Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (12 page)

How long had he been waiting? Hopefully he’d been sitting in that chair, but now he’d risen to stand, grinning in that crooked way of his as he teased, “Running a bit late, I see.”

As he spoke, the first bell of the day rang out, and Mamie realized he was right. They usually had the dumbwaiter unloaded by now. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

He looked perplexed. “Well… what I always do. Helping you serve breakfast.”

She bustled toward the dumbwaiter. “You were supposed to rest for the next few days.”

“Aye.” The great head nodded. “The doctor advised it. But he didn’t
order
it. I’ll rest after we see to the dozen.” He paused. “Really. I’m fine.”

“Is that so? I don’t recall your skin being this particular shade of gray in the past.”

He grinned again. “I had no idea you’d noticed my complexion, gray or otherwise.”

Was she blushing?
Unbelievable. She swept past him. “You should attend to your health. I’m certain the guard on duty is completely adequate to help me dole out a few bowls of gruel and some dry toast.”
Vestal’s portion must be increased. She should have milk.
She would mention it to Warden McKenna.

Martin followed her toward the dumbwaiter. “I thought it might help if things get back to normal right away.” He offered a shy smile. “As normal as they can be at least—now there’s a baby and all.”

Mamie had, of course, been thinking the same thing. “Business as usual” would reassure everyone. Martin’s realizing it was a bit surprising, though. “I can’t deny that I’ve been concerned about what effect yesterday’s—events—will have.”

“Exactly. The baby aside, they’ve got to be wondering about Pearl Brand’s coming back on the ward.” He shook his head again. “I don’t mind saying that if the warden decides to do that, I hope you’ll refuse it. Tell him you’ve an obligation to keep the others safe.”

Mamie started to retort that she was well aware of her obligations, but Martin must have sensed what was coming.

“Not that I think you need a reminder,” he said quickly. “It’s just that…” He swallowed. “I worry about you, Mamie. That Brand woman, she’s a hard nut.”

Martin Underhill had been on duty here since the day the penitentiary opened back in ‘76. Mamie knew she would do well to heed his warning.

He misinterpreted her silence. “I didn’t mean you don’t know—” His face turned red. “What I meant to say was—“

“You meant exactly what you said. And I appreciate your concern.”

“You do?”

“Of course.” A second bell sounded. Mamie unlocked the dumbwaiter door, but when Martin winced with the effort of working the pulley, she shooed him away and did it herself.

While Mamie transferred the steaming pot of oatmeal from the dumbwaiter to the serving cart, Martin reached for the bowls and spoons. He grunted when he hoisted the coffeepot but managed to fill the twelve tin mugs with the sludge that passed for coffee. Grimacing when the smell of burned beans assaulted her nose, Mamie helped push the cart toward the door leading into the dormitory.

The second the night guard—Mamie thought his name was Peterson—caught a glimpse of Martin, he headed for the stairs, offering little more than a gruff “nothing to report” on his way past. But then he turned back. “Heard you were in the infirmary,” he called to Martin. “Heard you got stabbed… by a woman.”

Mamie opened her mouth to deliver an angry retort at the sneering tone, but Martin gave a little wave she took to mean
don’t.
He glanced back. “Kind of you to show concern,” he said. “Doc fixed me up.”

Peterson laughed. “Well, you stay alert. Selleck says the little half-blind one packs quite a punch.” His snickering echoed off the high ceiling as he made his way to the stairs.

Vestal Jackson’s baby was awake and demanding breakfast. Before Mamie could say anything about Peterson, Martin tilted his head and smiled. “Isn’t that a blessed sound.” He looked down at Mamie. “I’m praying the warden lets the baby stay,” he said. “Can’t see as it would do a bit of harm. In fact, the little mite would probably do a lot of good.”

Mamie sighed. “I don’t hold out much hope for the warden’s allowing that.” She paused. “And it’s going to break Vestal’s heart.”

“You stand firm.” Martin swept one palm over his balding head. Took a deep breath. “No child should grow up thinking his own mother didn’t want him.”

