Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (27 page)

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I have answered all the questions that matter. The trial is over. And I’m here.”

“Except that questions remain in the mind of everyone who has come to know you since you arrived, and in the mind of someone who remains your champion, even though you refuse to allow it.”

So Max was behind this, after all. She clenched her hands in her lap, hoping the warden couldn’t see her tremble.

“That’s the same gun you used.” He nodded at the holster hanging next to her. “Show me how you did it.” “Sir?”

“The court records indicate that you were never asked to demonstrate how you used that weapon. It’s a weakness in the prosecution’s case. Such a weakness, in fact, I’m surprised there wasn’t a mistrial.”

The judge was a friend of Owen’s.
Jane barely managed not to blurt it out.

“On the other hand, I find it of great interest that, since you’ve been here, that name—the judge’s name—has popped up on a couple of land documents.” He sat back. “He took over your husband’s ranch.”

“And he’s welcome to it.”

The warden pointed again at the gun. “Show me how you did it. The holster was hanging on the back of a chair.” He paused. “I just can’t quite picture it. You’re no Pearl Brand, Jane. I can’t picture how you managed to pull a gun against a man who was, by all accounts, quite skilled at the fast draw.”

“He was drunk. He wasn’t fast at anything.”

“Did he drink all the way home from the Bar T?”

Jane frowned. “What?”

“It says you were at a dance at the Bar T. People said he was ‘tipsy.’ No one said he was drunk. And then he drove a wagon through the crisp, spring night air for… how long? An hour? Two? Unless he drank all the way home, he would have been very near to sober by the time you two had that argument. Or you would have had to drive the wagon, because he would have been too drunk to sit up on the seat with you.”

Jane said nothing.

“So you fought. And in the fury of the moment, you…”

Jane looked at the gun next to her. “I pulled it out and pulled the trigger.”

“Exactly like that? You didn’t take the time to cock it?”

“I’m a full-grown woman, Warden McKenna. There wasn’t time. I’m strong enough to fire a gun without cocking it first.”

The warden sat back. The stillness in the room grew oppressive. He closed the file.

“Thank you, Jane. I just wanted to be sure.”

“Well, now that you’re sure, would you take me upstairs? My arm hurts.”

He took a deep breath. “You’re very brave, Jane Prescott. Quite possibly the bravest, strongest woman I know. And I don’t mean physical strength. I mean another thing entirely.”

“Thank you. I’m just glad that Ellen—Mrs. McKenna—is all right, and that no one else got hurt.”

“That’s not what I mean, either.”

He came around the desk and sat down next to her. “You didn’t kill Owen Marquis. I think I know what happened that night, but you’re never going to admit it. Because you love your daughter so much that you’re willing to do anything—including spending ten years in prison—to take the blame for something she did.” He paused. “She did it to protect you from another beating. And you’re here to protect her.”

Jane shook her head. “You don’t know that.”

He nodded. “Yes. I do.” He pointed to the holster hanging on the chair. “You can’t fire that gun without cocking it first, Jane. And it’s clear that you didn’t know that. But Rose did, didn’t she? Dr. Zimmer told me that Owen used to take Rose target shooting. You hated it, but he didn’t care. Said he wanted her to be able to defend herself. He even called her his ‘little gunslinger.’ She would have cocked that gun and fired it to protect you without giving it a second thought.”

Jane closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. If she looked at him he would read the truth.

The warden’s voice trembled as he said,” ‘Greater love hath no man than this’… to ‘lay down his life for his friends.’” He took a deep breath. “You did that for your daughter, and you did it for Ellen. There is no way to thank you. Ever. If anything had happened to my Ellen…” He shook his head.

Getting up, he went back to his desk and opened another file. “There are two ways to do this. The first I have the power to do. As of this minute you have served your sentence. You are done. I’m commuting the rest. The second would be better for you in the long run, and I have an appointment to see the governor tomorrow to make the case for your pardon.”

