Page 20 of Love and Order

CHAPTER 3

That little woman could talk the ears off a cornfield!

Sheriff Downing had left no instructions regarding Lucinda Peters’ release, so after their long conversation that morning, Rion found himself with a jail mate. Trenamen had locked the woman in the far cell before he and Calliope had gone to interview the Tunstall woman and her boy again and to aid in the search for Miss Hattie. What should’ve been a quiet day with plenty of time to think of how to escape his present circumstances ended up being a day of Lucinda Peters’ chatterboxing, particularly when he’d turned his back on her and begun tearing his bedsheet into thin strips. He’d done his best to ignore her questions, eventually playin’ possum to get her to hush. It worked, right up until a key turned in the front door’s lock. Then, Rion ceased his playacting and sat up.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Downing. Not even Trenamen. Instead, Calliope entered with the same basket the sheriff had brought earlier, though it looked heavier than before.

“Afternoon.” His sister smiled. “I’ve brought supper.”

She swept in, hefted the basket onto the desk, and then drew the burlap curtain back from the front window.

Rion squinted against the late-afternoon sunlight, noting Trenamen talking to someone in the street outside.

“Dutch sent over stew.” Calliope pulled food from the basket—two servings this time. She carried one to Miss Peters and, a moment later, brought Rion his bowl.

As Rion sat again on the cot, Trenamen clomped up onto the porch and, after taking a moment to scrape mud from his boots, entered.

Rion busied himself with stirring the hearty stew, then spooned a big chunk of meat into his mouth.

“Braddock, you up for a visitor?”

He glanced up as Maya emerged in the doorway.

“Rion!”

He stalled after one chew then rolled the bite of beef to the other side of his mouth. “Maya. Thought I told ya to—”

“I told you earlier—” She hauled the nearest chair toward the bars and sat. “I’m not going anywhere. Someone has to keep your spirits up.”

He chewed a few times, then swallowed hard. “My spirits are fine.”

“They couldn’t possibly be. Word is, you’re facing some serious charges.”

As if reminding him would help.

“Where are you stayin’ these days, Maya?” He spooned another bite into his mouth.

Grinning, she waved a hand. “You know me. I’m always on the move—wherever I can find a play to act in.”

Yes, that had been her reasoning for ending their relationship years ago—though he’d always figured it was more that she—a woman of means—eventually grew bored with his simple, even backward, ways.

“So you’re an actress?” Miss Peters called from down the way.

“I am—as is my whole family. Maya Fellows.” She stood and curtsied in Miss Peters’ direction, then faced him again. “Since you asked, Rion, I was most recently in a production in Denver, though it ended several weeks ago, so I’ve been traveling since then.”

“Where else have you acted, Miss Fellows?” Miss Peters asked.

“Oh, goodness. Where haven’t I? I’ve crisscrossed the country many times. I’ve acted in New York, Omaha, Denver, and San Francisco, and everywhere in between. I’ve played everything from fine English ladies to southern belles. Grieving young widows to impressionable girls still under their parents’ care and tutelage …” She spoke the last words in a range of appropriate accents and affectations.

“You’re very talented.” Calliope almost gushed as she approached. “And how do you know Mr. Braddock?”

He shot Maya a warning look with a tiny shake of his head, but when she only grinned at his sister, he braced himself for the retelling of the tale.

“We met in a cemetery.” She giggled.

“A cemetery!” Calliope and Miss Peters both gaped.

Heat washed through him. “Maya, that’s enough!”

“It’s not quite as bad as what it sounds.” Maya turned toward his sister. “We met years ago during a dark time. My brother had died weeks before, and I’d gone to the cemetery one afternoon to visit his grave. But in my grief, I stayed too long and found myself in the awkward position of having to walk myself home after nightfall.”

“Maya!”

“Rion was also in the cemetery. Had been all day, in fact—hidden, watching for one of the men he was trailing. He found me instead and insisted I not leave to walk home in the dark—that it was too dangerous to be out alone. He promised if I’d wait for him to finish his business, he’d escort me safely. I had no idea what that business was until he knocked a man senseless with a shovel, tied him up, and tossed him in a grave they’d been digging late that afternoon. Then he saw me safely to my door and even returned to check on me the following day.”

Calliope stared, slack-jawed, then turned to him, fighting giggles. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Braddock.” She focused again on Maya. “Didn’t that frighten you?”

