Lucky Penny (15 page)

Glancing over the judge’s shoulder, David saw that he held two pairs, sevens over deuces. In David’s opinion, it was an okay hand, but not good enough to warrant such a large bet. Marshal Bingham anted up and showed his hand, and the magistrate swore, not even bothering to lower his voice as he barked the obscenity. “Three of a kind? You’ve become quite the cardsharp since we played last Friday, my friend.”

The marshal took a large gulp of whiskey before raking in the cash. “I’ve also become a mite richer, Daniel. Read ’em and weep.”

David was about to take both men to task for agreeing to meet with him and Brianna when they’d clearly planned to play cards and get wet to the gills. Judging by their conversation, Friday was their poker night. Before he could get a word out, though, he changed his mind, deciding that he might use this situation to his own advantage. He motioned to Brianna.

“Now that you’ve played out the hand,” David said to the judge, “I hope you’ll take a break from the game to give me and this lady your full attention.”

The judge rocked back in his chair, tried to focus on Brianna, and blinked, clearly beset by blurry vision. Had the man gotten this drunk in only a few minutes or had he been tipping the jug all afternoon? “Good eventide, Mrs. Paxton. How are you faring?”

Brianna stepped forward. “I’m extremely distressed at the moment, Your Honor. This man has shown up out of the blue claiming to be my daughter’s father, and I assure you, he is
not
.”

The judge blinked again and rubbed the bridge of his bulbous nose. “He’s not?”

“No, Your Honor, he’s definitely not. I’ve never seen him before in my life!”

The judge tugged on the front of his jacket, his double chin canting off to one side as he tipped his head. “That, madam, doesn’t make a lick of sense. If you’ve never seen
the fellow before, how the hell did you wind up married to him?”

It definitely didn’t make any sense, David thought. Score one for him. He’d keep his mouth shut and let her hang herself. Brianna launched into a feverish recitation of her harebrained tale about there being another David Paxton in Denver. “My husband is a miner there, Your Honor, not the marshal of some little town!”

The judge frowned. “No real mining takes place in Denver these days, young woman. What’s he mining for? Fool’s gold? Are you sure this husband of yours prospects there?”

Brianna paled and clasped her hands, her stance rigid. “I’ve received recent correspondence from him, Your Honor, and as before, the letter came from Denver.”

The judge held out a hand. “Fine. Let me see it, please.”

Brianna’s green eyes sparked fire at the question. “My word on the matter should be good enough!”

“So you can’t produce one of the letters?” David inquired.

“I threw all of them away!” she cried.

The judge took another swig of whiskey and glanced longingly at the abandoned playing cards. “My good woman, you’ve lived here in Glory Ridge for—what?—six years. You’ve always gone by the name Mrs. David Paxton. If you can’t produce a letter from this
other
husband you claim to have, can you at least present marriage documents to prove he exists?”

For the second time that day, Brianna felt as if the floor had vanished from beneath her feet. She grabbed at the edge of the desk to keep her balance, jerking away as Paxton reached for her elbow. That rattlesnake! She couldn’t
comprehend
that the judge and the marshal were questioning her word. Scratching at her thoughts like a chicken for remnants of grain, she said, “I had marriage documents, Your Honor, but when I left Mr. Ricker’s employ, they were lost during the move.”

Slurring his words slightly, the judge said, “I must make decisions based upon the evidence brought before me, Mrs. Paxton.” He fixed a glassy gaze on David, who was quickly
becoming the bane of Brianna’s existence. “Apparently, Mrs. Paxton has no evidence to verify her story, Mr. Paxton.”

Marshal Bingham muttered a curse under his breath, and then said, “‘Mrs. Paxton’ and ‘Mr. Paxton,’ and the two of them aren’t married? This is too confusing by half.”

Brianna wanted to kick the man. “Perhaps part of your confusion is caused by overindulgence in spirits, Marshal.” She returned her gaze to the judge. “And this isn’t a
story
I’ve dreamed up!” She lifted her hands. “Why in heaven’s name would I lie about such a thing?” She jabbed a finger in Paxton’s direction. “I’ve never clapped eyes on this man in my life, I tell you! He is not my husband, and he is
definitely
not my daughter’s father.”

The judge motioned for silence. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to find herself in an unhappy marriage and try to solve the problem by running off. If that is indeed the case, it is your misfortune that your husband has found you. I sympathize greatly with your dilemma, ma’am, but the law is the law. You shouldn’t have fled with the child.”

