True to the Law (45 page)

“You are not a well man,” she said.

“I was. I should have let you fall on your head. It couldn’t hurt. How did you get all turned around?”

“You should know. You were doing the turning.” She flopped on her back, tugged down on her nightgown, and then moved close enough to rest her head against his shoulder. “And the tickling. You were doing a lot of that.”

“You should have told me to stop.”

“I did.”

“Huh. I had no idea you were saying anything like that.”

Tru nudged him with her elbow. He merely smiled, and they lay like that for several long minutes. It was Tru who finally broke the silence.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the money, Cobb.”

“You have?”

“And I think you’re right. I’m going to put most of it in trusts. The town will manage one for the school and another for the library that we’re going to build. I think it would be lovely to have a park here, a place for adventuring children who do not want to sneak away to the cemetery.” She smiled a little at that. “Although I suppose there will always be rascals among us.”

“I hope so. I hope they’re ours.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I hope so, too.”

Cobb let her hold that thought for a while before he asked, “What else, Tru? There’s something else.”

She nodded. “It’s so much money. Unfathomable, really. You’re right that if it doesn’t change us, it has the power to change the way people think about us. I don’t want either one of those things to happen, not because of this fortune, not because we can
bathe
in money if we like.”

“There’s a picture.”

“I’m serious.”

He put his hand over hers. “I know. I’m sorry. It doesn’t have to drive us out of Bitter Springs, Tru. Charlotte Mackey trusted you above anyone to know what to do with the fortune she left you. The art museum and Olde St. John’s will make the most of her investment in them, and a lot of people will benefit, but what you do with it will spread her money farther and wider.”

“Maybe. But right now I can’t see much beyond Bitter Springs.”

“You will. It will come to you.”

And it would, he thought. He had married a farmer, not a teacher. She planted seeds every time she spoke to a child. She would always think of the children, and the money would follow. The school. A library. A park. Their own children someday. There would be scholarships and grants and hundreds of occasions for children as rascally as Finn and Rabbit to succeed. It was only a matter of time, a matter of turning a corner in her mind where she could embrace Charlotte Mackey’s gift as an opportunity and not be overwhelmed by it.

Until then, and then for the rest of their lives, he would stand by her, lie with her, and love her as deeply as a heart could bear, because each time he realized he was a better man for it, he knew it was Tru.

Read on for a sneak peek of Jo Goodman’s new novella

Nat Church and the Runaway Bride

Appearing in the anthology
Boots Under Her Bed
, coming January 2014 from Berkley Books

Falls Hollow, Colorado

The first thing Nat Church heard when he walked into the Falls Hollow sheriff’s office was a harmony of voices, some sweet, some strident, all pitched in the alto and soprano range. The women—for surely this choir was comprised exclusively of the female sex—were not crowded around Sheriff Joe Pepper’s desk. Joe sat hunched in his chair, his head tucked between his shoulders, his eyes squeezed shut, and he was alone in the front office. It was the cells in the back room that were occupied.

Nat didn’t call attention to himself. Joe hadn’t heard him come in. It was hardly surprising given the volume of the vocals. Nat recognized the tune as “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but the words were unfamiliar to him. He stopped just inside the door to listen.

Harry had a little dram,

A little dram,

A little dram,

Harry had a little dram, from a bottle marked eighty proof.

And everywhere that Harry went,

Harry went,

Harry went,

And everywhere that Harry went, drink made his belly pouf.

Pouf? Nat stopped listening. One of his black eyebrows was already lifted in a perfect arch. He wondered how many words they’d found to rhyme with proof, or how many verses the temperance women had composed while waiting for husbands, brothers, fathers, or sons to bail them out. Judging by the suffering, discomposed expression on Joe Pepper’s face, it was likely this choir of angels had been unnaturally creative.

Nat shut the door hard enough to raise Joe’s head above his shoulders and open his eyes. Nat thought the sheriff looked relieved to see him.

“Nat Church,” Joe said, shoving away from his desk and rising to his feet. “About goddamn time. Tell me you’re here for
her
. I’ve had a parade of good citizens come through here this morning. Paid the fines for their womenfolk. The hell of it is, the women won’t leave until
her
fine is paid, and no one’s been willing to do that. Not when it’s clear as gin that she comes from money. I’m thinking she could have paid everyone’s fine right off, but she never made the offer. Standing on principle is what I heard her say.” Here, Joe Pepper rolled his eyes. “What principle? That’s what I’d like to know. A man’s got a right to have a drink now and again. It’s women like her that drive us to it.”

Nat didn’t agree or disagree. His dark eyes moved past Joe’s left shoulder to the door behind him. The voices, the melody, the words slipped under the door.