“Actually, miss, I felt very safe. It was all very exciting.”

Another wave of heat crawled up Rion’s body. “That’s enough, Maya.”

The little busybody in the third cell set her bowl of stew aside and took up her book and pencil. “Where did this happen?”

“Denver.”

He glared in Trenamen’s direction. “Get her out of here!”

Joe grinned at his expense but did start toward Maya. “All right, miss. I think it’s time—”

“Please don’t make me go.” Tears welled as she cast a sideways glance at Trenamen then hurried to the bars and pinned Rion with a pleading look. “I’m worried for you. As much as anything, it will help me to be here with you, Rion.” She produced a lacy handkerchief as she started to cry softly.

Trenamen paused and shot him a questioning look.

Rion waved the man away, set his cooling stew aside, and then went to the bars himself. “I’ll be fine, Maya. They ain’t got nothin’ on me that can’t be overcome with the truth.”

If only he believed that.

“They say you murdered a waitress, a prostitute, and a spinster woman with some difficulty walking.”

“We have hope Hattie Ingram is still alive,” Calliope called. “We’re hoping we’ll find her quickly.”

“It almost makes one frightened to walk these streets.”

He pried her hands from around the bars and held them. After one long look into her eyes, he focused on the birthmark on her left wrist to keep her tears from catching him off guard again. “That’s why I’m askin’ ya to go, Maya. Where’s your father right now?”

“California.”

“And your brother?”

“Charles is with Papa. They’re playing a father and son in a show in San Francisco.”

“Then go back to Denver and stay with your friends.” He cupped her cheek. “Promise me.”

She pulled away, rubbing her jawline. “You’re still trying to send me away.”

“For your own good, Maya. I’m poison to pretty gals like you right now.”

Feeling something sticky on his palm, he found a flesh-toned substance marring his hand.

Her cheeks turned crimson, and she reached to wipe his palm with her handkerchief. “Sorry. Removing all the makeup we wear to combat the gas lighting in the theater has left my skin irritated. I wanted to look my best when I saw you, so I covered some of the blotches before I came.”

“You look right pretty. Now, promise me you’ll stay with your friends in Denver. Please.”

She blew out a loud breath. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’m not pleased about it.”

Thursday, June 26, 1873

Howling wind and thunder split the silence. Lightning flashed, startling Lu from sleep. Her heart pounded as memories of fat raindrops pelting her rushed back. Where was she? She reached out and touched the thick log wall beside her, then cautiously looked around. Lamplight flickered from a desk near the far wall, bringing everything into focus.

The jail …

Sheriff Downing hadn’t returned, and Deputy Stephen Nesbitt had not taken her word that she wasn’t truly under arrest. She hadn’t minded being locked in the cell to interview Rion Braddock, but she’d not expected to spend the night. Especially such a blustery night as this. If she’d gleaned more than the handful of minor facts—if Braddock had bothered to answer even one of her questions throughout the day—she’d have felt a lot better about staying the night.

The man was an immovable, unshakable wall of silence. He’d either sat on the end of his bed tearing up a perfectly good sheet—was he that frustrated?—or he’d slept.

From the direction of his cell, something shuffled, and his soft grunt drew her ear. Lu rolled over, head resting on her arm, and peered through the bars. His cot was empty. She sat up, searching the shadows.

There. He squatted in front of his cell door, fiddling with something, though his big frame blocked her view. A moment ticked by before he rose and gave something a hard pull. The cell door rattled. Seemingly satisfied, he crossed to the edge of the cell nearest to her. Again, he fiddled with something, this time his big body shielding the light of the lantern Deputy Nesbitt had left burning, leaving whatever it was he was doing in shadows. When he finally did move, allowing her a view of his handiwork, there was a rope strung between the door and the nearest heavy logs that held up the roof. Where had he gotten the rope?

She squinted, but unable to see, she padded barefoot to the closest edge of her own cell.

Oh! He’d braided the strips of his bedsheets into a makeshift rope.

Braddock threaded the end of the rope through …? She squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Through what? Some kind of loop. He shifted just enough to reveal what looked like a slipknot in the rope only a foot or two from where it was tied to the door. Tugging the whole length through, he gave a hefty pull. The cell door rattled, wood creaked, and the rope grew tight.

Suddenly uneasy, she eyed the log support. “What’re you doing?”