“You can’t do that. You—“

“It’s all right, Jane. What just happened… no one has to know. I understand how important that is to you. For Rose’s sake. My appeal will be on the basis of your overall record and your risking your life for Ellen.” He paused. Swallowed. “But whether the governor grants the pardon or not, you never belonged here, and you aren’t spending one more night behind bars.”

The next couple of hours were a blur. Ellen had come over from the house and was waiting in the outer office for Jane with Miss Dawson. Together, they took Jane up to the third floor where the women, who had been told about the “early release,” presented her with the completed courthouse-steps quilt. They’d been given special permission to work on it day and night. Leaving was awkward, especially when Patch brushed against her skirt and began to purr a welcome.

Agnes picked Patch up. “We’ll take good care of the cat,” she said. “She don’t seem to mind me.”

Back downstairs, Jane changed into the outdated dress she’d changed out of all those years ago. How odd that she’d just thought about that this morning. The clerk counted out $1.50—her earnings since the industry had begun a few weeks ago. Jane dropped it in the envelope where they’d kept…
the key.
She pulled it out. She would have to see Max to get the little trunk back. But not now. Right now, everything was too overwhelming.

Back outside, they descended the steps and headed across the road. The McKennas wanted her to stay with them while she made plans.
I have to make plans.
It hadn’t been all that long since just stepping outside had nearly sent her into a panic. Now, the idea of freedom threatened to do the same thing.

Ellen took her hand. “It’ll be all right, Jane. I know you’re frightened. But it’ll be all right. You don’t have to do this alone. You have friends who care about you.”

Together, they crossed the road to the house, where Georgia waited on the front porch—with pie.

R
ose might be seated on the front porch swing, but she was mentally in Europe with Amy of
Little Women
when someone hissed her name.

“Psst, Rose! You shouldn’t be out there on the porch today! It isn’t safe!”

Rose looked up from her book. All she could see was the top of poor Mrs. Partain’s head, barely visible above the picket fence. With a sigh, she closed the book and stepped down off the porch.

At her approach, Mrs. Partain popped up like a jack-in-the-box, complete with brightly rouged cheeks. “It isn’t safe. Didn’t you hear me?” She looked about her like the crazy woman she was becoming.

“Would you like to come up on the porch with me and swing for a while? I could get you some lemonade. Aunt Flora’s gone, but—”

“Gone? Gone where? Did they take her?”

Rose shook her head. “No. No one took her. She’s over at the church. The Ladies Aid meeting. You know. She goes every Thursday afternoon.”

Mrs. Partain looked confused. “Is it Thursday? I thought—they must have taken my calendar. I’ve lost track. Oh dear, dear.” She began to cry. “And Fluffy’s lost. Did I tell you? I think I forgot to feed him.”

Fluffy was buried in Mrs. Partain’s backyard, having died of old age or a heart attack when Zeus cornered her once too often—Rose wasn’t quite sure. But poor Mrs. Partain didn’t seem to remember the cat was gone, no matter how often they told her.

“Why don’t you come up on the porch with me?” Rose said. “I’ll make you some lemonade, and when you’ve had a little rest, I’ll help you look for Fluffy.”

The old woman’s rouged face folded into a smile. “Would you, really? Rose, you are the sweetest girl in the whole state of Nebraska. That’s what I always say.” Her smile disappeared, and she looked back over her shoulder. “You won’t let them come here, will you?”

“Who do you mean?”

“Why, the prisoners of, course. There’s been a mutiny in Lincoln. At the prison.” She waved a folded paper in the air. “It’s all right here. I read every word. People don’t think I can read, but I can. And the prisoners have mutinied.” She thrust the paper at Rose. “Read it for yourself.”

“You come over and sit with me while I read,” Rose said. “I’ll feel better if I have a little company.”

