Chapter One
Pearsonsville, East Texas near Cedar Bayou, January 3, 1873
Rosalyn Vandagraff stood on her cot to peer out the cell window. Dark clouds gathering in the west matched her desolate mood. Beside the jail, two men constructed a gallows--the one on which she’d hang tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. She hadn’t believed a heart could actually break, but previous events had accomplished that feat. So much for justice in this town.
One of the workmen spotted her. “You should’na poisoned your man. Hanging serves you right.”
She called to the second man, “You know I’m innocent, don’t you, Tom?”
Tom refused to look at her. “Ain’t up to me. I’ll lose my job ‘less we get finished up ‘fore that storm hits.”
She stepped down from the cot. What was the use? She tugged her shawl tighter against the winter chill. In less than twenty-four hours she’d be dead and her thoughtless brother-in-law would gain custody of her daughter.
The thought of shy, gentle Lucy governed by that man drove Rosalyn into a panic of misery and despair. A girl—especially one barely seven years old—needed her mother. Even a nanny as kind as Birdie was not the same.
Had one of her brothers-in-law poisoned Rosalyn’s husband, Robert? Would Lucy meet with a so-called accident so her share of the Vandagraff’s many business interests would go to her guardian? Rosalyn barely suppressed screams from the anguish wracking her body.
The jail’s front door opened and Rosalyn turned. The sheriff looked toward the door, but remained at his desk near the stove. Through the cell bars, she spotted Birdie, her former nanny and now Lucy’s, rush in carrying Rosalyn’s dinner. She hardly needed food at this point, but seeing the warm caramel skin and soft brown eyes of the woman who’d raised her offered much needed comfort.
Sheriff Boudreau gestured Birdie to his desk. “Here now, woman, let me check that. Smells downright good enough to eat.” He laughed at his supposed cleverness.
Birdie bristled but set her basket in front of him. “You know it’s just Miz Vandagraff’s supper.”
“Gotta be sure you’re not smugglin’ in any weapons. Fried chicken. Well, well, I sure do like your cooking, and fried chicken is my favorite.” He poked around in the basket’s contents with his grubby paws. After he plucked a couple of drumsticks from the food, he waved her on toward the cells.
Birdie retrieved the hamper and stomped toward Rosalyn. The kindly, but angry, woman thrust the basket near the bars and whispered, “Don’t you worry. I made extra ‘cause I knew that scoundrel would steal some. An’ I knew he’d pick those drumsticks, so I didn’t but half cook them.”
Since Birdie had gone to the trouble of preparing her meal, Rosalyn took a wishbone, and forced herself to take a bite. Birdie was the best cook in the world, but under these horrid circumstances, the normally tempting scent of fried chicken only nauseated her knotted stomach.
“Here now, child, you stop nibbling and eat up. You ain’t been eatin’ enough to keep a bird alive and you got to keep up your strength.”
“I’m sorry, Birdie, but I’m not hungry. Why should I bother to eat? I can’t think of anything but Lucy.” Tears filled her eyes, even though she’d thought she’d cried them all out by now. “Have you had an answer to the telegram Luther sent the governor?”
“Luther done rode to Jefferson to check, but no wire come. I know if you was to get a fair trial, you’d go free.”
Her last vestige of hope dissolved. Whoever killed her husband had won. Her life was over, and her precious daughter would be an orphan. Agony would kill Rosalyn before the gallows outside had its chance.
