“Do you have anything to say for what you’ve done?” The taller of the two dabbed at her eyes. Arm in arm, they held one another tight and might have hit the floor without the other’s support. Sniffles sounded from under the shorter one’s veil.
Everyone turned on Mississippi. This was one of those moments that defines a man. Rascal would have laughed boldly in their faces, proud of what he’d done. Ignoring them, Mississippi would bet that’s what Clint would do. Then he’d act as if he had done nothing wrong or cursed and told them to get out.
Mississippi removed his hat, lowering his head respectfully, though he kept his eyes on theirs. “I’m truly sorry. What I did was wrong. If I could take it back, I would.”
Some in that room might have thought he was trapped into apologizing. After all, he was sitting in a cell, waiting to dangle at the end of a rope. Or that he had said it to gain those widows’ favor in some small way, with hopes of being shown leniency when they spoke to the governor. Being hanged wasn’t an idea he cottoned to, but he understood it was his due. For a time, sorry had become a foreign word. Rarely had it passed over his tongue or even entered his brain. It was a word he said only when he meant it.
Whatever those widows had expected, an honest-to-God apology wasn’t it. With him caged like an animal, they probably had imagined behavior fitting of an evil, gun-toting beast. Their eyes glistened with tears, whereas Sheriff Pike’s widened as though stunned by Mississippi’s soft, sincere repentant tone. One thing about lawmen, or at least the good ones, was they had a developed sense of knowing when a person was lying. Everyone in that room, including Curry’s deputies who glanced at one another, uncomfortable, knew by Mississippi’s hat-in-hand humility that he wasn’t bending the truth one ounce. The words were heartfelt.
But it didn’t seem to matter as the younger widow stormed toward him. “You take your apology straight to hell with you.” She reached through the bars and slapped his face a good, hard smack on the cheek. “You deserve to die, and I’ll enjoy watching.” She spit at him.
“I second that.” The other widow barked a toast to his demise. She, too, looked as though she wanted to hit him but restrained herself. Yet he deserved it. All of it, the harsh words, the slap, and more, and that was exactly what was coming to him, a rope around his neck.
“Ladies, we should get ya to the hotel. This really ain’t no place for ya,” one deputy said while both of them offered an arm toward the door. The widows had turned their gazes and fixed on Jessa, who was softly crying. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
“Was your husband killed too?” The shorter widow pushed aside her veil, which led the other to do likewise, and both sympathetically stepped closer to Jessa. Perhaps they thought that another of Curry’s men had brought Jessa there too, a grieving widow just like themselves. Birds of a feather flocked together, although Jessa wasn’t a widow yet. But they didn’t know that, and anyone with eyes could see she was loaded down with a heart-heavy sadness. Mississippi could imagine that, back in Burnt Cabins, all the widows had bonded together, helping each other as they could.
Of all things, this wasn’t what Curry’s deputies wanted—empathy shown by those brought there to stir up a hornet’s nest, brought there to have sympathy poured out on them by the townsfolk, Governor Aurand, and any who would listen to their tragic story. Such a sensitive matter could easily light a flame under men like Bernstein, who had been so bold as to bang on the jailhouse door and demand blood once before. Another ploy by Curry to rile folks up and maybe turn Pike’s own people against him and perhaps Jessa. Lots of folks had seen her that one night with Mississippi at the saloon. Porter too.
Curry’s men charged to intervene.
Doc moved with the speed of a much younger man, doing some intervening himself. “Gentlemen, let these ladies have some time. It’s good for the soul to share of such grievous things. Helps a body heal.” He stretched his hands high toward heaven as though calling down the great physician.
At this, the deputies were baffled. They stood as if planted there, and neither said a word nor seemed to know what to do. Pike sat on the corner of his desk, taking it all in. Rather, he appeared to be studying the situation. Then Stan rushed in, turning the eyes of every man in the room, a slip of paper held out in his hand.