When Mrs. Partain finally agreed and minced along the fence and through the gate, Rose did her best not to notice that she was still dressed in her nightgown. Over which she’d drawn a sweater. And a jacket. A dozen bracelets encircled each wrist. She was barefoot. Once she’d settled on the swing beside Rose, a distinct and not very pleasant aroma seemed to settle onto the porch.

Poor Mrs. Partain. She leaned over and pointed to a headline. “There. There it is. That’s what’s got me worried.”

Rose read. E
SCAPE
F
OILED.
“It says the mutiny was foiled, Mrs. Partain. No one escaped. We’re all quite safe.”

“That’s what they always say. Don’t you know that? They don’t want us to worry.” She waved her arthritic hands in the air. “Lies. All lies.”

Rose set the paper down. “I’ll just get our lemonade. You wait here.”

“What are you reading, dear?” Mrs. Partain picked up the book. “Oh, I
love
this one!” She settled back and began to read.

Rose made lemonade and came back out on the porch. Mrs. Partain barely noticed her return. For lack of anything better to do, Rose picked up the newspaper:

It was a rather exciting account, containing details of violence that Rose felt a bit guilty for reading. Aunt Flora would not approve. In fact, she didn’t subscribe to the newspaper because she thought it contained things “inappropriate for young minds.” For some reason, that made Rose even more eager to read Mrs. Partain’s newspaper. After all, it was her duty to try and calm the dear demented soul, wasn’t it? Hadn’t Aunt Flora done exactly that several times a week for months now?

Rose read and read and… stopped.

Jane Marquis.

It was as if someone had sucked the breath right out of her.

D
oor’s open, Jane,” Georgia called from where she stood at the well out back, pumping water into a bucket.

Feeling like a fool, Jane opened the McKennas’ back door and headed outside.

Georgia grasped the bucket handle and, hoisting it, headed toward the garden. She paused on the way to douse the petunias spilling out of a broken crock by the barn. “It’s all right,” she said. “Been a long time since you could open a door on your own. One of these days you’ll remember the other way of living.” She set the empty bucket down and handed Jane one of the two hoes leaning against the barn. “Until then,” she chuckled, “I don’t mind telling a white girl what to do now and then.”

Jane smiled and shook her head even as she made her way to the opposite end of a row of beans and began to hoe up the threatening weeds. She might not have “open the door” quite figured out yet, but she’d stopped being so panicky about all the space. In fact, she actually liked working with Georgia in the garden, although her arm still couldn’t handle hoeing for very long.

“Your arm starts to bother you, Mrs. McKenna can always use help around front with her flowers.”

Jane nodded. But she kept hoeing. Something about those flower beds out front just felt… wrong, somehow. Especially at this time of day, when the women from the third floor might be out across the road. Nothing felt quite right, yet. Eventually, she would learn how to be free again. But for now, for now she was content to concentrate on this square of earth tucked behind the barn.

Mamie’s first day off in early September required extra prayer. She had an extended conversation with the Lord for most of the morning as she rose and made tea, shed her nightgown, and donned her dark blue walking suit. She was taking Jane into town to Minnie’s and, unbeknownst to Jane, who thought they were just having tea, Minnie was going to do a fitting. Three dresses, they thought. And a job, if Jane wanted it. And an apartment above Manerva.

When Minnie first suggested it, Mamie praised her. “It’s so good of you to do this.”

“Good of me?” Minnie shook her head. “You mean good
for
me. I need the help, and she’s an excellent seamstress. As to the apartment, it’s so tiny I won’t be surprised if she doesn’t want it.”

“Tiny might be a good thing right now,” Mamie said. “What little I know of transitions, freedom can be terrifying. A smaller space means more control. That could be comforting. But that’ll be up to Jane to decide.” And here they were, on the day when Jane would have opportunity to decide. If she actually followed through and came into town. She’d changed her mind twice before. Mamie wasn’t worried yet, but she would be if things didn’t change soon.