“I didn’t flee with the child!” Brianna heard her voice going shrill. She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose herself. “You’re making snap judgments, based upon the fact that I’ve lost my marriage documents and lacked the foresight to save my husband’s letters. I mean no disrespect, Your Honor, but why is the burden of proof being placed on me? I haven’t heard you ask Mr. Paxton what evidence he can produce to verify
his
story.”

The judge arched an eyebrow. “That’s true, Mr. Paxton.” His paunch jerked with another burp, which he unsuccessfully attempted to squelch by swallowing. “Have you any evidence to present?”

Marshal Bingham interrupted to say, “So far, he hasn’t told us his side. She’s done most of the talking.”

Brianna wanted nothing more than to tell the lawman to shut his mouth. “As well it should be,” she said instead. “As the judge pointed out, I’ve lived here for nearly six years, and my reputation is above reproach. This man is a complete stranger. You’ve no reason to believe a word he says.” Brianna dragged in another breath and blurted on the exhale,
“In fact, I have reason to believe he may be a lawless miscreant from Deadwood, South Dakota, bent on absconding with my daughter so he can sell her to some wealthy old Mexican across the border! Blondes sell for very high prices, and little girls Daphne’s age are in high demand!”

Bingham snorted with laughter and rocked on his chair, so incautious with the shift of his weight that he nearly went over backward. He planted a hand against the rear wall to catch himself. Over Judge Afton’s wheezing mirth, the marshal managed to say, “Dear God, woman, you’ve obviously been reading that trash my wife so dearly loves! I saw the book about slave trading. It’s a bunch of stuff and nonsense. Deadwood is a tamed community now. Crimes are still committed there, of course, but the place is no longer solely a hideaway for lowlife scoundrels wanted by the law.”

Brianna bent closer to bore the marshal with her gaze. “I’ve read the book, sir. It’s a recent publication. I am sure the author must be required by his publisher to keep his facts straight. Criminals are
still
absconding with girls and selling them into slavery in Mexico. And I am convinced that is this man’s plan. I don’t think his name’s David Paxton at all, and I don’t think he’s a lawman. He could have stolen that badge. How can you take his word over mine?” She flung a hand at the man under discussion. “Just
look
at him. What respectable lawman dresses like a—like a roughrider?”

The judge chuckled. “My dear girl, the comanchero slave trading was brought to an end back in the seventies. Let us refrain from making outrageous accusations.”

Brianna clasped her hands, digging into her flesh so hard with her jagged nails that she felt the sting. “Well, then—supposing that’s true—it in no way eliminates the possibility that this man is here for nefarious reasons. Unless, of course, both you and the marshal are so out of touch with modern-day crime that you’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t exist.” She pointed at a collection of Wanted posters on the wall behind the desk. “What are those, if not notices that those men are at large and dangerous?”

“Mrs. Paxton, this gentleman’s likeness does not appear
on any of those posters,” Afton pointed out. “And I’m not claiming crime no longer exists. I’m only saying it’s highly unlikely this man intends to steal your daughter and sell her across the border. I believe he is here with honest intent. Misguided, perhaps. If you’ll desist with your chatter and let me interview him, I’ll be better able to determine the validity of his claim.”

Her
chatter
? “There
is
no validity to his claim,” Brianna retorted. “He just showed up, saying Daphne is his daughter, and I’m here to tell you he’s lying!”

Bingham sighed and scratched his jaw. “Why would any man in his right mind lay claim to a child that isn’t his?” He winked at Paxton. “I’ve got six, five still eating me out of house and home. If you’re that eager to be a daddy, I’ll give you a couple of mine.”

The judge drained his glass and sloshed in more whiskey. “Order in the court!” He brought down his hand on the desk, sending cards flying. “What evidence of paternity can you produce, Mr. Paxton?”

Paxton went to collect his saddlebags. “I can produce no
official
evidence of paternity, Your Honor, but I can submit documents to show that I am an officer of the law and
inarguable
proof that no other David Paxton exists in the Denver area.”

Brianna watched with mounting dread as Paxton withdrew letters, paperwork, and two telegrams from a bag and tossed them on the desk. Using his index finger, he separated the offerings, pointing to the letters first. Brianna’s heart felt as if it plunged into her stomach when she recognized her own handwriting on the envelopes.

