In the Arms of a Cowboy Read online

  “The burial place is not easily seen from any road,” she murmured.

  “Odd the warden would go to such lengths, don’t you think, Father?” Sister Evangeline asked.

  “Yes. Definitely so.” Abruptly, he crossed himself. “May God have mercy on all we find here.” He sat up straighter. “Let’s hear what the warden has to say about those graves.”

  Hannah exchanged a troubled glance with Sister Evangeline. She chafed at what laid ahead, but the meek obedience Mother Superior had instilled in her forbade the protests she longed to make.

  With a slap of the reins, the priest urged the team of horses into a wide circle, and after a short drive, brought the carriage to a stop at the front entrance of the penitentiary. After setting the brake, he jumped down and offered Hannah his hand. She was grateful; she feared the queasiness in her belly had turned her knees to mush.

  After dismounting, Sister Evangeline huddled beside her. “The men harbored here have the blackest of souls, Hannah.”

  “Yes,” she said and tilted her head back to peruse the front of the prison, two stories high, harsh and unyielding. She knew the brand of men locked inside. The swiftness of the knowledge, the clarity of the memory, surprised her. Hannah hooked her arm with Sister Evangeline’s and squeezed. We must have faith.”

  Father Donovan knocked once, twice. They stood on the top step and waited. After the third knock, the thick door jerked open, and a uniformed guard appeared.

  “Who goes there?” he demanded, squinting into the darkness. He lifted a kerosene lamp higher. A badge emblazoned with the name ‘Titus’ was pinned on his chest. He ran a sharp glance over them.

  “Father Donovan, sir. We must speak with the warden immediately.”

  “Briggs? What for?” A jagged scar slashed his cheek. His eyes narrowed in suspicion of the baskets.

  “We have gifts for the men. But more importantly, there’s a matter that concerns us.”

  The guard grunted; his gaze darted behind them, in the direction of the graveyard, then back again.

  “He’s busy,” he snapped and moved to slam the door closed.

  In a bold move, the priest’s arm shot out and held it open. “We insist.”

  “Oh, do you now?”

  “We’ll not leave until we speak with him. Only a few questions, if you please.”

  “Yeah?” Titus seemed skeptical. “Briggs ain’t gonna like bein’ interrupted.”

  “Something is amiss here. An illness?” the priest demanded. “Perhaps it is treatable. We want to help. Nothing more.”

  The guard glared.

  “Do you truly want the deaths of more men on your conscience?” Father asked, pulling no punches about the penitentiary’s secret. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be next. Have you thought about that?”

  The low-voiced taunt hit its mark. The guard swore and yanked the door open wider. “He’s in the infirmary. If’n Briggs asks, it wasn’t me who let you in, y’hear?”

  “God bless you.” The priest hustled inside. “God bless you, indeed.”

  Sister Evangeline scuttled in after him. Hannah hurried to follow, but Titus’ large hand clasped her elbow, forbidding her to take another step.

  “Well, look-ey here,” he drawled. “Reckon we ain’t never had no Ladies of the Cloth in here before.” He raked her with a lecherous glance, his scarred cheek quivering, his words floating toward her on puffs of stale breath. “Hell, we ain’t never had no ladies at all.”

  Hannah’s stomach churned. Father Donovan hastily pulled at the guard’s hand. “I insist upon respect for the Sisters while we are within the confines of this penitentiary. They are here to do God’s work. If any insults are to be delivered, deliver them to me instead.”

  Titus chuckled. “Reckon I don’t find you as appealin’.”

  But he released Hannah’s elbow and stepped back, allowing her to pass.

  Sister Evangeline’s arm locked with hers. Hannah clung tightly and drew in a slow breath.

  With a confidence that bespoke his convictions, the priest led the way. Hannah took a measure of comfort in his presence. They were safe enough. Mother Superior had promised, and if there was little else Hannah had learned in her time in the monastery, it was that Mother Superior never lied.

