Her Patchwork Family. Lyn Cote
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you realize that I witnessed the purse-snatching myself?” Ty responded dryly. Was this woman trying to play him and the other men in this room for fools?
“Yes, but Miss Gabriel believes that the boy is too young to be held to adult legal standards of behavior.”
“What Miss Gabriel believes may be true, but not in the sight of the laws of Illinois,” Ty retorted, antagonized at having to defend what he did not believe.
The lady suddenly rose. “God does not hold children accountable for their sins until they reach the age of reason. Are the laws of Illinois higher than God’s?”
The question silenced the courtroom. Every eye turned to the woman who looked completely at ease under the intense scrutiny. Ty chewed the inside of his cheek. Does she expect special treatment because she is a woman?
“Females,” Hogan grunted, breaking the silence.
“Miss,” Ty said curtly, “you are not allowed to speak in court without permission. You must let your counsel do the talking.”
She nodded and sat down without dispute, giving him an apologetic little smile. He found he had no defenses against her smiles. They beckoned him to sit beside her and be at ease.
“Your Honor,” Remington spoke up, “Miss Gabriel has asked me if I might have a word with you in your chamber during a short recess.”
“What is this?” the prosecutor asked, rearing up.
“You’ll be included, of course.” Remington bowed to the man whose face had reddened.
Ty passed a hand over his forehead. After falling asleep last night, Camie had cried out with nightmares twice more, keeping the whole house up. He closed his eyes for just a moment, then opened them. He couldn’t let the situation at home interfere with his work. Though the headache was making his right eyelid jump, he forced himself to act with magisterial calm. “Very well. The court stands adjourned while I meet with counsel in my chambers.”
He rose and so did everyone else. His black judge’s robe swirling out behind him, he strode into his paneled chambers just behind the courtroom and sat behind his oak desk, waiting for the attorneys to knock. The bailiff let them in and the two men sat down facing him. “Remington, what’s this all about?” Ty asked without preamble, able at last to release some of his spleen.
“Miss Gabriel is Mildred Barney’s heir. She has inherited the Barney house and all the Barneys’ considerable estate.”
The prosecutor let out a low whistle.
Remington nodded. “Miss Gabriel is also following Mrs. Barney’s instructions and turning her house into a private orphanage which the Barney money will support.”
Ty lifted his eyebrows. His mother-in-law would love that. He studied Remington, thinking of Miss Gabriel’s pretty face. He shook his head, resisting. Pretty or not, he had to judge this case fairly. “The boy is guilty. What can I do but sentence him to jail time?”
“This isn’t his first arrest,” the prosecutor was quick to add.
“We know that.” Remington folded his hands in front of himself. “Miss Gabriel would like you to dismiss charges so that she can take the boy with her to the orphanage.”
The prosecutor made a sound of derision. “And how long would he stay there? Till her back’s turned and then he’d just go back across the river to St. Louis, picking pockets and snatching more purses. Women are idealistic but we men must be realistic. The kid is from bad blood. He’ll never be anything but what he is.”
Ty didn’t like the sentiment the prosecutor expressed but he suspected that the man was right. If he released the boy, he wouldn’t stay at the orphanage. Like a wild horse, Tucker Stout had never been broken to bridle. And at eleven or twelve, it might already be too late to salvage the boy. Weighed down by this unhappy thought, Ty rose. This signaled the end of the conference.
The attorneys left to meet him on the other side of the wall back in the courtroom. By his desk, Ty waited, chewing the inside of his cheek, giving them time to reach their places. Then he strode back into court and took the judgment seat.
Remington waived the boy’s right to a jury and the trial was brief, proceeding just as Ty had expected. When they reached the time for sentencing, he looked out at the few people sitting in the benches of the courtroom.
Miss Gabriel’s head was bowed as if she were in prayer. Her smile still glowed within him, a tiny ember of warmth. He hated to disappoint her. He opened his mouth to sentence the boy to a month in the county jail.
“I am sentencing Tucker Stout to six months’ probation,” he said, surprising himself. “The conditions of probation are that he live and work at the new orphans’ home under Miss Felicity Gabriel’s supervision. If Tucker leaves Miss Gabriel’s house and refuses to follow her orders, he will be sent to jail for a year.”
The prosecutor gawked at him. Hogan balked with a loud “What?”
Miss Gabriel rose, beaming at him. Her unparalleled smile brightened the whole of the sad room where no one ever found cheer, least of all Ty. The ember she’d sparked flared inside him. “Will you accept this responsibility, Miss Gabriel?”
“Of course!” she beamed.
Ty caught himself just before he returned her brilliant smile.
He struck his gavel once, unusually hard. “Case closed. Bailiff, please announce the next case.”
Outside, under the sweltering noonday sun, Felicity gripped the lawyer’s hand. “I cannot thank thee enough, John Remington.”
The lawyer shook her hand. “Good luck,” he said, eyeing Tucker. “The judge was kind to you, young man.” He tipped his hat and was gone.
The intriguing face of the judge popped into her mind. So the man she’d seen in town that first day was a judge. A judge who could show mercy as well as justice. And a man who looked worn down by some secret pain.
Felicity shook off her thoughts and turned to Tucker. “We need to get home in time for lunch.”
Tucker looked like he wanted to say something rude. But he shrugged and got in step with her. They walked in silence down the busy, noisy street. “Does thee have parents?” she asked.
“Everybody’s got parents. Somewhere.” The boy didn’t even bother to look her way.
“A good point.” People kept turning to look at them. Felicity resisted the urge to lift her chin. She hoped in the coming weeks that people would become accustomed to the sight of her walking beside uncared-for children. “Are thy parents living?”
He shrugged again. “Might be. Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Felicity had spoken to souls scarred like this before. At this tender age, Tucker had given up on people. “How old is thee?”
“Old enough.”
Felicity gave up questioning him. If this one ever opened up, he would do it in his time and in his way. “I am from Pennsylvania. I am the middle daughter of seven sisters. I grew up on a farm near Gettysburg.”
Tucker kicked a stone and ignored her.
Felicity was glad to see home ahead—until she noted that Mrs. Crandall was coming toward them. Oh, dear. Could they get into the house before she reached them? “Two children have already come to my home, Katy and Donnie. They are deciding whether or not they want to stay with me.”
“Oh, goody.”
“But thee will be staying.” Felicity walked faster. “Or thee will be in jail.”
Tucker snorted. “Been there before. Be there again.”
“The question is, does thee want to go there again?”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “I