Authors: Jo Robertson
Machado sank back on his haunches, sprawled across the floor
in astonishment. "Phoebe?"
"Don't play innocent with me, Mr. Machado. You killed
Joseph when he learned the hideous secret of his parentage."
Aaron had begun shaking his head the moment Emma's
accusation became clear to him. She could see this by the denial in his
expression. "You've got it all backwards. Oh, God, what has she done?"
He spoke as if to himself and seemed to draw back into a
dark place in his mind. Who was the
she
whom he referenced? Phoebe or
... Emma watched as he struggled to pull back from the abyss.
At last he stood to face her, sorrow and anger a mixed
palette of grief on his face. "It's true, what you say, Miss Knight. I
am
Joseph's father."
She'd already known that. Joseph was the babe he'd fathered
and then abandoned.
"But as God is my judge," Machado continued. "Phoebe
is not his mother."
Chapter 25
"O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven, it
hath the primal eldest curse upon't." –
Hamlet
Where was she?
Malachi meant to track Emma down even if it entailed
storming the sacred walls of her parents' pristine fortress again. He'd spent
the entire day searching for her until he received word the jury had arrived at
a verdict. She hadn't been home, and neither Sarah nor Ralston knew where she'd
gone, only that she'd taken the carriage.
The thought of her without a chaperone clearly worried her
servant and heightened Malachi's own concern for Emma's welfare. He'd checked
at the newspaper, questioning Stephen and Thomas, but they had no inkling of
her destination.
"Wouldn't worry about her, Malachi," Stephen had said,
his sleeves rolled up again and a wrench clutched tight in his right fist.
"Emma can take care of herself."
But his eyes slid away from Malachi, who had the distinct
impression the older man kept something from him. "Would she have visited
her parents?"
"Not likely, after the giant row they had."
Malachi wondered if Emma had spoken to Stephen since the
weekend she'd spent so much time at Malachi's cabin. Although Stephen knew
about the relationship, of course, having deflected the Knights' ire away from
Emma, the man pretended as though nothing untoward had occurred between his
niece and Malachi.
A man who carried his own great secret probably disliked
speculating about other people's private behaviors. A good poker player,
Malachi was certain Stephen Knight knew more than he intended to say about his
niece. His next words confirmed the idea
"I imagine if Emma had taken off somewhere today and
just returned," Stephen had said, a studied casualness in his tone,
"she'd be in mighty need of a bath and a change of clothes." He
sighed theatrically. "But Emma's unpredictable, if nothing else."
Malachi now looked around the courtroom as the jurors
returned to the jury box, their faces grim. Emma could not have known the verdict
would come so soon, but still he'd hoped she'd be here, to rejoice with or
comfort Alma ... and him.
Judge Underwood entered the courtroom with a great flair and
charged the jury to deliver its verdict. A few minutes later he chomped so hard
on the unlit cigar in his mouth that it split off and dropped suddenly to the
podium. His face and the portion of his neck that squeezed above his collar
turned an apoplectic purple.
"You can't reach a consensus?" he growled. "What
the hell does that mean?" The jury foreman cringed in his seat at the
corner of the jury box.
Malachi slumped beside his client. He didn't know whether to
be disappointed that Alma wasn't acquitted or thankful that the hung jury
bought him more time to investigate the murder – time to look into Emma's
findings. He glanced around the room – still no Emma – but the courtroom was packed
to overflowing with sensation seekers who hoped to hear a woman would dangle at
the end of a noose.
But not today, he thought. For the moment his client was
safe.
Immediately after Underwood dismissed the jury and the
courtroom cleared, Charles Fulton slapped a paper on the defense table. Malachi
took his time speaking with Alma before he turned to inspect the chief
prosecutor.
Malachi smiled like a shark. "Charlie, my condolences. Today's
outcome must be difficult for your career."
"You won't be grinning like a jackass when you look at
that." Fulton nodded toward the document.
Sighing theatrically, Malachi picked up the piece of paper
and scanned the contents. "You're re-filing charges? Surely even you aren't
that stupid." Although he knew this was exactly what Fulton would do, he
couldn't resist goading the man.
Fulton gritted his teeth, flaring his nostrils like an angry
bull ... or, more likely, a hyena. "I haven't nearly finished with your
client, Rivers. She'll swing yet for this cowardly murder." The man
stomped off down the aisle, his two lackeys in tow and trailing behind him.