Pike read it, then reread it. He was muttering something harsh under his breath, his face building up a deep red glow. “Stan, make these ladies some coffee.” Without hesitating, his eyes narrowed. He glowered at Curry’s men. “Your boss has been delayed. The road that way”—he jerked his head in the direction—“has been washed out. Governor Aurand isn’t expected to arrive here ‘til next week sometime, if the roads are passable.”
Curry’s men looked uneasy. They hadn’t expected this bit of setback. The worrisome glances they threw at one another suggested they hadn’t counted on taking care of two widows for a week, maybe longer. And according to the message, it was possible the governor might not show up. If the roads were passable… Did that mean he would come when they were suitable or just forget it altogether if the conditions were not to his liking? City folks could be uppity, used to cobblestone streets for the most part, not dirt and bumps and rugged travel.
Sheriff Pike pulled up a chair for each lady. “I’ll see them to the hotel. You boys go on and git out of here.”
They stirred and began to protest until one of the two women dressed in black shushed them. “I’m sure Sheriff Pike is capable of getting us safely to the hotel.” Both widows waved them out the door.
Stan poured coffee that smelled fresh. Maybe the ladies were curious as to why Jessa wasn’t dressed in black or why no one was with her. Those two had come to Piketown together. Possibly, neither would have made the trip alone.
Jessa wiped her eyes on a delicate lace handkerchief that one of the ladies had handed her. “I ain’t a widow yet.”
“Explain yourself, girl.” Now that her veil had been removed and her face seen closely, Mississippi would guess the taller one to be the sheriff’s age, mid to late fifties at least.
Her voice was firm but her tone soft, and there was a gentle way about her. Something in her posture said she cared. She stood close to Jessa. The younger widow was a bit more standoffish, keeping her distance slightly. And she sat in a rigid pose like a guard on duty. The older woman, however, had the makings of one who was a fine mother, maybe a grandmother now. A woman who had wiped away the tears of many an eye, from those who skinned a knee to those who had lost a loved one.
She slipped an arm lovingly around Jessa’s shoulder, ready and willing to give comfort even to a shabby stranger. Jessa was still wearing the bloodstained and dirty clothing and moccasins, as usual. Once these two widows heard that she was Mississippi’s woman, neither would likely be friendly. The other, much younger female, who was maybe a few years older than Jessa, scooted forward onto the edge of her chair and waited, biting her lip. One sad word and that poor girl was going to burst out crying. Jessa wept into her hands and hadn’t come up for air, so she couldn’t answer the older widow’s question, not yet anyway.
Stan, doing his best not to spill a drop, handed each lady a cup, and they politely thanked him. Jessa wiped at her eyes, doing her best to compose herself. She had the widows’ attention whether she wanted it or not, and they were silently waiting. Then it was as if everyone else in the room disappeared and it was just the three ladies. A strange quiet fell over the room. Mississippi didn’t know what to expect. After a long minute, Jessa took a deep breath.
“Mississippi, the one that’s locked up…” Jessa slightly tipped her head toward the cell without so much as a glance. “He’s my man. Well… we ain’t married officially, but I’m his and he’s mine just the same.”
The younger widow glared briefly at Mississippi. He got the sense that she knew that name, but both women gave a faint nod. Whether they agreed with that thinking or not wasn’t the issue, and neither said a word. The older widow’s concern for the teary-eyed g
irl who was lost in her grief too showed through in her fresh tears. Jessa had her face buried in her hands once again. Tears dribbled through her fingers. She was racked with sobbing breaths. At the moment, the two widows were focused all on her.
Although the younger, sterner-looking widow’s eyes were glassy, her face had hardened. That could have been her own grief showing through, because upon learning this new information, she had adjusted her chair and distanced herself slightly more from Jessa. She was, however, sincerely studying Jessa carefully. Was Jessa the enemy? That’s what the young widow was probably asking herself. Jessa was a crying ball of nerves, not a threat to anyone. A mess of her emotions were on display, not that it was her intention, but it was being made quite clear that she had feelings too. But she was a friend of the enemy, so it seemed to have left the younger widow struggling with her own emotions. Should she loathe Jessa, another woman in pain, pain that she herself could understand?
