The Lawman's Bride. Cheryl St.John
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weekend, of three days she could spend any way she chose. She could take a train to Wichita and shop. She could don a disguise and attend the opera right here in Newton. Her lips curled up at the idea. There was something wickedly gratifying about carrying out a pretense such as the last one she imagined. No one would be harmed in the process.
Those thoughts led to others of former guises and the reason she had a need for anonymity. The image of those wanted posters swam against the sky, the stars twinkling like the city marshal’s badge. She’d feel so much better if she knew he wasn’t going to shuffle through a stack of papers and wonder why a drawing of a certain female criminal looked familiar.
She eased the chain from the collar of her shirtwaist and squinted at the face of the dainty watch. Only an hour left until the doors of the dormitory were locked for curfew. Her fingers curled around the sleek leather case in her pocket and her mind raced. She’d secretly let herself back in on more than one occasion. She could do it again.
She hurried to the northwest corner of the park where she stubbed out her cigar and scuffed dirt over it with the toe of her shoe. One more block to the north and a little farther west, and she made out the wooden-framed jail. No light shone from the windows. Confident in her skills and her ability to talk her way out of any situation, she continued on.
After peering through the panes of glass into the darkened interior, it took only seconds to work her magic on the lock. The door swung open, and she closed it behind her quickly, acclimating herself to the dark. Snoring droned from a hallway at the rear of the building.
She drew the shades and lit the lamp on the largest desk, turning the wick down low.
A scratching sound and an oomph made her heart leap, and she whirled, expecting to find someone who’d been waiting in the darkness. She readied herself to run.
A big old dog struggled to its feet from a pallet near the wall, and, with nails scratching the wood floor, padded over to where she stood poised.
Her whole body slumped with relief. She bent and rubbed the animal’s head and soft floppy ears, and it turned its nose into her hand and gave a halfhearted lick.
The stack of wanted posters was in plain sight and nearly as thick as the marshal had described. A brass key ring was being used as a paperweight. She gave the dog one last pat and sat, subconsciously noting the leather seat of the chair had been worn to fit the contours of the man. She set the keys aside. In silence broken only by rustling paper, the hiss of the lamp, and the resonating snore from the depths of the building, she turned pages, scanning drawings and descriptions.
She’d learned that there was more than one marshal in Newton, and several deputies: so, if someone should catch her here, she would say another had let her in to wait.
From somewhere in the back, the prisoner gulped air and mumbled in his sleep, startling her. She paused to listen until the monotonous snore resumed. The dog went back to its pallet and lay down with a grunt.
Two names and drawings caught her attention and snagged her breath from her chest. Gabriella Dumont and Joseph Richardson the caption read. Garrett had been darkening his mustache the last time she’d seen him. He’d had his head shaved, and the baldness had completely changed his appearance.
She’d have been offended at the drawing of her if she hadn’t been so grateful for the artist’s lack of talent. Plain eyes, plain nose, plain mouth, nondescript hair—the likeness could be any young woman.
But beneath the drawings and descriptions were the words theft and extortion and a specific list of petty crimes. One word in bold type leaped off the page and brought a sick lump to her throat; the allegation she’d most dreaded and feared: murder.
Sophie shuffled through the rest of the papers, found two more depicting her and folded the incriminating evidence into her pocket before straightening the pile and returning its order. She set the key ring exactly as it had been on top.
She extinguished the lamp and raised the dusty shades before stepping out the door. Hopefully anyone returning would think that the last person had forgotten to lock the door. She was halfway to the corner, when an odd whooshing sound stopped her. She spun on her heel.
Flames rose above the jailhouse from the back wall.
Chapter Three
Sophie’s heart stopped, thinking of the prisoner who’d been sleeping in a cell, of the old dog inside. She glanced around, not seeing anyone nearby. Icy dread compressed her chest. Minutes ago she’d been glad the street was deserted; but now she wished for someone to appear so she wouldn’t have to reveal her unexplainable presence there.
She never did anything impulsively, but instinct took over this time. Running back, she threw open the door and nudged the dog who still lay on its bundle of blankets. “Go outside! Get!”
She grabbed the keys. A hallway brought her to a row of cells lit through the barred window by the nearest streetlight on Main. Thick acrid smoke filled the entire rear portion of the building, and flames licked at the outside corner. A man she could barely make out through the haze clung to the bars of the cell where he was trapped. He attempted to shout at her, but only coughed.
Sophie knelt to the cell door and wasted precious seconds wiping tears from her burning eyes. She couldn’t take a breath without her lungs feeling as though they would burst. The waves of heat were terrifying and the acrid smell of burning wood cloying.
“Get me outta here!” the man shouted.
“I’m trying!”
The ring slipped from her fingers and clanged on the floor. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“Lady, ple-e-ase!”
Sophie fumbled for the right key and slid it into the lock, twisting until the tumblers rolled and the door swung open, clanging against the next cell.
The choking prisoner stumbled past her.
“Is there anyone else?” she called after him.
He was gone.
The other doors were slightly ajar, indicating empty cells so she ran toward the front, pausing at a wheezing sound. The dog.
“Where are you, fella?” She stumbled across the room, smoke billowing from the rear now. Her lungs ached and her eyes burned. She couldn’t draw a breath that didn’t taste like ash.
“Anybody in here?” someone called from the open doorway.
“Yes!” She coughed. “I’m looking for the dog!”
“Get outta there, lady!”
Following the wheezing whine, she found the animal cowering under the desk. She had to get down on all fours and use every last ounce of strength to catch its front legs and drag the mutt toward her.
“Lady!”
The dog weighed as much as she did, and she was out of breath, but she tugged with all her might, inching the trembling animal toward safety.
The man met her at the doorway, and helped her lift the dog. Together they stumbled away from the burning jail until she collapsed in the middle of the street with the dog across her lap.
Several men gathered around and stared.
“Did someone go for the fire department?” she asked, her voice a rasp.
“Harry went,” was the reply. One by one they turned to watch the fire.
She coughed until her chest ached. Sophie moved the dog aside and used the hem of her skirt to wipe her running eyes.
When she could squint, she glanced around. The prisoner was nowhere to be seen. Sophie collapsed backward in the dust. Of all the luck.
What seemed like an eternity was only minutes as she waited. Finally the firemen turned out with their horse-drawn wagon holding barrels of water.
Marshal Vidlak and another deputy