Startled, he whipped around with a loud exhale, releasing all the tension from the rope as he clapped a hand over his heart.

“In the name of Juniper, woman! You about scared me to death!”

Lightning flashed and loud thunder followed.

“What are you doing, Mr. Braddock?”

“None of yer business. Go back to sleep!”

How could she possibly sleep now? Yet he glared at her until things grew awkward, and she padded back to her cot, pulling both trade blankets she’d been given into her lap.

Once more, he leaned back, pulling the loose end of the rope through the slipknot until it grew taut like a bowstring. Keeping the pressure on with his right hand, he stretched again toward the big timber support and looped the loose end around the log a second time, fed it through the slipknot again, and threw his body weight into drawing it even tighter.

The door rattled and strained with a metallic protest, and the log groaned like an old wooden ship tossed on rough seas. Lu held her breath, eyeing the ceiling to be sure it wasn’t going to fall in. This time, he gave the rope several mighty tugs, and even the fabric squealed with the tension placed upon it. When he released it, he made no effort to hold it with one hand. It seemed to hold itself, allowing him to go and rattle the cell door. Producing a sheathed knife from his pocket, he tried to insert the blade between the door and its frame but found no success, so returning, he pulled on heavy leather gloves that he grabbed from his cot, circled the rope around the log and back through the slipknot again, and pulled as if he were trying to lift a several-ton boulder. Metal ground, the log creaked, and the makeshift rope screamed its protest. To her amazement, the door appeared to bow under the torque.

When Braddock padded to the door this time, knife in hand, he easily inserted the blade between the door and the frame and, with a couple of prying movements, released the door with an ear-piercing scrape. Immediately, all the tension on the rope gave way, and the end looped around the timber fell loose to the floor.

He darted back to his cot, pulled on his boots and hat, and unrigged the rope contraption. Coiling it in long loops, he rolled it into his blanket, slung his saddlebags and canteen over his shoulder, and strode from the cell. At the desk, he picked the lock on the drawers with the same knife and, opening one drawer after another, eventually set the large key ring on the desktop. Then, riffling through some of the other drawers, he pulled a gun belt from one, uncoiled it, and swung it around his hips. He checked the loads and thumbed bullets from the loops on the belt into the empty cylinder, then reholstered it. He stashed various other knives on his belt, in his saddlebags, and even in his boot. Then, scooping up the key ring, he crossed to the front door and fumbled through the keys until he found one to fit.

Only then did his gaze stray in her direction. She pulled her two borrowed trade blankets closer across her lap as if they might somehow protect her from the big man whose face was cast in eerie shadows. He rattled the heavy keys again and went to her door.

“You belong here even less than me.” His voice was a low rumble, mildly gruff, but not unkind. “You want to leave, you leave. If you stay, you didn’t see nothin’. You just woke up and the door to your cell—and the jail building—were open. Understand?”

At her silent nod, he found the key to fit her door. The tumblers rattled, he popped the door open, and after depositing the keys on the desk, he walked to the door. As he jerked it open, lightning flashed again, illuminating his frame in the doorway just before he disappeared into the night.

For the space of several breaths, she stared at the darkness beyond. The damp night air crept in, chilling her, and she blinked in wonder.

Rion Braddock had somehow overcome the iron bars and escaped, as if it were easy.

Oh! The subject of her story was getting away!

She lunged up, snatching her journal, both blankets, and the canteen Deputy Nesbitt had given her, and scurried into the back room. Spreading one blanket on the floor, she situated her clothes and belongings onto it, rolled it into a long roll, and tied it across her body like a thick sash. Stepping into her still-soggy shoes, she laced them, tossed the other blanket around her shoulders, and went to the front door.

The sliver of moon was cloaked behind storm clouds, leaving only the frequent flashes of lightning by which to navigate. Lu went back for the lantern, pulled the door closed so as not to draw undue attention to the building, and charged down the muddied porch into the street. The wind blew, lightning flashed, and low thunder rumbled. She craned her neck to see into the distance.

Braddock was nowhere in sight. Like a ghost disappeared in the mist.

Lord, where has he gone?

Exiting the door, he’d turned left …

If what she’d heard in conversation that day was true, he had two fine horses he’d want to take. The livery would be a safe bet. And he would intend to be out of there as quickly as possible. She must hurry!