Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy) (26 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Come now, Judge,” Bryce said the next morning, hands on his hips. He gestured over to the cell, where Nic was handcuffed to one side, and Chandler Robinson to the other. “You can’t really blame Dominic for his actions. That louse was taunting a child over the death of his parent!”

“Foul behavior, indeed,” said the judge soberly from behind the sheriff’s desk. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, signed a document, and set it aside to dry, then looked up at Bryce. “But surely you want order in this town as much as the next citizen.”

“Indeed. But he was hardly wandering drunk down the street,” Bryce said, lifting a hand.

From the cell, Nic admired his brother-in-law’s tone, reasonable, but insistent. He’d do well to emulate him. He hadn’t slept all night, with Peter’s killer just a few feet out of reach. Even now, his blood surged at the thought of the handcuffs coming off, a moment’s lapse in attention when he could leap over and teach the murderer what justice really meant.…

His eyes shifted to the deputy on duty, Glen, alongside Sabine and Odessa, who hovered beyond Bryce near the entrance. His wife-to-be and his sister. He could not act as he used to. He had to find a new way. A new way …
Lord, give me Your ways. Teach me to trust in Your timing, Your ways. Let me leave justice to You.

The judge sighed heavily, as if what Bryce was asking was its own trial. “I suppose a night’s imprisonment is enough punishment. I will release him to your care,” he said, pointing a finger at Bryce. “If he does anything like this again … I will be looking to you.”

“Understood, Judge.”

“That’s it?” Chandler barked. “A man beats me and he’s let off after a night on a cot? I’ve been here more than a week!”

Nic sat up and stared over at him, trying to remember the words he just prayed.

“You, be quiet, now,” the judge said to him. He looked over at Glen. “Release Dominic St. Clair.”

Glen ambled over to the cell, unlocked the door, then came over to Nic and unlocked his handcuffs. “Don’t give me any trouble,” he said lowly. He took hold of his arm, and keeping himself between Nic and Chandler, ushered him out of the cell, locking it behind him.

“Now, let’s get this hearing over with,” the judge said. “You brought the boy?”

“He’s outside,” Sabine said. “I’d rather he only be in here when the prisoner is locked inside the cell.”

“Understood. Bring him in.…”

In short order, the judge had taken down Everett’s detailed story about the day his father was killed, then Chandler Robinson’s story. Chandler denied ever being on that road, of course, even though he’d practically admitted to the crime the day before. But Everett positively identified him, pointing at him in the cell with a trembling finger. “He’s the one, Judge. The one that killed my dad. My dad had his hands up. He wasn’t fighting them or nothing. And that man shot him dead.”

Sabine took him outside, tears streaming down his face, and the judge went through telegrams from Denver and Fort Collins, as well as the wanted posters that listed Robinson’s name. “Bring the prisoner out here,” he said to Glen. “And you,” he said, nodding to Bryce, “take Mr. St. Clair outside.”

Bryce moved a step closer to Nic and studied him, but Nic was already on his way outside. He wrapped Sabine and Everett in a hug. “It’s almost over,” he said lowly. “This is almost behind us. Come on, let’s go back to the Circle M.”

Everett paused on the front porch of the sheriff’s office, watching him go.

Nic looked back. “Come on, Ev.”

“You’re not going to wait?” Everett said. “To find out his sentence?”

Nic returned his gaze. “We can wait if you want. That’s your right, son. But one thing that God’s impressed upon me yesterday and today is that I can’t take justice into my own hands.” He threw up his hands and shook his head. “We all belong to Him, from the cradle to the grave, whether we know it or not. I do. Sabine does. You do. Even that man in there, Robinson. And He’ll see justice done in His own time and in His own way. Now if we trust Him, that’s all we have to think about. I’m not saying it’s easy,” he said, lifting a brow and shaking his head again. “I’m just saying it’s what I think we’re to do. Make your best call.”

He turned and walked with Sabine over to one of the two wagons from the Circle M. He helped her up and into it, and then smiled when Everett appeared beside them too. “You’re not going to wait?”

“Nah. Odessa and Bryce can tell us what happened. I belong with you.”

o

Moira dressed for dinner the next night and pulled on long white gloves in a delicate kid leather that Francine had given her. They were entertaining several of their friends after supper, and they’d hired a pianist to play. “Will you sing a song or two, Moira?” Francine had asked her.

She was so enthusiastic and kind, Moira could hardly turn her down. “One or two,” she said.

“Marvelous, dear,” Francine said, clasping her hands. “Marvelous!”

Moira moved away from the mirror and strode to the windows to look upon the grounds. She felt as if she were living in a world straight out of a novel. How had Gavin been so wrong about how his parents might receive her? They were more than gracious to her, and seemed to truly like her. Today had been filled with warm conversation and a few laughs. All in all, it was going far better than she had ever imagined it might. It would feel good to sing tonight—to show them what had drawn Gavin to her most, her talent.

Down below she spied two men walking along the edge of the gardens, near the shadows of the trees. She squinted and moved to see through another pane, one that was a little less wavy, giving her a clearer view. They were getting close to the house, leaving her line of vision—it was clearly Henry Knapp, with his wavy, gray hair and distinguished gait, but who was he with? Tall, broad shouldered … She drew in a quick breath.

Impossible.

The man from the train? From the streets?

She turned and rushed to her door, then down the hallway and stairs. Lifting her skirts, she ran past the dumbfounded butler and yanked open the door.

Henry was there, hand reaching for the knob, surprise etched in his face.

She drew back and gasped.

“Moira, my dear, where are you off to in such a rush?”

