Lucky Penny Page 12

  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.”

  “It’s a photograph of my mother,” Paxton said.

  Daphne awakened just then. “Mama? Papa?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Why is everyone yelling?”

  Before Brianna could react, Paxton collected Daphne from the bench. Perching the child on his hip, he retraced his steps to the desk. To the judge, he said in a taut voice, “You say I have no proof? Look at her, Your Honor. Then look at me. Can you deny the family resemblance?”

  The judge did as requested and then turned an unfocused, heavy-lidded gaze on Brianna. “The child does bear a remarkable likeness to him, and even more so to the woman in that phonograph.” He took another swig of liquor. “In fact, the child looks more like him than she does you. How can you explain that?”

  Oh, God. The judge was so intoxicated he couldn’t formulate words, let alone rational thoughts. Brianna wanted to shout that any
little girl with blond hair and delicate features might resemble an older woman with similar coloring and composition of countenance. But now that Daphne was awake, Brianna felt as if her tongue had been shackled. Her daughter wasn’t yet old enough to understand precisely how babies were made, and Brianna didn’t want her to be swiftly educated by two drunks and a lunatic. “The resemblance is a fluke, Your Honor.”

  “A fluke?” Paxton stepped closer to the judge and lifted Daphne’s golden curls to expose the side of her neck. “Do you see this pink splotch, Your Honor? It’s a birthmark that runs in my family. Practically every child is born with it.” He jerked at the front of his duster and drew down his own collar. “I was born with it.” He leaned over so the judge could inspect the evidence. “Mine’s gone dark from the sun, right along with my skin, but it’s still visible.” He shot Brianna a searing glance. “Explain that, Mrs. Paxton. How is it that this child is the spitting image of my mother and has the same mark on her neck as I do on mine?”

  Brianna wanted to examine Paxton’s mark more closely. It was dark, just as he claimed, and could be nothing more than a stain he had applied to his skin after seeing Daphne’s strawberry splotch. This man was a schemer and clever beyond words. Even if he didn’t plan to take Daphne over the Mexican border, he was up to no good. He had to be.

  “Your Honor, that isn’t a birthmark on my daughter’s neck,” Brianna lied. “She was splattered with hot grease as a baby. It’s a scar, nothing more, and I suggest to you the very real possibility that this man duplicated it on his own neck with a smear of boot polish!”

  Paxton rolled his eyes. “Where’s some soap and water?” He met Brianna’s gaze with smoldering intensity. “Or for that matter, a bleaching agent. I’ll happily submit to a scouring. If you can remove this mark from my neck, I’ll eat my hat.”

  Brianna wanted to jerk the filthy thing from his head and shove it down his throat. The tide was turning against her. She felt the shift and in rising panic cried, “Your Honor, I request that you withhold judgment until morning when you’ve slept on it and can think more clearly.”

  The judge sat more erect. “Are you suggesting that I’m intoxicated, Mrs. Paxton?”

  “No. Yes.” Brianna gestured at his glass. “You are drinking, sir. And quite heavily, I might add.”

  “I am still in possession of all my facilities.” He paused, crinkled his forehead, and said, “Faculties, I mean.”

  “Then I beg your pardon, sir. But out of consideration for my child, I do submit to you that this meeting should adjourn and commence again when she is not present. There is subject content that is too mature for her tender ears.”

  “My ears aren’t tender, Mama,” Daphne chimed in. “I’ve never even had an earache.”

  Afton flapped his hand. At that point, Brianna knew that she was about to lose this battle of words and almost blurted out the truth. Terror held her tongue. As it stood, she still had maternal rights, and she wasn’t sure she would retain them if she confessed that she was only the child’s aunt. Besides, if they refused to accept that she wasn’t married to this silver-tongued devil, why would they believe the real truth, which sounded so improbable even to her? Even if she could convince the judge of it and Paxton was sent packing, Brianna would be left to deal with the result: a town full of holier-than-thou people who were all too ready to stand in judgment of others. Her life would be a living hell, and so would Daphne’s.

  Her mind swimming with disjointed thoughts, she decided that her wisest course was to stick with her original story—that she was married to another man named David Paxton. “Maybe,” she cried, “my husband died, Your Honor, and I was never notified. Things like that do happen. Maybe he was killed in a mining accident quite some time ago! That would explain why this Mr. Paxton and the Denver sheriff can find no proof of his existence.”

  Paxton snorted, his expression heavy with scathing contempt. “Excuse me, but only a few minutes ago, you said you recently received a letter from the man. How does a dead person put pen to paper?”

  David was fed up. He wanted to stuff cotton in his daughter’s ears so she would hear nothing more. Better yet, he yearned to storm out with her and head directly for the stable to get his horse and mule, devil take the consequences. Let them come after him. He didn’t give a shit. Any men who volunteered to form a posse would probably be drunk. Now the fool woman was claiming that her husband was dead? She couldn’t keep her story straight. Over the years as a lawman, he had seen others get caught up in their own lies, but this lady took the prize for inconsistency.

