lost control. There was nothing virtuous in what I did. I was no better than a drunk in a saloon brawl.”
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