Golden Chances (Jordan-Alexander Family 1)

Deputy Harris stopped. “Course I can.”

Peaceable’s newest attorney sprinted across the street. “What’s the charge?” David demanded. He’d heard the accusation from someone in the crowd, but he wanted legal confirmation.

“Murder. She killed a man.”

“This woman?” David asked. It seemed so unlikely.

“Yeah.” The deputy shuddered. “She slit his throat while he lay in her bed.”

“Who is she supposed to have killed?”

“One of Myra’s regulars. A man by the name of Arnie Mason.”

David looked Deputy Harris straight in the eye. “I’m coming with you.” He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around the shivering woman’s shoulders.

She glanced up at him, surprised.

David couldn’t explain the impulse that had made him leap to the woman’s rescue. But then, he couldn’t explain anything that had happened so far. The whole thing felt unreal. David smiled. Perhaps he was still in his bed. Maybe he’d wake up in the morning and find this was all a dream.

“Suit yourself,” Harris told him. “She can use a good lawyer. But leave the boy out here. Kids ain’t allowed in the jail.”

David looked down intending to tell the boy where to wait. But Coalie was gone.

David looked back up. The woman’s gaze was on the small figure running down the street, but David knew she’d been staring at him. He’d felt the impact of her sky-blue eyes.

* * *

Several minutes later, David faced her across the width of a jail cell.

“Did you kill him?” He leaned back against the door to the cell. He felt the cold metal bars on either side of his spine through the layers of clothing—the finely woven fabric of his linen dress shirt and his cotton undershirt. Controlling the urge to shiver, he waited for a response, shifting his wide shoulders into a more comfortable position.

The silence lengthened. David tried again. This time his voice was softer. “I asked you a question. Did you kill Arnie Mason?”

She gazed up at him, her large blue eyes wary. “No. I didn’t kill anyone. I wouldn’t do anything to risk—” She stopped abruptly. “No.”

David studied his client. She sat on the bare mattress of the cot, away from the bars, next to the wall. His coat, draped across her shoulders, gaped open, exposing her dress and a fair amount of flesh. She made no move to close it. She held herself in a rigid pose, her bloodstained hands clenched into fists, her knuckles whitened under the strain. She was shaking, but whether from anger, fear, or cold, David didn’t know. He reached for the dirty saddle blanket folded on the foot of the cot and shook it out, nearly gagging in reaction. The blanket was rank. David let it fall to the floor, then kicked it through the narrow space between the bars. David had seen many criminals jailed during his career, but seeing Tessa locked in a cell with a bucket, a bare mattress, and a filthy blanket bothered him. She didn’t belong in these surroundings.

“Can we get another blanket?” David shouted to the deputy.

“One blanket’s the rule, Mr. Alexander,” the deputy shouted back. “There’s one on the bed.”

“Not anymore. Your last occupant used it for an outhouse.” David wiped his hands down the legs of his trousers. “Do we get a blanket or are you planning to let her freeze?”

“One blanket per prisoner.”

“Who’s responsible for that little gem of a rule?” Sarcasm bit the edge of David’s deep voice.

“City council.”

David crossed the width of the cell, pulled his coat tighter around her shoulders, and tucked the wool collar securely beneath her chin. He could smell the odors of the Satin Slipper on her. The yeasty smell of beer, the combination of cigar smoke and whiskey, and the tangy, metallic smell of blood. She didn’t move, nor did she speak. She simply continued to look at him.

His fingers brushed the fabric of her dress. It was slick and cool to the touch. Satin, he realized. Light blue satin cut low in the front and high at the hem, barely covering her knees. A saloon girl’s dress, now splattered with blood. He allowed his gaze to wander. Black net stockings covered her shapely calves and knees and feet. No protection against the harsh Wyoming winter, against the cold seeping through the walls of the wooden jail.

“How about a cup of coffee?” He raised his voice enough for the deputy to hear.

“Prisoners get two meals,” came the reply. “Breakfast and supper.”

“I’m not suggesting a meal,” David told him. “I’m talking about a cup of coffee. It’s cold back here.”