Recovering, she edged past him and looked over to the gardens that extended from the south side of the house. “Henry, forgive me, but I must know. Who accompanied you on your stroll?”

“Accompanied me?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I was out on my own. A bit of fresh air always helps me to think more clearly in the late afternoon,” he said, patting his chest.

She frowned and thought back. The tall gray-haired gentleman had been in a dark charcoal-colored coat too, right? Or had it been brown? “Were there two other men in the garden with you? Or perhaps across from you?” Her eyes went to the vast garden, with its neat hedgerows and perfectly pruned trees. It was over five acres wide and doubly deep.

“No, no,” he said, peering at her as if he thought she had bumped her head and might be a bit dizzy. “It’s a rather large garden, but I saw no one else while I was about.”

“No one at all?”

“Only Mansfield, our gardener,” he said, one eyebrow arched. “But I do tend to get lost in my own thoughts,” he added with a charming smile.

Moira lifted her chin and drew in a deep breath. “Forgive me … I only thought I saw you walking with a man I once … knew.”

“Ah.” For a moment, she could see he thought her excuse dubious, but then he quickly covered it. “It’s getting a bit chilly out here, my dear. Shall we return inside?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, turning toward the door. “I am so very sorry for coming upon you like that, Henry.”

“Not at all, my dear,” he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Not at all.”

o

Moira settled into the evening, feeling as though she were back home again, surrounded by beautiful, insightful, witty conversationalists, people who truly appreciated the arts. Over and over again she was told that she was in the hands of the finest hosts in New York, and measuring by the amount of champagne and caviar that was served, the Knapps appeared to be living up to their reputation.

Only one thing gave her pause. Several couples came up to her and expressed their condolences over “her loss,” and “dear Gavin,” murmuring about what a fine man he had been and how fortunate she was to share her life with him, even for a short time. It took her aback, their full embrace, and that none seemed to be chagrined at the clandestine nature of their relationship. Could it be that this was how the upper crust of society dealt with such affairs? She didn’t remember anything like it from her days in Philadelphia; perhaps her parents had simply shielded her from such sordid details. Surely Gavin’s was not the first affair in this circle, judging from how they all reacted to her and folded her in, as if she were truly one of them.

The pianist played Chopin and Beethoven, then a bit of sprightly Mozart, upon the request of several giggling women who hovered about the grand instrument in the corner.

After a bit, Henry tapped his crystal flute with a tiny spoon, drawing everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us here tonight. As we expressed to each of you, it is a special night for us, given that our dear Moira has come to visit us. With her soon to bless us with our first grandchild, this gives us cause for twice the celebration. But we have a special treat in store for you.”

Moira almost choked on her swallow of champagne at his words, but forced a genteel smile. How could he speak of her, her child, so brazenly? As if it were the most natural thing in the world?

“But we have a special treat for you tonight,” he repeated. “Gavin fell in love with this girl not only for her beauty, but also for her incredible talent. Many of you have heard of Moira St. Clair, an opera phenomenon in France. I would wager that many an opera house would pay a pretty penny to have her return. But fortunately, she’s here with us, and they’ll be hard pressed to take her away from us now.” He raised his champagne flute. “To Moira St. Clair, our son’s beloved.”

“To Moira St. Clair,” said the room full of people in unison.

Moira could hardly keep her breath. Was this really happening?

“Won’t you honor us with a song, Moira?” Henry asked.

“Of course,” she said, feeling that it was the very least she could do. She strode forward and the crowd parted for her, clearing a path to the piano. She whispered the title of a lovely song from her favorite opera to the pianist, and when he nodded, she turned to face the room. She took a deep breath, and at just the right moment, let her voice rumble and hover in its deepest register, then climb to thrilling heights, as if she’d been rehearsing all week.

Everyone in the room appeared speechless for a moment when she finished, as if they hoped to hear just a bit more, but then the crowd erupted in applause. She sang several more songs before the time came for the guests to depart.

Moira moved to stand beside Henry and Francine, thanking each for coming. When only their closest friends were still in attendance, a chubby, short woman came up to her and clasped Moira’s hands. “Gavin couldn’t have chosen any better, my dear. But I must ask. Why did you not take his name? The Knapp name would open many a door for you.”

Moira frowned. “His name?”

“Moira had already established her following on the stage before she met Gavin,” Francine put in, drawing her friend toward the door. “It is common for those in the public eye to do the same.”

“You must be so proud,” said another man to Henry, shaking his hand and putting a hat atop his head. “A gem like that in the family will shine for a good long while.”

In the family …

She forced a smile, her mind cascading through comment after comment through the evening. Could it be …had they …?

“It is such a shame Gavin is not here with us,” said the last guest in the room. She was tall, slender, elegant in silk of a fine deep blue. “But having his bride with us is almost like having a glimpse of him again, isn’t it?” She smiled kindly at Moira, offered her cheek for Henry to kiss, and then walked with Francine out the door.

Moira remained where she stood.
His bride.

They all believed her to be the widow of Gavin Knapp. They did not accept her as she was, a used and discarded mistress. They accepted her as the widow, the survivor of a tragically short marriage.

A marriage that never occurred.

She looked about the empty room. It was all wrong. She was simply falling for the same charms that had first drawn her to Gavin. He wasn’t different from his parents. He was the same. Masters in manipulation …

She had to get out of here.

Francine returned to the doorway of the grand drawing room, with Henry right behind her. “Sit down, dear,” she said to Moira. “We need to speak of this matter.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I will not live a lie. I thought …” She shook her head more vehemently. “I don’t know what I thought. But this, this charade—I will take no part in it. I lived my life for a good number of years playing a role. But I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“Please,” Francine said. “Hear us out. Any wise woman would do as much.”