Unfortunately, the district attorney's display of confidence
was well-founded. If Malachi didn't find new evidence to cast doubt on Alma's
innocence, the next jury might convict her. Even without a murder conviction,
his client could be charged with aggravated assault.
"Am I free to go now, Mr. Rivers?" Alma's pinched
face tugged at his sense of fairness as hard as she tugged at his sleeve.
"No, Alma, I'm very sorry, but Mr. Fulton has
re-charged you with Joseph's murder. The jury couldn't agree as to your guilt
or innocence."
"Can he do that?"
"Sadly enough, he can. And being the kind of man he is,
he will." He patted the woman's arm and tried to keep his expression from
showing his discouragement. "But tomorrow's another day, Alma," he
added brightly. "Chin up."
After Alma was returned to her cell and Malachi had gathered
up his trial papers, he walked the short distance down the hill to his office
on Main Street. He wouldn't bother ringing Sarah Ralston this time, he vowed.
He'd see for himself where the wandering Emma had gone.
#
The sheriff in Bakersfield had allowed Emma to call Uncle
Stephen before she boarded the train back to Sacramento. Her explanation was
brief, but she'd insisted she was well and would return home by nightfall.
Stephen seemed content, if not happy with her words.
When she arrived in the capitol city, she used her father's
name and reputation for the first time in her life to request use of the
station's telephone. The switchboard connected her with with Sarah. "Emma,
where have you been? We've been frantic with worry."
Still in a dazed shock, she couldn't answer at first.
"I'll be home soon," she whispered.
"What? Where? Emma, are you there?" The line grew
fuzzy and then went dead. Emma didn't try again.
Outside the station, she hired a hackney cab and made the
distance to Placer Hills by early evening. Her driver pulled up in front of
The
Gazette
office. Emma saw the crowd milling around the courthouse up on the
hill.
Uncle Stephen stood at the door to the newspaper office.
"The verdict's in," he said, nodding toward them.
"A judgment this quickly cannot bode well for
Alma." As she hastened the cabbie toward home, she added, "Please do
not tell him where I've gone, Stephen. I need time to ponder what I've learned
today."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Emma."
#
"Mr. Knight's been looking for you, Miss Emma." Sarah
shut the front door behind her with a mighty thwack as Emma handed over her
gloves and coat. "What a mess! Look at the dirt on your skirts. Where have
you been?"
Sarah had been chastising Emma far too long for her to
bridle at the criticism. "I've been to Bakersfield, Sarah. I do not wish
to speak about it. And yes, a hot bath would be just the thing, thank you."
"Well, I'm sure you'll wish to know that Mr. Stephen
called to say he and Thomas are preparing a special edition. Alma Bentley's
jury had been unable to come to an agreement about her guilt or innocence."
The servant bustled away, muttering and complaining about
Emma's clothing, but she scarcely heard a word. She had to sort her thoughts. A
hung jury? This she had not anticipated. So much to do. Where to begin?
After some mulling she believed a hung jury would benefit
Alma if she could not be acquitted. Now Emma was free to continue her odd
investigation into the Machado family.
She'd been tempted to wait for Malachi at the newspaper, to
recount the strange events of the day, and tell him what she'd learned from
Aaron Machado. But she knew he'd be consumed with consoling his client. Perhaps
even preparing a new line of defense should the prosecution decide to try Alma
again.
Better for the moment to keep her own counsel and continue
her investigation clandestinely. Stephen would not mention her sojourn to
Bakersfield nor her brief stop at the newspaper office to Malachi.
And mostly she simply needed
to think.
The sweetly fragranced bath nearly covered her breasts. Her
hair piled high on her head, she soaked limbs sore and weary from the long ride
and back in such a short time.
But what she'd learned!
If Aaron were to be believed, the entire configuration of
the Machado family was bizarrely twisted. Even more horrible than she'd
imagined.
Without warning, the shouting from downstairs was followed
quickly by a thundering of feet up the stairs to the second floor landing. Emma
jerked up in the rapidly cooling water.
"You can't go in there!" Sarah shouted from somewhere
outside Emma's bedroom door right before a crash sounded. The door burst open
and Malachi's voice bellowed from behind the bathroom door.
"Emma Knight, are you in there?"
