Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (20 page)

A fat lot!

No sooner had he settled down to do some work when the door swung open and in walked Archie Walbrook. “I have a one o’clock appointment,” he announced in his high, reedy voice.

He had short legs, long arms, wide shoulders, and slender hips. His upper and lower halves were so out of proportion that he walked with apelike awkwardness. Even his high forehead seemed at odds with his chinless jaw.

“What business do you have with the prisoner?” Rhett asked out of habit. He knew very well that Walbrook was there for his interview.

“Marriage business,” he said proudly.

Rhett waved him through the open door. By the time Stu Cotts entered the office, the umpteenth visitor to do so, Rhett was out of patience.

Rising from his chair, he said, “Wait here.”

Enough was enough. Who ever heard of a prisoner carrying on so? This was a jail, not a church social.

Once he arrived in the back, he stopped and stared. Unaware of his presence, Jenny sat perched on the edge of a cot writing in her notebook. Books, notes, and paper were strewn upon two of the cots. Clothes and personal belongings were arranged neatly on the third. A schedule hung from a nail on the wall.

Dressed in a blue skirt and ruffled shirtwaist, she looked all efficient and businesslike. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the back of her head with not a strand out of place. Except for the light shadows beneath her eyes, she looked none the worse for spending the night in jail. If anything, she looked mighty pleasing to the eye, and he felt something stir inside.

Irritated, he shook his head in an effort to chase the thought away. The woman was a nuisance and needed to be put in her place. Not only must the parade of visitors be stopped, Jenny must not treat jail like her own private office. Such foolishness would
not
be tolerated.

“Miss Higgins!”

Clearly startled, she glanced up, cold dignity settling on her face. She then closed her notebook and stood. “Marshal.”

He walked toward the cell. Up close she looked more vulnerable than efficient, and his anger deserted him. “Don’t you ever stop?” The question was as much of a surprise to him as it evidently was to her.

A shadow danced across her forehead. “What?”

His glanced at the books and papers scattered around the cell then stared straight at her. “What do you think would happen if you left something to chance? Or even to God?”

This time she stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had.

Her forehead creased. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He took another step closer. Today her eyes reminded him of bluebonnets that bloomed in the spring. “What would happen if you lost control?”
If your hair fell loose as it did the night I knocked on your door
 
.
 
.
 
. If you followed your heart instead of your head?
“Whatever it is you’re running from—”

He spotted a glimpse of surprise, which she tried to hide behind a mask of indifference. “I’m not running from anything.” What she couldn’t hide was her trembling lips or the fear, maybe even panic, in her eyes.

She quickly regained control but her efforts were too late. He saw and he knew.

“I’m simply taking care of my sisters,” she said.

“Who’s taking care of you?”

The question seemed to disarm her. For the second time, she let down her guard, allowing a glimpse of the hurt and pain and maybe even loneliness she normally kept hidden. All too soon, the door slammed shut, and she resorted back to her usual cool, efficient self.

Bold eyes met his. “I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”

Repelled by the mask but not the woman, he backed away. He’d stripped her emotionally, but the pain on her face only made him more aware of his own inadequacies. He had no idea how to help her. Didn’t know if anyone could. What he did know was that she had to stop doing what she was doing. She had to stop running. Stop racing like a train on a track.
That
he could make her do.

“There’ll be no more visitors,” he said.

She shook her head in protest. “I’ve got an appointment—”

“No more!” he said, and left.

For two more days he kept her locked up. Two long, torturous days. The only visitors she was allowed were her sisters, the preacher and his wife, and Redd.

Helping a prisoner to escape was a serious crime that required sentencing by Judge Fassbender. Rhett didn’t have the heart to submit the necessary paperwork. This meant he couldn’t legally hold her any longer. He’d either have to release her or formally charge her.

Keys in hand, he walked to the cells. Normally he kept the door to the anteroom locked, but during the last two days, he left the door ajar. This way he could stay close and still keep his distance.

Jenny sat on the cot staring into space. He didn’t know she could sit so still. Or look so sad.