“These are letters from Mrs. Paxton,” David said. “They were addressed to me general delivery at the Denver post office. Please note that this one”—he pushed that letter closer to the judge—“is postmarked nearly six years ago.” He slid the second missive over. “And this one is postmarked only five months ago. Countless letters—far too many for me to bring them all—were sent to me in between those two dates, but I never received them until a little over a month ago because I have never lived in Denver or picked up my mail there.”

The judge rubbed his temple. “Why would Mrs. Paxton have sent mail to you in Denver if you never lived there?”

Paxton ignored the question and offered the judge both telegrams. “These were sent to me by the sheriff in Denver.”

The judge squinted to read the messages. “He says that no other David Paxton exists in Denver or in any of the other mining districts anywhere near there.”

“Precisely,” Paxton agreed. “I telegraphed the sheriff when I initially received Mrs. Paxton’s letters, which requested, again and again, that I come to Glory Ridge for her and my daughter.” He flashed Brianna an apologetic look. “I have no wish to offend Mrs. Paxton by being indelicate, Your Honor, so I’ll just say that I tended to drink pretty heavy in my younger days when I visited Denver, and I have no clear recollection of ever having met this lady, let alone marrying her. That said, I’m not a man to shirk my responsibilities, so I not only asked the Denver sheriff to look into the matter for me, but I went there myself, launched my own investigation, and found no trace of another David Paxton within a hundred-mile radius of the city. I finally concluded—and not happily, I might add, because I do have a life in No Name that suits me just fine—that I’d done the unthinkable while I was intoxicated and taken liberties with some unfortunate young lady, leaving her in the family way. When I drank that heavy, I often had no recollection of what occurred the previous night. I believe I consorted with Mrs. Paxton, woke up the next morning, and departed for No Name. In short, I left her high and dry, with no idea how to contact me when she realized she was carrying my child.”

“That
isn’t
what happened!” Brianna practically screamed. She felt her eyes bugging and thought for a second that she might actually attack him. “I’m married to another man, I tell you. You know me, Judge Afton.” She directed an imploring gaze at Bingham. “So do you, Marshal! Have I ever been anything but a proper lady? I am
not
in the habit of consorting with drunken strangers and never have been.”

The judge opened one of the letters. Since she’d written it under duress, Brianna had kept it short. Ricker had been
very exacting with his dictates as she penned the words, and she couldn’t clearly recall what she’d said in any particular missive. Afton quickly scanned the sentences and tossed the letter back on the desk. “We all make mistakes, dear.”

Brianna felt lightheaded. A cold sweat broke out all over her person. This was like one of those awful dreams where everything went from bad to worse, and she couldn’t wake up. “I never made
that
mistake. This man is delusional.”

Just then, Paxton drew something from his wallet and tossed it on the desk. It was a small, tattered photograph of a lovely woman who, in gray and white, looked to be blond. Brianna sucked in a breath. The image could have been Daphne if not for the vast difference in age. In fact, the resemblance was so striking that Brianna leaned closer, amazed at the similarities. In that moment, her brain went like mush.

The judge studied the image with a frown. “Mrs. Paxton, it’s no secret in Glory Ridge that you struggle to make ends meet,” he said softly. “You should be grateful that this gentleman has the honor and integrity to come forward and offer to shoulder his personalities.” He scowled. “Responsibilities, I mean. I don’t understand why you aren’t jumping for joy.”

“I shall jump for joy when my true
husband
shows up and not before!”

The judge picked up the telegram from the Denver sheriff. “That photograph shows an amazing family resemblance, Mrs. Paxton. This wire also proves that this man’s name is David Paxton, and that he is, indeed, the marshal of No Name.”

“The wire proves nothing!” Brianna almost shouted the words. “He could have sent the telegraph to himself, planning in advance to use it as proof of his identity!”

As if she hadn’t spoken, the magistrate flicked the edge of the desk with his fingertip, ran a liver-spotted hand over his hair, and sighed. “This is a most preculiar situation. Peculiar, I mean. I honestly don’t know how to rule. You have no proof that you’re married to another man, Mrs. Paxton.” Directing a sympathetic look at Paxton, he added, “And
your version of events is suppo”—burp—“supposition. Neither of you has offered any tangible proof to argue your case, although even I must admit that photograph is a bit stupefying.” He guzzled more whiskey. “Very remarkable resemblance. Yes, remarkable, indeed.”