Coming Home

The judge demanded to know what basis my morals were being questioned upon. He specifically asked Mabel. She stood up and pompously procrlaimed that I had been seen in an indelicate position with my boarder, the known man, that I had been carrying on with him for only goodness knows how long. She speculated that I had driven off Mr. Cline the schoolteacher with my demands for comfort. There was the insinuation that I had spent a few days alone with Mr. Jordan. She even brought up the number of times I had spoken pleasantly with the soiled doves from Madame French's. This was followed by more speculation about when I would be joining them, and how I would need a firm guiding hand to keep me from the wayward path.

Judge Lincoln looked less impressed with Mabel Wilkins with every word she uttered, or so I would like to think. Finally, he had had enough of her gossip, as had I. He slammed his fist onto the altar and turned to me. He indicated that I should follow him. Mr. Brockwell demanded that he be allowed to accompany me, but he was told to sit down and shut up. In the office the Judge sat me down and thoroughly questioned me regarding my activities with various boarders, the soiled doves, and finally with Mr. Jordan. I was as candidly honest as possible considering the delicate topic. I did not feel lying to Judge Lincoln would help my case. He inquired as to the state of the trust Jack had created and my spending habits. The final question caught me quite by surprise. He asked me if I loved Matthew Jordan. That gave me pause, then with a maudlin smile I could not remove, I told him unequivocably, yes. He considered this for a moment or two, then sent me back to the pew. A few minutes later he entered as well and resumed his place in the pulpit. Mabel threw me a mean spirited smug smile, sure that he could not help but rule in her favor.

Judge Lincoln stared mercilessly at Mabel Wilkins until she began to squirm in her seat. She cast me a vile glare. He castigated her in public for rumor-mongering. He gave her a set down that was like God passing judgement to the sinners of Sodom and Gomorrah. He repudated her for wasting the court's valuable time with frivolous women's notions. He then turned upon Mr. Wilkins and demanded that he take his wife in hand and make her cease and desist her troublemaking. He called her an old biddy, a nosy hen, and any number of names. By the time he was done setting her down she was near tears and the court was laughing uproariously. When he had quite finished with her, he turned his attentions to Mr. Spivey. With every word about ridiculous lawsuits, catering to nosy old biddies, and self-aggrandizement, Mr. Spivey sunk lower and lower into his chair. The most tittilating point was when Judge Lincoln called Mr. Spivey a "disgrace to the profession." I was hard-pressed not to laugh. Mr. Spivey sent me me the most vitriolic gaze, as if it were all my fault. I did so try not to smirk, but I do believe I failed. He had received a well-deserved comeuppance.

Now that the trial is over and I'm not quite the fallen woman I had been merely an hour before, the Reverend and Mrs. Mullgrew invited me over for dinner this evening. I shall join them after checking with Betsy, to see if she'd received any word from Will or Mr. Jordan.

November 10, 1874

It is interesting how events change the way people behave. After my vindication at my trial, Mr. Brockwell, Judge Lincoln, and I joined Reverend Mullgrew and his wife for dinner that evening. After dinner Mr. Brockwell saw me home. I paid him his well deserved fee and waved goodbye. I spent a moment on the veranda, staring off toward Angel Canyon. Wherever Will and Mr. Jordan were, I could only pray that they were safe. Opening the door, I went inside.

I was grabbed by my hair, a hand clamping over my mouth. My assailant forced me into my parlor and ripped at my dress, tearing the damask. I had never felt fear like I'd felt in the miserable moment. He shoved me face first onto the floor, pressing my cheek to the rug. My skirts were torn, tossed up over my back. The cool air washed against the backs of my thighs as my drawers were yanked down. I struggled against his weight, inhaling to scream. It was stopped cold at the sound of a pistol being cocked. The unmistakable sound of metal scraping metal, a hammer being cocked back and the cylinder of the pistol turning. My blood ran cold and I whimpered with fear. My attacker growled things at me that I didn't understand. His voice was guttural, barely recognizable. It was familiar, but the harshness prevented me from pinpointing his identity.

I heard him paw at his trousers, then felt the rough fabric against the insides of my thighs. I could not help myself, even to save life and limb. I screamed at the absolute atrocity of someone trying to violate what Mr. Jordan had made so beautiful. Once I began screaming, I simply could not cease.

The front door crashed open, sounding like a a gunshot. There were shouts from the man above me and the man who crashed through door, it sounded rather like Will. An inhuman roar, rather like I fancied a lion would make, exploded through the parlor moments before the man upon my back was knocked off. My assailant turned out to be Mr. Spivey. Mr. Jordan picked Mr. Spivey up by the scruff of the neck and pitched him in the direction of the door. Mr. Jordan stomped after him, once again picking him up and sending his fist crashing into Mr. Spivey's groin. Mr. Spivey made a horrible howl and doubled over. He was sent crashing backwards through my already abused front door by another blow from Mr. Jordan. The bellow of rage Mr. Jordan made fairly rattled the windows. He took a step toward Mr. Spivey, to do further damage to his person no doubt, when Will tackled him from behind. He was wrestled to the ground and, after a shockingly violent scuffle, subdued. Will, who also happens to be our town constable, bellowed instructions for the disposing of Mr. Spivey behind bars. He was having such difficulty holding the roaring Mr. Jordan down that he required help from Mr. McGillicutty, the blacksmith.

Suddenly aware that my skirts were tossed up and my private area was visible to all and sundry, I sat, curling upon myself to hide my shame. Mr. Jordan would not want me now. Tears came to my eyes and I could not help but whimper. Even the incredibly strong Mr. McGillicutty was unable to hold Mr. Jordan back. Abruptly Mr. Jordan's arms were around me and he was cradling me to him as securely as a mother cradles her babe. The tears came harder, he still wanted me. Moments later we were surrounded by people. Betsy and Irma Gray pulled me from him with some difficulty and ushered me to my room. Even though I had already bathed that morning, I felt filthy and demanded a fresh bath. After, I dressed, anxious to return to Mr. Jordan. His presence would make me clean again.

My Mr. Jordan was awaiting me on the veranda, surrounded by several townspeople. He expressed great sorrow that he had left me in such a pickle. He begged my forgiveness. Instantly I gave it. He then dropped to bended knee, collecting my cold hand between his warm ones. He had not wished to ask me this under such circumstances, however, he had intended to ask me anyway, a few months from now, when his ranch was fully built. He kissed my knuckles and asked me for my hand in marriage.

This wonderful, magnificent man wanted me.

He ignored those gathered around us and spoke with a fervency that bespoke his love. The tears rolled unheeded down my cheeks as he enumerated my many virtues, things I hadn't even thought existed. He loved my wit, my charm, my intellect, and my great beauty. He adored my fortitude, my strength, and the virtuous morality I carried myself with. I cried without thought to my dignity when he proclaimed that I was the most ravishing woman he had ever encountered, both in person and in character. From the first moment he had seen me, he had to have me; from the first moment he had me, he could never let me go.

I dropped to my knees before him, heedless of everyone surrounding us, and found myself swept into the sweetest of embraces. His lips met mine and we clung to each other. Yes, oh yes, a thousand times yes I wanted to shout, but could only inadequately whisper between desperate kisses. Being held so tightly to his heart, his arms wrapped so firmly around me, was like my dream with my faceless man. The smell of soft pine and the sound of the clear Rocky Mountain stream seemed to be all around us as he grew a face, the face of my Matthew.

It was like coming home.