Watching her was like watching a rare bird. He didn’t want to move or even breathe for fear of losing her—or at least losing the part of her that was honest and real.

All too soon, she sensed his presence. She lifted her head but said nothing. She looked tired, pale, so unlike her usual lively self. This time she made no effort to pretend she was in control. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or bad.

He moved closer to the cell. “What you did . . . Normally, you would be sentenced by a judge.”

He could only hope that no irreparable damage was done to his reputation or credibility as a lawman.

She bit her lip. “I was wrong to intervene.” Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to capture her every word.

For a moment they stared at each other.

“Is . . . is Scooter all right?” she asked.

He nodded. “I had a long talk with him.” He also talked to Scooter’s father, for all the good it did him. What would it take to get Matt Maxwell to see what he was doing to his boys? What damage had already been done?

“Scooter begged me to let you go.”

She smiled, but said nothing.

After a moment, she looked away and cleared her throat. “How . . . how long do you plan to keep me here?” she asked.

“It’s over, Jenny,” he said, though he knew it was a lie. It wasn’t over. Not by any means. She made him feel again. She made him care. How or why she managed to do that he couldn’t say. All he knew was that nothing would ever be the same.

Without another word, he unlocked her cell. “You’re free to go.”

Mary Lou was in the worst possible mood.

Not once since kissing her nearly a week ago had Jeff Trevor spoken to her. The man hadn’t even looked at her.

At worship, he sat at the back of the church as far away from her as possible, his eyes averted. It was the Sunday following Jenny’s incarceration, and Jeff was the only one in the whole church who didn’t stare at them.

No sooner had Reverend Wells given the benediction than Jeff quickly disappeared and was nowhere to be found. Not that Mary Lou looked for him, of course. Still, it was hard not to notice his absence.

Was she really that forgettable? Was she so utterly ordinary that a man could walk away without a backward glance?

Other men didn’t seem to think so. Since Jenny’s release from jail, she was even more determined to accomplish her goal. Every day Mary Lou was obliged to go carriage or horseback riding or promenading with Jenny’s latest pick, and the men had become progressively worse. One spent the entire time talking to his dead wife and asking her if she approved of Mary Lou. It was creepy.

To make matters even more intolerable, Jeff saw her riding by with another man and didn’t so much as blink an eye. Not one single eye.

Drat! What if he meant what he said about never bothering her again? What if he really
was
a man of his word?

Oh, God, please don’t let it be so. Men like that were the very worst kind.

Eighteen

Callow youth must be avoided in favor of mature sophistication; a
healthy bank account trumps both.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

S
hh
,” Brenda cautioned. She and Mary Lou knelt on hands and knees, peering through the second-floor railing to the hotel lobby below.

Jenny and Mr. Hampton sat at the small table in front of the hotel fireplace. They looked as stiff as boards and kept their voices low.

Jenny was proper and businesslike, her ever-present notes spread on the table in front of her. Mr. Hampton sat opposite her, his derby in his hands.

If Brenda didn’t know better, she would think they were discussing funeral arrangements. Since she knew of no one’s death, she could think of only one other explanation for their somber expressions; Mr. Hampton was asking Jenny’s permission to propose marriage.

The thought made her feel sick. “Can you hear what they’re saying?” Her whispered voice grated with anxiety.

“Something about
bob
wire,” Mary Lou whispered back, pronouncing the word the way Mr. Hampton always did. “Maybe he’ll give you a
bob
wire wedding ring.”

Brenda poked Mary Lou with her elbow. “Be serious. What am I going to do? I can’t stand the man. I’ve told Jenny that, but she won’t listen.”

Mary Lou grew serious. “Are you sure you’re not in love with him?”

Brenda sat back on her heels. “Why in the world would you think such a thing?”

“You don’t eat. You hardly sleep. Not to mention all those carriage rides. What else can I think?”

Brenda pressed her head against the railing. “Promise you won’t say a word?”

Mary Lou made an X on her chest with her finger.

“I
am
in love.”

Her sister gasped so loud Brenda feared she gave away their presence. A quick glance at the lobby set her mind at rest. Jenny never looked up.

