Patricia Rice (27 page)

Setting her teeth and jutting her chin, she marched down the unpaved back street in the direction of the spire-topped courthouse. The clock in the tower donged three o'clock. What if they were too late?

Robert stayed at her side; Solly remained a step behind them. Their presence reassured her, but she didn't think they knew where she should go any more than she did. Several farmers stepped out of her way as Robert guided her through the crowds gossiping in the street, but nobody paid any particular attention to her. Nobody should. No one knew her here.

"The auction is usually held from the courthouse steps," Robert whispered near her ear. "We'll go around there."

Dora nodded in understanding. Her heart pounded furiously, and she was thankful the weakness that had made her faint early in her pregnancy had passed. She needed all her faculties about her now.

An ominously empty circle opened in front of the courthouse steps once they fought their way through the crowds to get there. A small clump of men stood on one side, chewing and smoking, exchanging small talk. Wearing galluses and felt hats, they didn't seem dangerous, but Dora kept a wary eye on them. Only these men stood near enough to the steps to follow the auction.

"Is there time for me to find the sheriff and pay the taxes?" she asked Robert nervously.

"I'd say not. Miss Dora," Robert replied resignedly, taking in the gathering group of men on the lawn. "That's the sheriff over there. They've already started."

Dora's eyes widened as he hurried her across the lawn toward the small group of men. She'd seen auctions before. They were loud and boisterous with much yelling of prices and persuasive selling. She didn't hear anything at all here.

"Two thousand dollars, boys, that's the price." A man wearing a black derby rocked back on his heels, waving a paper with one hand and gripping his suspender strap with the other. He didn't seem much interested in selling. His gaze drifted across the crowd, seeing Dora and passing over her in search of someone more interesting.

"That's ridiculous, Harley," one of the listeners protested. "Nobody pays those kind of taxes."

The man in the derby shrugged. "Taxes ain't been paid for a while. Then there's interest and whatnot. Gotta cover costs, boys. These are hard times. I've got a couple of smaller places here. Want to look at them?"

While the men gathered around to look at the sheaf of papers he produced, Dora crept closer to the man Robert had indicated as sheriff. Hesitantly, while the others were distracted, she asked, "Sheriff?"

The man in the derby turned and glared at her. "This ain't no place for women. Can't you see I'm busy?"

Robert elbowed a man out of his way so he could stand beside her. "She's come to inquire about the Nicholls place. There's some mistake about the taxes. Mr. Nicholls passed away in December, but he always paid his bills on time."

The sheriff’s bushy eyebrows drew upward as he looked down at Dora in her gray cloak and hood, then glared at Robert. "Well, I've got papers here that say he ain't. We don't auction off people's property without reason."

Timidly, still hiding behind Robert's bulk, Dora produced the little stack of papers she had found in Carlson's desk. "These look like receipts to me, sir. I don't see one for this year, but I looked and couldn't find a bill either. If thou couldst tell me how much is owed, I will make the payment."

The sheriff growled and grabbed the papers. The farmers shuffling through the other items up for auction lost interest in the small lots. Hearing the sounds of contention, they crowded a little closer. The sheriff elbowed a man peering over his shoulder, but everyone had already seen the distinctive receipts. He grudgingly handed them back to Dora.

"These look in order, ma'am," he said reluctantly. "I'll consult with the proper authorities, of course, but that don't take care of this year's taxes. I'm sorry for the widow, but the law's the law. She's got to sign the papers when she pays the bill. If she ain't here, then I've got no choice but to sell the place."

"I can pay the bill," Dora said quietly, her voice shaking. She sensed the sheriff's resistance while he waited for someone in authority to tell him what to do. She suspected that someone was Joe, mayor of the town where the bill would be collected. Joe wasn't going to arrive, but she didn't know if that would help her predicament.

"You ain't the widow, are you?" the sheriff asked belligerently.

"No, but Friend Carlson's son inherited. He's in—"

Robert interrupted. "He's fighting for the cause, Sheriff, and can't be here right now. This here's his wife. She can sign your blamed papers. You ain't got no right keeping women and children from their proper homes while their husbands, sons, and fathers are fighting for our constitutional rights. Just tell her how much it is, and we'll be out of here."

Dora gasped at this outright lie. Josie was sick in bed back home. She couldn't sign Josie's name. She certainly couldn't sign Charlie's name. And Charlie wasn't fighting; he was rotting in a federal prison. And Pace wasn't fighting for what these men stood for. But the sheriff finally looked at her for the first time, seeing her clearly. To her horror, she realized she rested the hand with Pace's ring on it across her distended abdomen. Perhaps she had done it out of instinct, to protect the child, but that instinct gave all these men the wrong idea. She wasn't married. The ring didn't belong to her. The babe had no name. How could she blurt such calumnies to a crowd of strangers?

The sheriff glanced around, seeing no one coming to his rescue. The farmers around him watched expectantly, spitting their tobacco juice at the ground, and waiting. The sheriff was an elected official. An incident like this could break him. He wavered, until one of the older men finally said in a wry tone, "Looks to me like if she's got the receipts, you ain't got a case, Harley. Let her pay what's owed and let's get on with this."

The sheriff's belligerence collapsed like a balloon. He made some hurried calculations on the bill and stated an amount. Horrified at the number, Dora still started drawing her bag of coins out, but the gray-haired stranger grabbed the bill and looked it over.

"You cain't go collectin' interest on money that's been paid, Harley. The lady don't owe half that amount." He struck out a few more figures and came up with a new total, handing it to Robert for inspection.

