The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane

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      “By all that’s holy, you’ve got to believe me,” he rasped. “I was only trying to stop the boy. I aimed for his shoulder. I never meant to kill him.”

      “But you did!” Emma plunged into the well of her anger. “You pulled the trigger and killed a defenseless young man. If that isn’t murder—”

      He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backward. “All right, Emma O’Toole, you win!” he snapped. “I’ve tried to tell you the truth. If you don’t want to listen, there’s no reason for you to be here. Go on! Get out!”

      Turning his back on her, he stood facing the rear wall of his cell. Emma regained her balance, then stalked past the leering deputy and out of the jail.

      She wouldn’t come here again, she resolved as she strode up the boardwalk. Even behind bars, there was something about Logan Devereaux that made her feel vulnerable. He was a dangerous man, compellingly handsome, with the Devil’s own persuasive tongue. If she let herself listen to him, she might come to believe his lies and break the promise she’d sworn on her mother’s grave to keep.

      Emma walked faster, her thoughts churning. Only as she passed Birdwell’s Emporium and glimpsed a reflection in the freshly washed glass did she realize, to her horror, that she was being watched.

      Scores of curious eyes were following her every move along the boardwalk.

      Peering more closely into the reflection, she could see the far side of Main Street, where men and women stood in clusters, whispering and pointing at her.

      Each and every one of them clutched a fresh copy of the Park Record.

       Chapter Two

      Emma’s personal belongings, stuffed into an unwashed flour sack, were waiting on the front stoop when she returned to the boardinghouse. Everything she owned was there—her faded gingham work dress; her spare chemise, stockings and threadbare drawers; the rosewood hairbrush that had been her mother’s; and the faded tintype of her father in his captain’s uniform.

      From the kitchen at the back of the house, Emma could smell the mutton stew simmering on the cookstove. Her nostrils sucked in the rich, oniony fragrance and her stomach growled as reality crept over her like a winter chill. She didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. She had no money, no food and no place to go except the tumbledown miner’s shanty where Billy John had worked his claim.

      She did have friends—mostly hired girls like herself, or former schoolmates who’d married miners. They would give her sympathy, but none of them could afford to take her in. They were as poor as she was.

      For an anguished moment, Emma hesitated on the stoop, torn between pride and need. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could pound on the door until Vi opened it, then fling herself on the old woman’s mercy. She could weep and plead and promise.

      But trying the door would only bring her a needless tongue-lashing. Vi Clawson had the Record delivered for her boarders every morning. She had, no doubt, read Hector Armitage’s story and acted on her own grim principles. The sinner had been cast out. No amount of pleading would change Vi’s mind about that.

      Clutching her bundled possessions, Emma turned away from the boardinghouse and trudged back down the road. The grim pounding of the Marsac Mill paced her steps like the cadence of a dirge.

      She remembered her mother, how the good woman had been left widowed and destitute with a young daughter to raise. She’d taken any work she could find, and that included scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots in a whorehouse on Silver Creek Road. But Mariah O’Toole had raised her daughter with solid values. Even now, Emma felt her mother’s comforting presence. Somehow, like Mariah, she would find a way to survive.

      Two well-dressed women paused to stare at her from a passing buggy, their breaths fogging the icy spring air. Lifting her chin, Emma willed herself to ignore them. She felt as if she were walking naked through the ankle-deep mud, her secrets bared for the whole town to see, but she was too proud to let it show.

      This wasn’t her fault, she reminded herself. If that gambler hadn’t shot Billy John, she wouldn’t be in this awful mess, walking the streets, hungry, penniless and exposed as a ruined woman.

      Once more Emma willed her anger to fuel her waning strength. She would rise above this, she vowed. She would keep her mind and heart focused on what really mattered—keeping her word to Billy John, and seeing that the gambler paid for what he’d done.

      She’d reached Main Street and was passing outside the open door of a saloon when the twang of a guitar drifted to her ears, with a nasal voice rising above the plaintive tune. Something about the song caught Emma’s attention. With mounting horror, she listened to the words.

      On an April night when the stars were out

      And the moon shone like a jewel,

      Billy John Carter spilled his red, red blood

      For love of Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…

      For love of Emma O’Toole.

      The gambler’s gun was cold, hard steel.

      The gambler’s heart was cruel,

      A bullet blazed, a young man fell,

      The lover of Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…

      The lover of Emma O’Toole.

      There was more to the song, but Emma didn’t wait to hear it. Snatching her bundle close, she fled for Woodside Gulch and her one last refuge.

      Logan slumped on the edge of his bunk as the footsteps of Alan Snedeger, his court-appointed lawyer, faded into silence. Until a few minutes ago, he’d clung to the hope of justice and freedom. Now he could almost feel the hangman’s noose jerking tight around his throat.

      You shot the boy, Mr. Devereaux. That is the one indisputable fact in this case. Your best hope would be to plead guilty to second degree murder and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Otherwise, the prosecution will do their best to see you hang.

      Logan’s fists balled in frustration at the memory of the lawyer’s words. He’d hoped, at least, for a public defender who’d give him the benefit of the doubt, and would accept that the gunshot had been an act of defense rather than murder. But even that was too much to expect in this godforsaken hellhole of a mining town.

      The mercy of the court! An ugly knot tightened in Logan’s chest as he pondered the realities. With a murder charge proven against him, even a merciful court would lock him away for half a lifetime. Anything, even execution, was preferable to the stinking hell of prison. Mercy of the court be damned! He was going to fight this! He would go free or die!

      “So, how are you faring today, Mr. Devereaux?” Logan glanced up to see Hector Armitage grinning at him through the bars like a schoolboy bent on tormenting a caged lion.

      “Who let you in here?” Logan growled. “Where’s MacPherson?”

      Armitage leaned against the wall, making it clear that he had no plans to leave. “The good deputy is next door at the Satin Garter,” he said, “presumably drinking the whiskey I just paid for.”

      Logan СКАЧАТЬ