  David was about to act on his impulse to skedaddle when the judge pounded his gavel on the desk, startling David and frightening Daphne so that she jerked.

  “Enough of this poppycock!” he roared. “It is clear to me that no other David Paxton exists anywhere near Denver, and that being the case, the matter is simple enough to resolve. This David Paxton is clearly the father of the child. Since Mrs. Paxton has failed to produce marriage documents to the contrary, I will make an honest woman of her and be done with it so I can enjoy my poker night.”

  David still stood half-turned to leave. Those words snapped him back around. He stared incredulously at the judge. The inebriated fool roared, “By the power vested in me by the state of Colorado, I hereby pronounce you man and wife.”

  David couldn’t quite credit his ears. Surely a judge couldn’t slap his gavel on a desk and marry people.

  “This is a farce!” Brianna cried. “And it isn’t legal! I have not agreed to this, and I did not say ‘I do’!”

  The judge took another swallow of booze. “It’s obvious to me, young woman, that you did more than say ‘I do’ at some point in time.” Casting a meaningful glance at Daphne, he thrust out a hand to Bingham. “I need paper, Barton.”

  The marshal produced two pieces of parchment. The judge scribbled out a makeshift marriage document on each. When he finished writing, he shoved them toward both David and Brianna, saying, “Sign the damn things.”

  “Does that paper say I’m married to that—miscreant?” Brianna stabbed a finger at David. “I absolutely will not!”

  “Wait just a second, Judge,” David inserted. “As much as I want my daughter, there are certain laws we can’t ignore. I think clear heads are called for here.”

  “Sign, I said!” The judge slapped the paper. “Refuse and I will find you both in contempt of court.”

  Brianna’s mouth worked like that of a landed fish. “What court?”

  The judge sneered. “I am the court, good lady, and I’m weary of this nonsense. You’ll either sign or spend some time in jail.”

  “How much time?” she asked.

  Afton grinned, his lips twisting lopsidedly. “That will depend upon my mood.”

  “You’ll put us both in jail for refusing to agree to a marriage neither of us wants?”

  “It’s you who doesn’t seem to want it, Mrs. Paxton,” the judge replied. “I’m betting Mr. Paxton will agree to sign. If he does, and you persist in these theatrics, I’ll lock you up and give him leave to depart for No Name with his child while you’re behind bars.”

  David opened his mouth to protest. He shut it again. The judge had in effect ruled in his favor. It just bothered him that Brianna was right. This wasn’t legal. He hadn’t set out to force her to marry him. He’d only wanted to be a part of his daughter’s life and make sure both mother and child were cared for properly.

  Before David could decide what to do, Brianna stepped to the desk, snatched up the pen, and furiously signed her name at the bottom of each document. As she straightened, she shot David a look so searing it could have ignited waterlogged wood. David hesitated for only an instant, and then, shifting Daphne on his hip, bent to affix his signature below hers. Bingham added his John Hancock as a witness. The judge rolled his brass stamp over the pad and pressed the state seal onto both papers, making the union official. Then he signed as well. His plump jowls curving in a satisfied grin, he wa
ved the documents to dry the ink, folded them, and handed one to David.

  “For safekeeping, Mr. Paxton,” he said with a rolling belch. “I suggest you guard it well. If Mrs. Paxton gets her hands on it, she will most likely destroy it.” He fixed a narrowed eye on Brianna. “That would be folly, madam, for the marriage will become a matter of court record the first thing Monday morning.” He tucked his copy inside his suit jacket. “You are rightly and truly married to the man now. All mistakes of the past are wiped clean. Rejoice in the fact that this upstanding gentleman has made an honest woman of you.”

  David collected his other papers from the desk and tucked the lot, along with the marriage document and photograph, into his bag. He moved Daphne to his opposite hip and draped the leather pouches over his shoulder. Before he and Brianna could turn from the desk, the judge sloshed more whiskey into his glass and invited the marshal to join him in a few more hands of poker.

  David couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what had just happened. In a haze of disbelief, he escorted his bride from the marshal’s office. Deep twilight had descended. As they gained the boardwalk, a chuff of icy air buffeted them, making Daphne shiver in her cloak. Brianna drew her shawl close, her shoulders rigid, her face stark white in the faint light. David expected her to turn on him and let fly with furious accusations. He’d heard some pretty crazy stories about rigged hearings, but he’d never heard of any judge pronouncing a marriage valid without even performing a ceremony. Surely the union was illegal. Hell, Afton hadn’t even bothered to call in a second witness off the street. But he wasn’t about to tell Brianna that.