“You
are
in love with Mr. Hampton. I knew it!” Mary Lou’s surprise made her voice sound louder than it actually was.

Brenda made a face. “Not with Mr. Hampton, you silly mule. I’m in love with Mr. Barrel.” It was the first time she’d spoken the words out loud, the first time she had ever admitted to loving a man, even to herself.

Mary Lou’s jaw dropped. “The barber?” she gasped.

“The singer,” Brenda said. The man whose heavenly voice had a way of burrowing into her heart. “You promised not to say anything.”

“I told you I won’t.” Mary Lou gave her a shrewd look. “Does he love you?”

Brenda closed her eyes. Picturing him clearly, it was as almost as if she could reach out and touch him. The way he looked at her, the softness in his voice when he said her name had to mean something, didn’t it? She opened her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know. I think so.”

Mary Lou shook her head. “Oh, wow.”

Brenda suddenly had second thoughts about confessing her feelings for Kip. Mary Lou’s ability to keep a secret was self-serving at best. If it benefitted her to reveal it, she would. “Don’t forget, you promised not to say anything.”

Mary Lou sat back against the railing and hugged her knees. “If you don’t tell Jenny, she’ll make you marry Mr. Hampton. You’re going to have to tell her.”

Brenda groaned. She couldn’t bear the thought. “She’ll never let me marry Mr. Barrel. You know she won’t.”

Mary Lou scrunched up her face. “I’m sick of Jenny bossing us around. She acts like we haven’t got a brain in our heads.”

“
Shh
, she’ll hear you.”

Mary Lou lowered her voice to a whisper but still managed to sound remarkably like Jenny. “Don’t do this and don’t do that. Act like ladies.” She stuck out her lips. “All she cares about is how much money a man has in his bank account.”

Brenda laid a steadying hand on her sister’s arm. “Don’t be angry with her. She just wants us to have a secure future and not go hungry again. If it wasn’t for Jenny, we wouldn’t have survived that awful winter.”

Mary Lou lifted her chin in defiance. “That doesn’t give her the right to tell us who we can and cannot marry.”

“Papa made Jenny promise to take care of us, and we promised to let her.”

“We didn’t promise to let her run our lives.” The anger left Mary Lou’s face as she pleaded with her. “If you don’t tell her how you feel about marrying Mr. Hampton, you’ll spend the rest of your days regretting it.”

Brenda wrapped her hands around the posts and peered below. Jenny and Mr. Hampton were still talking.

She heaved a sigh. He had shown no romantic interest in her, none whatsoever. She in turn had done nothing to encourage him, had, indeed, hardly spoken during their carriage rides, though she had been honest about her feelings, or lack of them.

He assured her that he expected nothing and appreciated their outings as it allowed him time away from the rigors of running a ranch. He talked on and on about barbed wire, a rancher’s life, and the pros and cons of shorthorns over long. His boring discourses made her wonder if he
really
wanted to get away from work or if that had simply been an excuse.

If only she hadn’t agreed to those carriage rides, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. But as boring as Mr. Hampton was, spending the day working on needlepoint and reading dull poetry was even more mind-numbing.

The truth was that she had no one to blame but herself. She had prevailed upon Mr. Hampton’s kindness to escape the hotel and had purposely refused to answer Jenny’s questions. She left that up to Mr. Hampton. Another mistake.

“I’ve never met a more congenial conversationalist than Brenda,” he told Jenny after one such outing.

She should have put a stop to their outings right then and there. She should have known that her very presence was encouragement enough for him.

“Meeting’s over,” Mary Lou whispered.

Brenda shook away her thoughts. Mr. Hampton had left and Jenny was briskly gathering up her notes.

“What do you think?” Brenda asked, her stomach tied in knots. She couldn’t tell much from looking at her oldest sister, whose measured movements made her difficult, if not altogether impossible, to read.

“I think Jenny hears wedding bells,” Mary Lou said.

Ever since leaving jail more than a week earlier, Jenny had been in a state of confusion. She even began to have doubts about her methods for finding suitable husbands for her sisters.