Linda Castle - Heart Of The Lawman

Suddenly rough hands jerked Marydyth around, and she raised her hands to protect herself. As she struggled, the moonlight coming through, she felt the edge of a blade.

The complicated machinery started to turn right after Flynn met with the territorial governor. He had moved as quickly as he could, but he had been careful to make sure that nobody knew what he was doing.

He didn’t want to see the Hollenbeck name dragged through the newspapers again. And he intended to talk to Marydyth first.

Prison changed people and he wanted to make sure that the woman coming out of Yuma had the same kind of affection for Rachel as the one that went in.

Marydyth was innocent, the indicting voice of his conscience kept reminding him.

He shook his head, not allowing himself to dwell on that too long. Flynn could not change the past, but he was doing everything he could to change the future—Rachel’s future.

Protecting Rachel was his only thought. She deserved to meet her mother under the best of circumstances. He made arrangements for Rachel to stay with Victoria, under the care of her nurse and housekeeper, so he could ride to Tombstone to meet Marydyth to make certain the woman would be good for Rachel. He wanted to have a talk with her first, to prepare her for the changes that had taken place while she was gone and the way things would have to be for the future.

It wasn’t a chore he was looking forward to.

Marydyth dragged her hand across her forehead to wipe away some of the sweat. Her dry throat begged for water, but it was hours until the guard would ring the watering bell. Until then she was expected to toil in the inferno of the prison laundry silently.

Or else suffer the consequences.

A strand of her short, jaggedly cut hair fell into her eyes. She impatiently nudged at it with the back of her wrist, breaking her rhythm on the washboard for only a second. When she thought of the horror of her hair being sliced away by that wicked blade, a hot burning pain constricted her throat.

She had thought she was going to die that night.

Had been sure that her throat would be the next target of the blade. But the poor demented woman who attacked her had only wanted the blond curls. After she had them in her trembling hands she had shrunk against the adobe wall, cackling and mumbling incoherently. Marydyth had felt nothing but pity for her when the guards came to drag her away.

Marydyth shoved away the soft thoughts and rubbed the cloth hard against the cake of strong lye soap, then she dipped it and repeated the process. Steam rose from the water. Her flesh burned as she washed the garment.

She had no more pity for the woman—or for herself. It was not something she could afford to have in here.

Pain was not a sensation she responded to any longer either. Her fingers bled in spots while she rubbed the fabric along the perforated ridges of the scrub board, then rinsed it in the scalding water. Doing the prison laundry was considered a privilege by the committees and people who came to visit the facility, but in truth it was like toiling in the humid bowels of hell.

Marydyth’s stomach growled. She wondered what time it was. In the dim confines of adobe walls five and half feet thick there was no way of knowing. Being inside Yuma was like being entombed alive. She felt as if she had been swallowed by the earth. There was no light, no air.

And no way out—ever.

She bit her lip. Only by concentrating on the repetitious task in front of her was she able to slow the pace of her pounding heart. A drop of sweat dripped from the end of her nose. She watched it fall on the stone floor beside her foot, wetting the dust for a moment before it dried away.

Today the heat was searing but tonight when the sun went down the prison would turn freezing cold. She would shiver in her bunk with the thin blanket pulled up to her chin and she would dream.

Her life had settled into a routine of suffering. The only thing that kept her from taking her own life to end the torment of this place was the memory of her beautiful child.

Rachel.

She whispered the name aloud, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice. A smile tugged at her dry lips causing them to crack and sting.

She didn’t care. Thinking of Rachel was like having enough to eat and drink. It was like being clean, and not lying awake in terrorized exhaustion, waiting for a dirty guard to come or another prisoner to hack off her hair.

Rachel was the only bright spot in Marydyth’s existence.

She clung to the hope that God might take pity upon her and let her see Rachel again someday.

Hadn’t she paid enough for her crime? Wasn’t the time she had missed with Rachel enough to pay for what she had done?

Marydyth finished scrubbing Superintendent Behan’s shirt and folded it end over end, twisting the material until a steady stream of water gushed out. When it was wrung as dry as she could get it, she tossed it into another tub of clear water to rinse. Over and over she repeated the task—scrubbing, wringing, rinsing.

She had not had a change of clean clothes in so long she could not count, but Superintendent Behan wore a clean shirt every day, just like Superintendent Gates before him and Superintendent Ingalls before that. She had counted the march of days and months through three different superintendents.

How many more she would see come and go before she died within these earthen walls?

Memories of her life in Hollenbeck Corners rose unbidden to her mind. Images of her fine clothes and the house J.C. had built for her flashed through her consciousness. She had been rich, and, if not liked by the townspeople, she had at least been respected for the position her husband held. But that was long ago, before Flynn O’Bannion had found the Wanted posters. Before the terrible thing she had done came back to haunt her, before God found a way to punish her for her sins.

Marydyth shook herself and focused on the washing, forcing her emotions to the edges of her mind. When she was sure the blaze of rage was subdued, she allowed herself to think again.

It was odd. When she came to Yuma she was a bundle of emotions. Then she slowly changed. First her compassion had died, followed by her ability to feel pain. The only defense against the crushing brutality inside these walls had been to stop caring, stop feeling. Marydyth had been thankful when she stopped experiencing those emotions, it made each day more bearable. She had allowed herself to retain only two emotions in this place; her love for Rachel and her hatred of Marshal Flynn O’Bannion. Two emotions, as different as hot from cold or ice from fire, but both had kept her sane.

And both were of equal measure and intensity. She hated Flynn with the same passion that she loved Rachel.

Marydyth was bent over the washtub when the short hair at the back of her neck prickled.

She stiffened, suddenly alert and aware. Living in this pesthole had required her to develop senses and hone instincts she had never known she possessed. Even when she had been on the run after Blaine had forced her to marry Andre, she had not felt as hunted as she did within these walls.

She gripped the sides of the washboard, ready to use it as a cudgel to defend herself. She partially turned, keeping the tub of hot water at her back for protection.

Marydyth met the fetid breath and unwashed stench of one of the prison guards. “Superintendent wants to see you in his office.”

The information refused to register in Marydyth’s brain. “See me? Why?”

“If I knew, I sure as hell wouldn’t be tellin’. Come on.” She received a bruising prod from the thick oak stick the guard carried.

“Move out,” he barked.