Harry drank most every day,

Most every day,

Most every day,

Harry drank most every day, and beat his wife quite senseless.

There came a day when Harry hit,

Harry hit,

Harry hit,

There came a day when Harry hit that his wife was not defenseless.

Nat’s gaze shifted to Joe. “Do they know any other tunes?”

Joe shook his head. “Just the one. I’ll hear it in my sleep tonight.”

“How many women are there back there?”

“Seventeen women. One she-devil.”

On brief acquaintance, Nat Church was said to have eyes so dark they were impenetrable. Those few people who knew him better could sometimes see past the black and catch a glimpse of curiosity, interest, or on rarer occasions, amusement. Nat was amused now. The right corner of his mouth kicked up a fraction and something glinted in his eye. It might have been a twinkle, although no one had ever suggested that.

“Sure,” Joe Pepper said, raking his thinning hair with one hand. “Easy to laugh where you’re standing. Me? I’ve been listening to “Mary Had a Little Lamb” since six o’clock this morning.”

“That’s when you arrested them?”

“That’s when they woke up. I arrested them at a rally in front of Sweeny’s Saloon around ten last night. I didn’t want to arrest them, mind you. Mike Sweeny didn’t ask me to do it, but they wouldn’t be moved, and
she
commenced to marching back and forth across his doors. Next thing I know, the marching stops, the ladies are holding hands, blocking the entrance, and no one’s getting in or out. Now, Sweeny don’t care if customers can’t get out, but he cares a great deal when they can’t get in. I had no choice.
She
dared me to put her in chains. Mostly I was interested in gagging her, but a tablecloth isn’t large enough to stopper that Grand Canyon of a mouth.”

Nat cocked his head to one side to better hear the individual voices. Which one was
hers
? Strident? Smooth? Sweet? Was she the slightly husky contralto or clear-toned mezzo-soprano?

“So?” asked Joe Pepper. “Who are you here for?”

Nat unbuttoned his beaten, buttery soft, brown leather duster to reach inside his vest pocket and retrieve a photograph on heavy card stock. He stepped up to Joe’s desk. If his tarnished spurs jangled as he approached, he couldn’t hear them. He admitted to himself that he preferred their sound to the choir. The women seemed to be indefatigable. He could appreciate Joe Pepper’s pain.

Nat turned the photograph around for Joe to study. “You know I could be here about any one of the bounties tacked to your wall, Joe. As luck would have it—and I’m thinking it’s your good fortune, not mine—I’m here for one Felicity Ravenwood. Is that your she-devil?”

A broad smile split Joe’s face as he looked down at the photograph.

Watching Joe, Nat sighed. “I figure that grin means she is.”

“Photograph hardly does her justice, though,” said Joe.

“Because that ridiculous hat hides her horns?”

Joe chuckled as he slid the photograph toward Nat. “Well, there’s that. Maybe it’s just knowing that you’re taking her off my hands that has me thinking she’s prettier than what you got there.”

Nat did not glance at the photograph as he returned it to his vest. “How much is her fine?”

“Fifty dollars.”

Nat whistled softly.

Joe shrugged. “Food and bedding accounts for five dollars. Thirty is for public disturbance. Sheer aggravation is the rest of it.”

“Can’t fault you for that, Joe.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Nat counted out the money and laid it on the desk. He asked Joe for a receipt.

Joe returned to his seat to write out a slip. “This isn’t going to do you much good if you can’t keep her.”

“Just being thorough.”

“Who is looking for her, Nat?”

“Not for me to say.”

“But you’d tell me if she’s a felon, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a little late to be asking that question, don’t you think? I just paid her fine.” He took the receipt from under Joe’s fingertips and pocketed it. “I just paid for her.” In spite of Joe’s relief to be rid of his she-devil, Nat could see that the sheriff was wondering if he’d missed an opportunity. Nat took pity on him. After all, the man had been listening to a temperance-inspired nursery rhyme for the better part of the morning and hadn’t shot anyone. He deserved some peace.

“She’s not wanted, Joe. Not by the law. I’m doing someone a favor.”

“Careful you don’t get your spurs caught crossways, Nat. Mark my words. She is going to make you wish you’d asked for money. A lot of money.”

“You’re probably right, but it’s done. You want to spring her?”

“My pleasure.” Joe got up and took the ring of keys hanging from a hook by the entrance to the cells. As soon as he opened the door, the singing stopped. “All right, ladies,” he called, shaking the keys. “Fines are paid in full. Yours, too, Miss Ravenwood. Everyone can go home. In your case, Miss Ravenwood, you can go back to where you came from.”

Nat Church hitched a hip on the edge of the sheriff’s desk and stretched out one leg for balance. He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. If Joe’s intention was to rile Miss Ravenwood, he had chosen the right words. He could practically hear the woman’s feathers ruffling.