  They plunged into the deepest bowels of the penitentiary. A nagging stench reached them from within a deserted hall, a mixture of sickness and filth and despair, and it surrounded Hannah, clinging, choking. From the depths of the shadows, someone moaned. In others, a man wept. A damp mustiness chilled the air, and Hannah was certain there’d never been a place more miserable than this.

  Sister Evangeline kept the front of her cloak pressed to her nose; her gaze darted furtively to the dark corners. Father Donovan appeared less affected. Clearly, he’d known what to expect. His brisk stride slowed.

  “Here is where the men sleep,” he said quietly, pointing toward the floor. “In cells beneath the ground. One after another. See them? Nothing more than archaic dungeons.” He clucked his tongue. “An abomination.”

  “God have mercy,” Hannah murmured.

  Keeping her skirts snug about her, she peered downward at an iron grate, two feet square, nestled in the wooden floor. No light shown through the grate, only a dank and wretched darkness, and an eerie silence from within.

  “The men are lowered into their cells by ladders,” he continued, his tone hushed. “Once they are inside, the guards remove them until it’s time to let the men out again in the morning.”

  She scrutinized the orifice. “Has the warden no compassion?”

  “Very little, Hannah.”

  “There’s no light. No fresh air!”

  “The cells are primitive, with packed earth floors and damp walls to let the cold in. They’re the warden’s version of solitary confinement, an experiment he’s--.”

  “Hey!” A man’s shout leapt upward from the grate. A loud clatter--a solid object hurled against the iron--startled Hannah out of her wits.

  She jumped back with a squeal. The priest grabbed for her.

  “Who’s up there? Hey! A woman? Let me outta here, honey!”

  Father Donovan dragged Hannah away from the cells.

  “Forgive me,” he rasped, his hold on her revealing he was as shaken as she. “I should have taken more care. Sweet heaven, let’s hope he doesn’t incite a riot.”

  Hannah pressed a hand to her thudding heart and strove to regain her composure.

  “The infirmary is just around the corner. We’re almost there.” He drew a calming breath. “Are you all right, Hannah?” At her nod, he patted her shoulder. “The men can do us no harm while in their cells. Rest assured on that.”

  “I’m fine, Father. Truly,” she said and adjusted her wimple on a wave of dismay. She’d acted like a frightened rabbit. Where was her courage?

  “Come, then,” he said. “Let’s hope the warden is in a talkative mood.”

  A woman.

  Her voice reached him through the darkness. The silken sound filtered down from the grate above his cell. Drifted over him. Surrounded him.

  He strained to hear more. Words of concern, soft, edged in velvet. And then, from the cell next to him, Sol hurling something at the grate, scaring her away.

  The silence returned. He sat very still, waiting, his mind working, always working.

  Outsiders.

  They knew about the graves. That’s why they were here.

  Sol began the code, the tap of his chains, one link against another, spreading the news of a woman in the house. Down the line of cells, the inmates picked up the rhythm, and the tapping grew louder.

  But he didn’t take part. Not this time.

  He would use her, this woman.

  His fingers found the weakened link holding his own length of chains, the one he’d been saving for just this moment. The muscles in his arms tightened, and the link inched apart, the chains gave way, and he was free.

  The tapping increased in intensity, a smokescr
een for what he was about to do. He crawled to the darkest corner of his cell and clawed at the dirt, softened from the rest of the floor. He withdrew the pair of broom handles, tied together with strips of cloth, and tested their strength.

  He stood and studied the grate above him, knowing the handles would reach, that the chinks he’d made in the earthen walls provided the toeholds he’d need to climb up.

  And out.

  The woman.

  Hannah.

  She was his only chance.

  Chapter 2

  They stood in front of the infirmary, clearly delineated from the rest of the prison by a wall of bars. Beyond this barricade lay a closed door beneath which a sliver of light shone.

  “Normally, these bars are locked to prevent the men from breaking inside to steal the drugs.” Father Donovan gave the iron gate in the center a little push, and it inched open. He emitted a soft grunt of amazement. “But tonight, someone has been careless.”