Jessa looked from one to the other lady, heartbreak all over her teary face. Her gaze, for whatever reason, landed on the younger widow, who intensely stared into Jessa’s sad eyes as if she were trying to glimpse her soul.
Jessa opened her mouth. Her words came in a quivery voice. “Met not long after the robbery, and his friends turned on him when he saved me when I was stranded. We was gonna have us a family.” Fresh tears dripped into the cup held on her lap. “I miscarried when they attacked us… Lost the baby a few days ago.”
Even though he had been part of the robbery that stole the lives of these women’s husbands, they were able to give comfort to the half of him that mattered most. Just talking, saying it out loud, seemed to help Jessa. She had stopped crying so hard. Never before in his life did he regret the name Mississippi Lightning so much.
Neither widow appeared unforgiving where Jessa was concerned. The younger one had lost her stiff exterior and sat with shoulders drooping as if exhausted, which grief could do. One or the other or both might have thought Jessa stupid for joining with him, but that wasn’t a crime or a good enough reason to truly hate her. Jessa had done nothing wrong but fall in love with the wrong kind of man. Even Mississippi recognized that, though he wasn’t that person anymore. But telling that to them was useless. They had every right to hate him.
The women huddled and were crying all over each other. It was great that they could give comfort that way and be so forgiving. They could have pushed Jessa away or even perhaps taken their fury out on her, a target right in front of them, not locked behind bars.
Men were altogether a different breed. When Mississippi had thought he might lose Jessa, he was scared. He’d never been so afraid, shaken right down to his toes. It had kicked him into gear to do something, to get her help without thought for himself, not boo-hoo all over a body. And there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of him ever forgiving Clint or Rascal, but that was different. Even so, no one ever accused Mississippi of understanding women. He doubted he ever fully would.
Jessa was snuggling into the arms of the two widows, and receiving motherly affection appeared to be just the right medicine. That did make him happy.
The younger widow suddenly stood erect and glowered at Mississippi with every ounce of hate in her. “I shouldn’t feel bad for her. Oddly, I do. Not for you. Damn you.” She wiped at her eyes, then glanced at Jessa. “After you saved her, you should have never involved her. That just proves what a bastard you are.” She tossed what was left in her coffee cup at him, splashing his face.
Jessa rose to her feet. Her mouth was hanging open, and her lips began to purse to form words as she stared between the young widow and Mississippi. Probably, she was ready to defend him. She’d done that with Pike. Suddenly, she bit down on her lip. She briefly glanced between the widows, then back at him. Jessa had only ever seen what she wanted to, the white-picket-fence life that she dreamed of them having together. She had known he was a wanted man when they’d first met, but until this moment, exactly what that meant—the result of the crimes he’d been involved in, the faces of those he had subsequently hurt—had never been right smack dab in her face. Tears burst out of her eyes.
“Come to the hotel with us.” The older woman stood from her chair, patting Jessa’s hand in hers. “The accommodations will be much more suitable. Besides, I’m sure the sheriff has work to do. I think we could all use a change of atmosphere.” The older widow glanced sympathetically at the younger widow, who had Mississippi’s cheek stinging and his shirt soaked.
He hoped Jessa didn’t start to believe that there was no good in him.
Jessa obediently rose. She slipped the leather bracelet, the vow of their commitment to one another, off her wrist, gently placing it on the chair in which she’d been sitting. “I just don’t know anymore.” She couldn’t even look at him.
His heart sank. He had no reason to fear hanging now.
“Jessa. Please. Don’t,” he begged. How could she leave it like this? Hadn’t she seen that he was a changed man? He reached through the bars toward her hand.
The younger woman dressed in black linked her arm around Jessa’s, and arm in arm, the two of them started for the door. Mississippi watched Jessa go, then realized he was being eyed. With her hands clasped loosely, the old woman approached him with stern confidence in the swish of her skirt. What he saw was more hate. The warmth in her eyes when she’d consoled Jessa was gone, and the way she looked at him led him to believe she was seeing the man who had shot down her husband, whether Mississippi had actually pulled the trigger or not. Likely, she would never forgive him, not that he expected her to, especially so soon after the killings at the robbery. So the widow’s caring attitude toward Jessa still confused him.