“I imagine you meant to be insulting, Sheriff. It hardly becomes a man of your stature. It belittles your office and your oath. You took an oath, didn’t you?”

To his credit, Joe did not respond, although Nat suspected the man’s ears were turning crimson. He heard the keys jingling and imagined Joe giving them a good shake to remind the women that he had power, if not stature.

“I want my day in court. We all do. Isn’t that right, ladies?”

Nat heard murmurs of agreement. As an endorsement, it was a mild one. He suspected Miss Ravenwood’s temperance followers were growing weary. When Miss Ravenwood spoke again, Nat finally identified her voice as the husky contralto. He thought it had a fine timbre. A man would be grateful to hear her whisper in his ear. At least this man would.

Joe said, “You’ve had your day. Actually, your morning. Judge Wilcox passed sentence when he came in to get Mrs. Wilcox. Found you all guilty, set the fine, and left here fit to be tied when Mrs. Wilcox would not be budged.”

Nat heard a new voice and felt confident he recognized Mrs. Wilcox as the speaker. “But did he go home, Joe? Or did he go to Sweeny’s?”

Joe’s silence was telling.

“I thought so,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “Let me out, Joe Pepper. The judge will need some help finding his way home, and he has trial in Blackwater tomorrow.”

“Right you are.”

Nat heard the keys jangle again. The noise stopped the moment Felicity Ravenwood spoke up. “I’d like to know who paid my fine.”

“Well, as to that,” said Joe. “I can tell you I was sorely tempted, but fifty dollars is dear to a lawman.”

“Fifty dollars!”

Nat could hear the women stirring. Fabric rustled as they rubbed shoulders and skirts in the small cells. Their voices were hushed. The whispers were unintelligible as a whole, but there was a snippet here and there that let him know that no one else was levied with such a steep fine. Apparently Judge Wilcox had gotten a little of his own back, and Nat recalled that Joe Pepper had added a tax for the grief she gave him. Who could blame them?

“That is outrageous,” Miss Ravenwood said.

No one disagreed with her.

“We were exercising our right to assemble and speak out against the demon rum.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joe said politely. “I’m thinking you have better than a nodding acquaintance with demons.”

Several women spoke up then. Nat heard the judge’s wife among them. “Shame on you, Joe Pepper. You want us to start singing again?”

Nat had listened to enough. He pushed off the desk and crossed the office to the open doorway. He set his right shoulder against the jamb and casually looked over the eighteen women crowded into two cells. There was a third cell, but it was empty. Nat supposed that was purposeful. Joe didn’t want his prisoners to be too comfortable. What he did was just make them mad.

Wet hens. That was the first thought that came to Nat’s mind. It was hard to look any woman in the eye when their hats demanded his attention. Straw hats. Felt hats. Velvet and satin hats. Broad and narrow-brimmed hats. No two were alike. The adornments distinguished them. He saw a garland of blood red roses, a trellis work of pearls, velvet ribbons, gold braid, beaded lace, and everywhere his eyes settled, there were feathers.

Pheasant. Ostrich. Peacock. Baby birds nested among feathers and fir cones. The colors were outside what he knew to exist in nature. At least Nat did not think there was an ostrich alive that sported olive-colored plumage or had its fine feather tips dipped in gold or black or silver. These feathers bobbed and weaved and floated as the women turned their heads in unison to stare in his direction.

“Ladies,” he said. His eyes settled on Felicity Ravenwood, or rather Felicity Ravenwood’s extraordinary hat. The color was the first thing that set it apart. No one else was wearing anything in that same deep shade of claret. The high, stiff crown and wide, sloping brim were trimmed with claret velvet ribbon. An abundance of white ostrich feathers sprouted from the right side like sea foam, dipping and rising in waves as Felicity tilted her head. Nat could not decide if the hat was a work of superior millinery or a construction fashioned by the leavings on the milliner’s workroom floor. Separate from its owner, he was certain it would look ridiculous. He was disconcerted when the word “fetching” flitted through his mind.

Nat removed his well-worn, pearl gray Stetson, nodded politely in way of a greeting, and ran his fingers through his unruly black thatch of hair just once. He doubted it did much to improve first impressions, yet it seemed as if he should try to ease this gallery’s mind. Generally it was not something that concerned him, but he had a ways to go with Miss Felicity Ravenwood, and looking disreputable would not inspire confidence in him. Now that he could see past the flock of hats, Nat recognized some of the faces in the room. These women would speak well of him, or at least they could assure Miss Ravenwood that he wasn’t a criminal. It was unfortunate that they could not say that he wasn’t a killer.