  He pushed again, widening the opening. The bars groaned on rusty hinges. The creaking sound skidded down Hannah’s spine and brought back images of similar bars in nameless jails, and of Pa locked inside . . ..

  Her heart pattered in an uneven beat. She reached out, closing her fingers around the stout iron, cold and unforgiving, just as she remembered. And in that moment, she knew a part of her would never forget.

  Never.

  She had thought the past buried deep, never to be resurrected again. But here, now, in this awful place, it roared inside her brain with a vengeance.

  She shook from the force of the haunting memories. They threatened to overcome her, to drag her down into their sickening, whirling void, but she fought them, fought as she had always done. And this time, as before, she survived.

  As if touching a hot poker, she jerked her hand back, curling it into a fist and pressing it against her breast. Slowly, she regained her composure and awareness returned.

  Father Donovan had already entered the infirmary. A glimpse of Sister Evangeline’s brown wool habit disappeared inside, too. Hannah hurried to follow, but the sound of clinking chains stopped her cold.

  She glanced behind her in alarm. Methodical and demanding, the clinking erupted into a pattern, a code, that only the men understood.

  Whatever their secret message, she was certain to be the cause. Her carelessness and curiosity over the cells had alerted them to her presence. Did they think her their salvation?

  Glory, never that. Her step quickened to join the others, and she closed the door tightly behind her.

  Where the prison’s halls had been dim and shadowed, the interior of the infirmary blazed with light. Kerosene lamps graced every available table, their wicks burning to the highest vantage. Hannah blinked in the brilliance.

  Six beds crowded the room, each occupied by inmates strapped to the frames by strips of sturdy leather. The men were blindfolded and gagged, their bodies twisting upon the mattresses, their throats emitting primitive grunts. Hannah stared. What illness required them to be treated like this? What crime was so deserving?

  A man jotted notations on a pad. The fine fabric of his wool vest and trousers, his spit-shined shoes, and the gleaming gold watch chain hanging from a vest pocket indicated his wealth. He reached for a glass syringe with a long needle and filled it from one of the vials on the tray at his side. His work engrossed him.

  In growing horror, Hannah’s gaze swept the room. Blood, old and dried and black, spattered a coil of cowhide leather hanging on the wall. Beneath the whip lay a pile of chains--the links heavy, grim --some attached to metal balls, the others to hand or ankle cuffs. A cat o’ nine tails straddled the heap.

  Another man slouched in a chair tilted on its back legs. He twirled a diamond ring on his finger, then buffed it to a new shine on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. The expensive bauble occupied his full attention; clearly, he didn’t care about the atrocities going on around him.

  “Warden Briggs!” Father Donovan called out.

  All four chair legs returned to the floor with a loud thump. The man bolted to his feet. “What the hell?”

  His beady eyes raked sharply over them. A black suit, well-worn and needing a thorough cleaning, stretched across his paunchy frame. His features took on a cunning light, reminding Hannah of a rat caught in the spoils of something illicit.

  “What is going on here?” the priest demanded.

  “How’d you get in?” The warden moved toward them, dodging the beds in his way, his gaze flicking over the baskets.

  “We saw graves outside. Is there sickness?”

  “Nothing we can’t handle.” A slow, sinister smile spread across his face and revealed yellowed, uneven teeth. He snatched Sister Evangeline’s basket and rifled through the contents. “So why don’t you just go?”

  “Get rid of them, Briggs!”

  The warden’s head snapped around. “I’m trying, Fenwick!”

  Contempt flitted over the face of the man who held the syringe. Perspiration dotted his brow. His fine cotton shirt was rumpled; the necktie open at his throat. An air of intensity hung about him. Determination. Whatever drove him in his work consumed him.

  “We want to help, Warden,” Father Donovan said, his frowning glance jumping from one man to the other. “We’ve brought fresh bread and preserves to share with the prisoners, but we can plainly tell something is wrong here.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, I tell you!” Briggs tossed aside Sister Evangeline’s basket. He gave the priest a firm nudge towards the closed door, his smile as false as his words. “Now, I ‘preciate what you and these holy sisters are trying to do for us, but, you see, we really don’t need you.”