They had been a couple until a minute ago. She had been his other half and vice versa. Why accept Jessa and take her under wing? Perhaps it was the fact that Mississippi and Jessa hadn’t met until after the robbery. She hadn’t been part of the planning or execution. Her innocence of the matter and of any killing had to be a big part of the reason those widows were willing to overlook her connection to him. Anyone, man or woman, could be a fool in love. More than that, same as a man had an inward drive to protect, women were born to nurture, to be mothers, and any woman of a particular age could fathom the depth of loss Jessa was feeling because of the death of the baby. It was probably a combination of many raw emotions that had them showing her compassion. And the fact that Jessa had broken their vow.
“My William…” The older widow’s face lit up at the mention of her late husband. “He was one-quarter coyote.” She grinned. “When that part of him shook a leg… oh, we’d fight something fierce. We was young like the two of you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Jessa standing at the door, waiting with the other young lady and Pike, who would escort them. Jessa was staring longingly at Mississippi, maybe wishing he’d been different, not a gunman, or maybe she regretted taking off that symbol of their love. They did love one another. He didn’t doubt that. There was pity in this woman’s eyes as she watched Jessa wipe at the corners of hers.
Then the older widow turned and frowned at Mississippi. “Had me a big broom, lots of bristles, kept for the sole purpose of straightening William out. Used it too.” She chuckled softly. “I’m gonna buy your woman a broom just like the one I had so after you hang, the next man she takes up with, she can keep him walking a fine line.”
Head held high, she strolled across the room, gathering her peeps under her arms, and at the door, she stopped and turned toward Mississippi. “If you haven’t done it yet, you best make yourself right with the Lord.” With that said, she, the other widow, and Jessa vanished out the door.
Mississippi slumped onto the cot. He was feeling lower than dirt. There was just no way to counteract the awful things he had done. How could he ever make something like that up to them? And his time was too short to hope to win back Jessa’s love. Plus, how could he? He was locked up inside a cage.
CHAPTER 12
Morn
ing came quick and with a much-needed peek of sunshine. The rain had stopped sometime overnight, and there wasn’t a gray cloud anywhere in the sky that he could see from the cell window. Each hour was one closer to the eleventh. If only he could have a second chance, though he didn’t deserve one. He wondered what Jessa was doing right that minute, what she was thinking. Was she pondering over him? Were those two widows talking her out of loving him? He sure as hell hoped not. He’d like to see her at least once more.
Stan swung the door open. Juggled in his hands was a basket full of mouthwatering smells, a jar of maple syrup, and a tall tin coffee pot that was filled to the brim because Stan jerked every other step as the hot brew slopped out the spout and burned his hand.
“What’s all that?” Mississippi was hungry. Though, Jessa was weighing heavy on his mind, as well as the other stuff, like Clint and Rascal and at what moment Governor Aurand would show his face.
Stan squealed like a piglet about to feast. “Them ladies from last night, they stopped me on my way here.” He licked his lips. “There’s flapjacks, eggs, ham steak, biscuits. All of its in there.” He practically drooled on himself.
Pike came awake on the cot in the corner. He stretched, then questioningly stared at all the grub being unloaded by Stan.
Mississippi scratched his head. Why had they done that? “Just gave it to ya? Didn’t give a reason?” He reckoned that was truly strange. They hated him, so why send food? Unless it was just for Stan and the sheriff, but there was too much for just them. That was enough to stock a home for winter.
Stan carefully, so as not to spill anything else, spread every divine morsel across the sheriff’s desk. Pike stood slowly, then rolled what appeared to be stiffness out of his neck.
Stan flicked coffee off his hand. “Jessa was with them. It was her idea.” He bit his lip after gulping a big swallow of nothing and looked awful uncomfortable, as though he’d said too much. There was something he wasn’t saying.
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