her lungs. Great folds of cloth hung in full loops against the small of her back.
“Hello,” the woman said, in a light, melodic voice, tilting her head like a little bird at the group of men standing mesmerized in the mud. She was so pretty she even took Uley’s breath away. “My name is Elizabeth Calderwood. Could one of you gentlemen direct me to a lawyer’s office? I’ve come to hire someone to defend Mr. Aaron Brown.”
Chapter Four
So this was Elizabeth Calderwood—in the flesh! So this was the gal who’d gotten the blue, perfectly penned goodbye letter Mr. Aaron Brown had been so desperate to get out of Tin Cup!
Uley stood right smack in the middle of the road, one hand clenched around her horses’ reins, watching the men of Tin Cup compete over the new arrival the way a hungry dog would over a bone. Charlie Hastings took it upon himself to step forward and direct Miss Calderwood up Washington Avenue toward the Pacific Hotel. There she went, her skirts dipping back and forth like a chiming school bell, her head held high, with all those yellow curls hanging down her back like bedsprings.
If Elizabeth Calderwood knew she was leading a parade up the street, she took no notice of it. Every man there, every single one of them, followed her.
Elizabeth Calderwood stepped into the Pacific Hotel and, as the little front room filled with awestruck men, made her way to the desk. Pacific Hotel, the handcarved sign read. Frank Emerson, Proprietor. First-Class in Every Respect.
“I’d like to pay for a room for two weeks, Mr. Emerson,” she said in a voice so light and high she might have been singing.
She could have paid for a room for two years, so many men pulled gold pouches out of their pockets to help.
“No, but thank you, gentlemen.” She waved them away, holding aloft one tiny gloved hand and acting as if she attracted this much attention each day of her life. “I’m perfectly able to pay my own expenses.”
Five men volunteered to carry her one trunk up the stairs to the room Emerson assigned her. The remainder of the throng milled about in the tiny lobby, waiting for her to descend the stairs.
When she did, she flounced out into the street again. Everyone else clomped right along behind her. She marched past the sign reading J. C. Theobald, The Cobbler, and into the building marked Otto Violet, Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public, Tin Cup, Colorado. Twenty minutes later, she emerged. She opened the lace parasol she carried and twirled it high over her head, striding purposefully toward the Grand Central Hotel. Mawherter’s eyes about popped out of his head when he saw what came prancing in through his front door. “Good day, sir,” she said. “I’m here to pay off Mr. Brown’s bill.”
“The name’s Mawherter. D. J. Mawherter. At—at your service, ma’am.”
“I’d like to have Mr. Brown’s belongings. May I send someone up to get them?”
“Yes, certainly.” The way Mawherter leaped to assist her, you would have thought the Queen of England had entered his front lobby.
She deposited a fair amount of money on his ink blotter, and he swept it away. This time, seven men accompanied her to bring down Aaron Brown’s one trunk and one satchel.
Elizabeth Calderwood certainly had no qualms about going through his personal things, Uley thought, remembering with renewed consternation the bay rum...the Bible...the unmentionables that she should never have caught a glimpse of.
Elizabeth directed the men toward the Pacific Hotel. “Place them in my room, please. I’m certain Mr. Brown will have need of these items later.”
“You’re staying at the Pacific?” Mawherter asked her, goggle-eyed. He sucked in his breath and raised himself to his full height. Uley couldn’t help thinking he looked like a rooster about to flap his wings. “We cannot have a fine lady such as yourself staying anywhere else except right here. I’ll gladly give you a discount....”
Elizabeth smiled graciously. “I’m already quite comfortable at the Pacific, Mr. Mawherter.”
Her business clearly settled, Elizabeth Calderwood turned and asked directions to the jailhouse.
Everybody answered at once.
Surprisingly enough, Elizabeth Calderwood seemed to have a fine head atop her shoulders. She sorted through all their mumbling and ended up going exactly the right way.
“That gal’s about the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen,” Charlie Hastings whispered.
“Seeing a woman like that is enough to make you clean up every once in a while, isn’t it?” Dave McNalley joined in.
Uley had never dreamed grown men could act this way. As Elizabeth Calderwood proceeded toward the jailhouse, she hung back, wondering what it would feel like to get so much attention. The attention she’d gotten after she’d jumped on Aaron Brown and sent him flying was one thing. This was more than mere respect. This was awe. She figured it would be nice to have men—a man—look at her that way. She figured it would be nice to walk with petticoats swishing against her ankles like stream water. She figured it would be nice to have her hair bounce free at the nape of her neck and have curls encircled with ribbons.
She wondered what it would feel like to peer into a store window at all the fineries that a genuine lady expected, and to admit to yourself and to everybody around you that you would enjoy having such things.
It had been bad enough thinking of Aaron Brown inside that jail, knowing he was fully aware of her secret. Now, here came Elizabeth Calderwood prancing into town, making her think of any number of feminine practices! As Uley left behind the gaggle of men proceeding along the streets, she wondered what it might feel like to love a man who was going to die by hanging. Uley didn’t figure that was anything she’d ever have to know.
* * *
“Just look at you, Aaron Brown,” Elizabeth said, her nose stuck between two iron bars, her hands reaching to a place on either side of his face. “I’ve never seen anybody who needed to see a bucket of bathwater so badly.”
He grimaced. “It’s true. If I’d known you were coming out here, I’d have put on my best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Best not touch me with your gloves, Beth. I’ll get them dirty.”
“Who cares.” She laughed and encased his grimy cheeks with all her fingers. “I’ve come two hundred and fifty miles in a supply wagon and you’re worried about me getting my gloves dirty? I thought I might never see you alive again. Just let me keep looking at your face.”
He sighed, a long, forlorn chuff of air. “Here I am, still waiting to hang. You’ve got at least one more day to look at my face all you want to.”
“I might even have longer than that, Aaron. I’ve hired a lawyer for your defense.” She saw his horrified expression and went right on talking. She wasn’t going to give him the chance to holler at her for spending all that money. “I’ve also taken care of your charges down at the Grand Central Hotel.”
“Please, Beth, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.”
“Of course you are,” she said emphatically, at last drawing her hands away from him. “That’s why you wrote me a letter to explain why you were already dead.”
He