Then the door swung open with a sharp bang and there Malachi
stood, his face flushed and sweaty, his fists on his hips, hatless, jacketless
– just like him, she thought crossly. Behind him Sarah clutched at his arm,
trying to pull him out of the room.
"Mr. Rivers, this is unseemly! How dare you? Get out of
here this instant or I'll call Mr. Ralston to remove you!"
Malachi flashed her a withering look at the ridiculous
notion of her scrawny husband restraining him, and she backed away.
"It's all right, Sarah. I can take care of Mr. Rivers,"
Emma said. "You may leave us alone now."
"But Miss Emma – "
"Sarah, I'm sure Mr. Rivers will behave like a
gentleman now that he sees I am safe." She glared at Malachi, daring him
to disagree.
He held up his hands, palms outward and moved into the
sitting area, throwing himself into an upholstered chair by the fireplace. With
a disparaging glance, Sarah swirled around and stomped out of the room.
Malachi watched Emma with hooded eyes through the open
doorway, a clear view of her sitting in the now chilling bath water.
Damn
the man!
She flounced out of the water, stepping onto the thick plush
rug in front of the tub, all the while aware of his eyes raking over her wet,
naked body. She turned her back on him and reached for a towel, wrapping it
tightly around her body. She would not be intimidated by him. He'd seen her
naked before, so why should she feel at a disadvantage now?
All the while ignoring him, Emma toweled her body off, then
padded to the dresser where she removed her chemise and drawers from their
scented place in the top drawer. Performing such an intimate ritual in front of
him disconcerted both of them, she noticed.
He scowled at her through the glint of interest in his eyes.
"Quit dawdling, Emma, unless you wish me to assist you in dressing."
Hurriedly she completed her wardrobe, quickly pulling on a
loose-fitting skirt and blouse. At last she turned to confront him. "All
right, what do you want?"
He leapt from his chair and crossed the room in a second,
all control apparently gone. "Damn it, Emma, what do I
want?"
He
grabbed her by the upper arms and gave her a rough shake. "I've been half
out of my mind with worry over you. Where have you been?"
She scowled and pushed at him. "I don't have to answer
to you for my whereabouts, Malachi Rivers!"
"Really? Even though I've had to rescue you once before
from your foolish undertakings?" he shouted.
She twisted out of his grasp and flung herself on the bed. "It's
just like you to throw that in my face!"
He narrowed his eyes and advanced on her. "That bed is
a dangerous place for you to seek safety," he warned softly.
She straightened quickly and tried to escape his clutches,
but he was too strong. He pinned her beneath his weight, his legs astride her,
the hard length welcoming even through the force of his anger. He ran his long
fingers over her face and hair and she fancied there was a slight trembling in
them.
This vulnerable Malachi melted her defenses. "Emma, I
was scared to death you'd been hurt – or worse."
"I – I didn't mean to cause you worry, but. I couldn't
wait around for the stupid trial to end."
He placed a gentle kiss on her lips and then ran his thumb
over where his mouth had lingered. "Where did you go?"
"To Bakersfield."
His body froze on top of hers. "To visit Aaron Machado?"
She nodded. "I needed to see him for myself."
Releasing her, he sat up abruptly and ran a frustrated hand
through his hair. "God, Emma, you could've been killed. You have no idea whether
Aaron Machado is a murderer or not."
"I do now," she said, kneeling behind him and
circling his waist. "We had a long talk and I have a story to tell you – a
strange and horrible story."
#
He refused to hear Emma's story until he made sure that she
hadn't been harmed in her reckless journey southeast. That Aaron Machado – whom
he still wasn't certain was guiltless in his brother's murder – hadn't somehow
roughened her up. Memories of the terror at the docks and her close call with
death, or at the very least rape and bodily harm, underscored his fear for her.
Now that he'd ascertained she was safe, he decided he'd
cheerfully strangle Stephen Knight for lying to him. The man knew where Emma
had been and could've alleviated Malachi's apprehension.
And now there was this new twist in the case.
"After all the posturing for Phoebe as a villainess are
you now suggesting that she is
not
the mother of Joseph Machado?"
Malachi challenged, pushing his dinner plate aside as he stared at Emma across
the table where they'd finished the light meal Sarah had grudgingly prepared
them before she left.
He leaned over to secure Emma's hand before clarifying what
she'd just conveyed to him. "Phoebe Machado did
not
have a child
the night Joseph, Jr., was born?"