Dora had a suspicion that Robert couldn't make heads or tails of the figures, but she let him nod importantly over it before taking it from his fingers to look at it herself. She studied the prior-year figures the sheriff had crossed off, decided the new amount wasn't much different, checked her receipts to make certain they agreed, then cautiously withdrew her bag of money. She was starting to learn a little about dealing with these people.

"The Yankees gave us these notes for the horses. Will they do?" she asked in a deliberately plaintive note. If she had these men on her side now, she darn well meant to hang on to the gold.

The sheriff frowned and started to protest, but Robert took the notes from her hand and counted them out. He shoved them in the sheriff's hand and demanded a receipt.

They had to go inside the courthouse for that. The men grumbled at the delay, but allowed as how the little lady ought to have a receipt. Dora shook all over again when they were inside and the sheriff produced a paper for her to sign, but she forced her fingers to the task. The only exception she took was to sign it "Mrs. Pace Nicholls" instead of with Charlie's name. She didn't know how that would affect the legalities of the transaction, but it looked to her like the law had been twisted so many ways by now that it wouldn't make much difference if it took another turn or two.

She almost collapsed in a heap when the sheriff rolled up the paper and handed it to her with the words, "Here's the deed, Mrs. Nicholls. Looks like you bought yourself a farm."

Chapter 20

Horror and doubt distract

His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir

The hell within him; for within him hell

He brings, and round about him, nor from hell

One step no more than from himself can fly

By change of place.

~ John Milton,
Paradise Lost

"I can't take a deed," Dora whispered in horror as Robert hurried her out of the courthouse. "The farm belongs to Charlie."

"Not anymore," Robert chortled. "You just bought it at auction. Harley ain't too bright. He only knows one method of handling the transaction. Charlie didn't pay the taxes on time, so he sold the farm to you."

"That's not right!" Dora protested as Solly fell in step with them behind the courthouse. "I have to do something."

Robert shrugged. "You don't have to do anything right now. Mitchell can't get his hands on the property, and that was our main purpose in coming here. Whenever Charlie gets home, you can arrange something with him. Transferring a deed isn't any big deal. Let's just get out of here before the boys let Joe go."

That made sense. Leaving hurriedly without straightening out the mistake began to seem like the wisest thing to do. She wasn't particularly interested in crossing Joe Mitchell when he discovered what had happened. Of course, if Joe made too many inquiries, he might discover the false deed. Dora began to pray as she climbed into the cart.

"I signed Pace's name," she whispered miserably as Robert rode his horse up next to the cart to guide Solly into the traffic of passing horses and pedestrians.

Robert shrugged again. "Good. Let Pace settle it. I apologize for not knowing the two of you got hitched, but I wasn't around the last time Pace was in town. I don't keep up with gossip much. How's he doing?"

She had never lied in her life, and now a sticky web of deceit had her caught. She wasn't ready for the real world yet. She needed Papa John's advice, but she already knew what he would say. She should never have signed Pace's name.

"We haven't heard from him," she answered truthfully. "Thou needs not follow us if thou wishes to stay for court day," she added for good measure. Her conscience was horrid enough company without adding another witness to her lie.

"It's not a good idea for a woman to travel alone. I haven't got any money to buy anything with, anyhow."

Dora thought guiltily of the coins still in her purse. "Could I pay thee for thy services today?" she asked hesitantly. "I could never have done it without thee."

Robert grinned cheerfully. "I would gladly have paid
you
for the entertainment. Joe will be a long time living this one down, bested by a woman! Ask me to dinner and tell Pace the score is even."

She would have to write Pace and warn him what she had done. She didn't know if she could commit such sin to a piece of paper. She would have time enough to think of it when she got home.

But when she arrived at the farm, she had dinner to fix and Amy's cough to see to. Friend Harriet had had a restless day and needed comforting. Dora meant to tell Josie, but Josie had relatives visiting and wasn't interested in business details. She stayed up entertaining Robert after dinner, while Dora retired to the sickrooms.

Dora's bed seemed lonelier than ever when she retired to it that night. She wished she could return to her own house, sleep in the bed where she had slept with Pace, but it wasn't safe there alone. She needed someone to talk to, someone to tell her she had done the right thing, but she couldn't silence her nagging conscience. A lie of omission was still a lie, and her signature on that deed was a forgery.

She couldn't change it now. The sheriff's men couldn't throw them out. She would comfort herself with that thought.

* * *

Handsome dark hair fading to gray, the earl lay against the pillows, breathing heavily through lungs clogged by disease. The velvet curtains draping his bed had frayed at the edges, just as much of the expensively decorated room showed signs of wear and age. The draperies pulled over the windows kept the sun from betraying too much of the decay.

"Find her," the ill man ordered from his bed, crumpling the old letter between his fingers as he thumped his fist against the covers. "Find her and bring her here."

The younger man paced across the once-elegant carpet. He had discarded his coat and cravat, and his linen shirt was improperly open at the throat. The sullen features of youth had coarsened with age. Thick pouting lips now looked more cruel than sensual. Hooded eyes turned with irritation to the man in the bed.

"Don't you think I'm trying? They're waging a bloody war over there. It takes weeks, months, to get messages through. The last one must have got lost somewhere. My investigator broke his damned leg climbing on the boat. It's been one hellish problem after another."

"Go yourself," the invalid commanded hoarsely. "Go, and bring her back to me."

Like bloody hell, I would
, Gareth thought vengefully, scowling as he slammed out of the room. If it weren't for the old lady's will, he wouldn't look at all. He just wanted his hands on the bitch long enough to pry the money away, then she could drown herself all over again.