In spite of being weary both in mind and body, Max spent a restless night. He was up at dawn, peering at himself in the mirror above the washstand in his hotel room, trimming his mustache, cleaning his nails, doing everything he could do to both occupy himself and make sure he looked every inch an upstanding citizen. The warden had likely had little time or interest in evaluating him yesterday. Today would be different… and some aspects of the difference set Max’s teeth on edge.

After a breakfast of black coffee and toast, he walked over to the Windsor stables, asking once again for the powerful gray gelding that thrust its nose over its stall door and whickered in his direction.

The livery owner chuckled. “Don’t recall him saying ‘hello’ to a customer before.”

“We have an understanding.” Max smiled.

“Oh really?”

“He takes the bit, and I hang on.”

The livery owner shook his head. “You sure you don’t want something with a little less vinegar?”

Max shook his head. “We do fine.” He pulled a sugar cube out of his pocket and offered it to the gelding, who licked it off Max’s palm and crunched, bobbing his head up and down.

Minutes later, as the powerful gray reached the edge of town, Max gave him his head. The animal lunged forward and ran full-out until the castle-like turrets of the penitentiary came into view up ahead.

Max reined him in with difficulty, then forced him to close the remaining distance at a walk. He continued past the main door and down the length of the east wall, then back again, cooling the animal down and trying to calm his own nerves. Finally, when the horse’s breathing had returned to normal, Max dismounted and tied the reins to a hitching post before taking a seat at the base of the stairs leading up to the entrance. He was still sitting there when the warden came out of his house and crossed the road on his way to work.

“You’re up early,” McKenna said and held out his hand. “I don’t think we even had time to introduce ourselves officially yesterday, did we? If you’ll follow me inside, you can remind me of the purpose of the visit you had scheduled.”

Max shook the man’s hand. Might as well get it over with. At least if the guy sent him packing, they were already outside. He swallowed. “There’s no easy way to say this. I have a confession… and an apology.” The warden said nothing, just waited. Max cleared his throat. “The appointment was to make an appeal for a pardon for one of your inmates.”

McKenna frowned. “None of my clerks recognized your name as a regular visitor. I had them check.”

“I haven’t visited her for a long time. She essentially kicked me out and told me not to come back.”

McKenna frowned.
“She?”

Max nodded.

He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m waiting.”

“It’s Jane Prescott.”

The man’s gaze narrowed. “As in the woman you spent the better part of the day with yesterday
in my home
?”

“As in the woman who agreed to stay with a friend in trouble… and who didn’t so much as acknowledge she’d ever seen me before. And for the record, I did the same. We never spoke. I don’t think we even made eye contact.” Max paused. “I should have said something. But I was caught up in the moment—concerned for my patient… and…” He shrugged. “And it was a poor decision on my part.”

The warden took his hat off. He ran thumb and forefinger along the crown, re-forming the crease. He stood there for so long Max wondered if the man was ever going to say anything. When he did, it was three words. “Walk with me.” He set off down the stairs and along the east wall. Max hurried to catch up. “I assume the new quest for a pardon is precipitated by the idea that I just took over a job for which I have little experience.”

Max frowned. “If you mean am I trying to pull the wool over your eyes, the answer is no.” He paused. “I’ve been writing letters to try to get a hearing with the governor for four years. The new governor finally agreed to listen to what I have to say.”

“When’s that meeting?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“And it wouldn’t hurt to walk into that meeting with a letter from the warden stating the sterling qualities of the misunderstood and unfairly punished Mrs. Jane Prescott.”

Max stopped short. “This looks bad. I know that. But not nearly as bad as the idea you’ve a good woman locked up whose only child is growing up without her mother.” Max met the warden’s gaze and held it. Finally, he said. “She’s my friend. Read her file. Talk to her. Judge for yourself.”

“I’m not a judge, Dr. Zimmer. I’m a warden. I don’t decide. I just administer the results.”