  Father Donovan shook free. “We have no intention of leaving, Warden. All is not right here.”

  The smile disappeared. “We don’t need your help.”

  “Look at these men. They lie here like animals ready for killing.” The priest stepped toward the nearest inmate and deftly removed his blindfold. “What kind of medicine must be administered to the patient under these conditions?” He gave the warden no chance to respond. “Hannah and Sister Evangeline. Help me remove their blindfolds.”

  They hurried to obey his command.

  “Now you wait just a goddamn minute!” Briggs sputtered.

  “Men are dying. Do you inject them with poison?” the priest demanded.

  “Poison?” Fenwick’s round face reddened with ire. “A great deal of study has gone into my Solution!”

  “I beg your pardon then. Please explain what is going on here.”

  As if it galled him to account for his actions to the priest, the man holding the syringe stiffened and peered down his long, thin nose. “I am Roger Fenwick. I have developed a revolutionary drug which I call Fenwick’s Solution. I’ll take the medical world by storm with it, and people will pay me handsomely--.”

  He halted. The clamor from the underground cells seeped inward, the rhythmic clinking insistent, troublesome.

  Unease filtered through Hannah; she exchanged a wary glance with Sister Evangeline.

  A murderous expression darkened Briggs’ countenance, and he snatched the coiled cat o’ nine tails and strode to the door. He bellowed for a guard.

  Fenwick swore and lowered the syringe to the wrist of the inmate nearest him, a wiry man missing his teeth. The tip of the needle pricked the skin; a drop of crimson oozed out.

  An ugly dread swept through Hannah. The makeshift graveyard flared in her memory, the spades and shovels left behind in readiness for the next round of digging. And she knew, then, that no illness plagued the penitentiary, but, instead, Fenwick’s Solution, and that the men housed here, regardless of their crimes did not deserve this fate.

  “Don’t!” she gasped. “You mustn’t give him the Solution!”

  Fenwick paused. His harsh glance lifted to her.

  The inmate remained motionless beneath the leather straps holding him, his pleading gaze riveted to Hannah like a lifeline.

  “He could
die,” she accused Fenwick.

  “I have adjusted the dosage.”

  Hannah strove to keep her voice even. “There are graves. You’re doing something wrong.”

  “I’m getting closer. The world will thank me one day.” A wildness contorted his features. “Briggs!” he shouted. “Get her away from here.”

  In two long strides, the warden reached her. His meaty paws dug into her shoulder and yanked.

  “Leave us, woman,” he yelled in her ear. “And take your damned friends with you!”

  Hannah’s instincts took over, and she reacted to a force deep within her, a loathing for Briggs, for the evil and wicked men who’d blackened her past. Her hand delved into her basket and clutched a jar of preserves; her arm swung, and the jar cracked across the warden’s jaw. The glass broke, splitting his fleshy skull open. Blood spurted and mixed with the jellied fruit, dropping to the floor in clumps.

  Hannah gasped in horror at what she’d done.

  His features twisted in a demonic rage, he lunged for her, grabbing her by the arm. His own arm was lifted high, his fist clenched and ready to strike.

  “Nobody move!”

  The door crashed open with such force a hinge wrenched free from the portal. Armed with a long-handled club, an inmate burst into the infirmary. Unshaven, his hair matted with grime, his uniform filthy, he stood with his feet spread, breathing hard. He swung the weapon in a vicious arc.

  Fenwick’s syringe dropped to the mattress. A scream lodged in Hannah’s throat.

  “Nobody move!” the prisoner roared again.

  “Damn you, Landry!” Briggs snarled and released Hannah so roughly she stumbled over her skirt hems. He uncoiled the cat o’ nine tails with a lethal snap. “You’ll get the hide whipped off your stinkin’ bones for this!”

  “Shut up, Warden!”

  Briggs shook from raw fury. Blood dripping from his jaw, he bettered his grip on the whip, lifted his hand only inches before Landry’s club swung and caught him on the side of the head. He yelped and fell back against the wall. The “cat” dropped from his grip.