“But sometimes you advocate for pardons,” Max said. “And a pardon isn’t even the only way. Last year they released two women. ‘Time off for good behavior’ or whatever they called it. I’d stake everything I have on your getting a good report from your matron if you ask what she thinks of Jane.” He paused. “She’s no danger to society. She never was.”

McKenna took his hat off. He glanced toward the sun. “I’ve a 10:00 a.m. meeting with Miss Dawson,” he said. “Make your case.”

As the two men made their way inside to the warden’s office, Max talked. He related what he’d seen and heard about Owen Marquis in the short time he’d known the man before the shooting. When he mentioned the bruises he’d seen on Jane’s face and the time she’d come to him about pain in her side that turned out to be a cracked rib “from a fall,” McKenna’s eyes narrowed and a muscle in his cheek flexed.

“Go on,” was all he said.

Max went back to the night Marquis died. “I saw stark fear on that woman’s face when we’d taken no more than one turn around the dance floor. Minutes later, Marquis practically dragged her out of the room to go home. Rose had fallen asleep, and I carried her to the wagon for them. Jane thanked me, they drove off, and the next thing I knew Marquis was dead and Jane was on the stand admitting to a crime.”

They were just inside the administration building door. Instead of going into his own office, McKenna headed into the clerk’s office across the hall. Max heard him ask for Jane’s file. He emerged, file in hand, and led the way into his own office. “This is going to take more than a few minutes,” he said, opening the file.

“I can wait.”

With a nod, McKenna began to read. Max didn’t know how to interpret the expressions that flitted across the man’s face. At times he frowned, at others he seemed surprised. Once, he flipped back through the assortment of papers as if he needed to double-check something. He motioned to the water cooler in the corner without looking up. “Help yourself to a drink.”

Max drank a dipperful, more to occupy himself than for any need to slake thirst. Finally finished reading, McKenna got up and opened the two windows behind his desk. He got himself a drink of water, then crossed to his office door and asked the clerk outside to bring a coffee tray up from the kitchen. Finally, he sat back down and, leaning back in his chair, said, “Tell me your version of all of this again. Start at the beginning. When you arrived in the area, how you met the Marquises.” He paused. “But I only want to hear what you
know
from firsthand experience. I don’t care what you think or how you feel. Just tell me what you know.”

Just when Max began, a knock at the door announced the arrival of the coffee tray. As the assistant set it on the desk, he glanced at Max and spoke to the warden. “Ten minutes until you’re expecting Miss Dawson, sir.”

McKenna nodded. “Thank you, Conrad. Just knock on the door to tell me she’s here. I won’t keep her waiting long.”

With a nod and another look Max’s way, Conrad left. McKenna filled two tin mugs with coffee. Max took a sip, grimaced, set the mug back on the tray, and began again. “My practice had been open maybe a month when Marquis came roaring into the office one day with Rose in his arms. He’d been teaching her to ride. The pony bucked, and when Rose went flying, her hand caught a nail on one of the corral posts. I stitched it up with Marquis looming over me threatening to shoot me if ‘his little gunslinger’ ended up with so much as a scar.” He paused. “If I gave you the impression that Owen Marquis was pure evil, I shouldn’t have. From what I heard—” He broke off, before McKenna, who’d raised his eyebrows in an unspoken warning, could say anything. “Everything I know from being around Marquis and Rose indicates he was fond of her. While I was putting in those stitches, he kept her distracted talking about how well she was doing at learning to shoot and how she shouldn’t worry about Mama—that once Mama understood things, she’d be proud, too. Rose hung on every word. When he praised her, she beamed.”

Max wove the story as best he could. It was hard to stick to what he knew from personal experience, but he thought he did a fairly good job. He’d seen Jane’s bruises. He’d treated the broken rib. He’d seen her change from a confident woman who smiled and laughed to little more than a silent shadow trailing Marquis wherever he went. A knock on the door sounded the matron’s arrival, and Max stopped. He looked at the door.