The girl brightened and took another bite of her toast, so Jeremiah availed himself of the eggs on his plate. After a few moments of silent eating, questions began to push once again toward his mouth. "So Lalita is your good friend, then?"
Nellie actually smiled. "She is my best friend. She is so much fun, and she's teaching me to sew, too! Papa said at first that she was staying with us because she had nowhere else to go, but now he wants—" Her face became suddenly like flint, and she went back to eating.
"What does your papa want?"
Nellie shook her head, still looking at her plate. "I promised not to tell."
Jeremiah hitched a brow but let it go. After he'd swallowed another bite, he tried coming at the topic of Lalita Torres from another angle. He wondered if she had made the same claims of the future to the little girl that she'd made to Tate. "So from what your papa said, it seems that Lalita showed up here quite out of the blue. Did she say where she came from?"
Nellie drank her milk then wiped her mouth on a napkin. "Mm, she talks about Missouri a lot."
"I see. Has she tried contacting her family?"
Nellie slipped out of her chair and picked up her plate and glass. "She says it's no use. They're not there anymore."
Jeremiah nodded as Nellie took her dirty dishes to the kitchen. He sat, sipping his coffee, wondering if Tate would mind if he visited Lalita at the jail. He had been so intrigued by the doctor's letter, he'd caught the next train to the area. Her delusions, if he could treat them, could be the very thing he needed to break into publication. And if her mental disorder had somehow landed her in jail, it would make an even more dramatic story.
He finished his coffee then informed Mrs. Kettler and the young Nell that he'd be stepping out.
***
Still in shock, Lalita was sitting on the small, hard bunk in her cell. Thankfully, there was only one other person in the jail at the time, his snoring broadcasting the fact that he had yet to awaken.
Seth Dickson had played his part in this charade like a pro. Limping and wincing into the building, he asked her one more time, before he put his name to the assault charges, if she'd really rather go to jail than his home. Her steely glare hadn't seemed to penetrate his thick skull one iota, however, as he was smiling as he signed.
After the jail cell door had clanked shut behind her, she'd heard him tell the marshal to be sure and call him when she changed her mind. The marshal had seemed as disgusted with his ploy as Lalita, warning that this whole thing could backfire on him.
Lalita didn't have to wonder at the meaning of that. If the judge finds me guilty, I could be sentenced to prison.
Even though it wasn't yet mid-morning, she felt weary. She looked over at the blankets and wondered when they'd been washed last. She leaned back against the brick wall, hoping that Tate had found her a lawyer. She did not want to spend the night here.
Voices brought her out of a fog, and she sat up, realizing that she must have dozed off. The door to the marshal's front office opened, and he walked in followed by the doctor that had just shown up at Tate's house right before they left. She rose as the two came toward her cell.
The doctor smiled as he swept off his bowler. "Miss Torres, I'm wondering if I might keep you company while Dr. Cavanaugh is working toward your release."
Lalita didn't know why that brought tears to her eyes. She nodded, and the marshal unlocked her cell, letting the tall, impeccably dressed man in. He bid her sit, and he took one of the straight-backed chairs that had been affixed to the floor on either side of a small table bolted down in similar fashion.
She sat back down on the bunk. "I'm sorry that your visit has been complicated by all this. Tate said you came down from Denver. Did you work together?"
Dr. Fischer clasped his hands on the table. "Not exactly. We met in one of the men's clubs, and then later, I treated his wife."
Lalita's eyes narrowed. "Why wouldn't Tate treat his own wife? Since he's a doctor too."
The dark-haired man smoothed his mustache with a thumb and forefinger and brought them together at his chin. "We are in different fields. I'm a psychologist."
A light came on in Lalita's head, and all at once she realized why Dr. Fischer had paid them a visit. "You didn't come to see Tate, did you? You came to see me."
He studied her for a moment before resting his hand once again on the table. "Yes. Dr. Cavanaugh wrote me a letter about you. I was so fascinated by what he wrote, I had to come see you for myself."
Lalita blinked. What does Tate want me to say to this man? She knew he'd written the letter before he believed her story. He'd wanted to help her, but now that help could be detrimental. She mustered up a smile. "I'm afraid you've made a long trip for nothing, Dr. Fischer. When Dr. Cavanaugh wrote to you, I was still having some memory problems and general confusion that has mostly cleared up now." She rose, hoping he'd see it as a dismissal of sorts.
He didn't. "So you're feeling much better now? Tell me, how did you end up in Dr. Cavanaugh's care?"
"That's where I still have a few holes in my memory, but I was evidently knocked out by a close bolt of lightning when I was up on Pikes Peak." Now feeling awkward, standing, she walked to the bars. "Some men brought me to the doctor, and I've been there, recovering, ever since."
Dr. Fischer slid out from behind the table. "You were knocked out by the lightning." The lanky fellow sat on the table itself. "You didn't ride it a hundred years into the past."
She leaned back against the metal, feeling more trapped by Dr. Fischer's scrutiny than the bars themselves.
He folded his arms across his chest. "So what is your assessment of the town? Is it similar to other places you've been?"
"Oh, it's much more beautiful than most, wouldn't you say?"
The doctor's eyes narrowed a hair. "Do you keep a book of predictions that you claim are things that have already happened?"
Lalita feigned shock. "Oh dear, I do hope Dr. Cavanaugh didn't trouble you with any of those! For a few days, I thought my dreams were memories." She grinned. "And I've been known to have some pretty wild dreams."
He uncrossed his arms and gripped the edge of the table. "But you've made a complete recovery in less than a week from some of the strangest delusions I've ever heard of."
Lita pushed away from the bars, feeling more than a little annoyed. "Yes, evidently." She rubbed her hands together, feeling her smile starting to droop. "If I've answered all your questions…"
The doctor didn't move. "So why are you here? I had assumed that your mental condition had somehow gotten you in trouble, but if you are completely recovered, then—"
Lalita sat on the bunk once more. "Not completely recovered. As I said, there are still a few things I can't remember." She rubbed her temple. "But that has nothing to do with why I'm in jail. I'm here on assault charges."
Dr. Fischer's brows did a speedy climb. "The blond man who—"
"Yes. He had me cornered in the carriage house, and I gave him my knee."
The doctor grimaced. After a moment or two, he shook his head. "Well, Miss Torres, I wouldn't be too quick to claim recovery. In this world of male judges and juries, delusion may be your best defense."
***
Tate was waiting in the office of Claude Watt, Attorney at Law.
Having risen early to get Lita down the road, he hadn't really realized that he was premature for most business until he arrived at the office and found it locked. Making note of the opening time on the sign, he took the opportunity to break his fast at Cliff House before returning.
There was another lawyer in town, but he had found Mr. Watt to be professional and trustworthy when his wife had taken her own life, handling all the necessary documents with efficiency and the utmost discretion.
He'd only arrived five minutes past the hour, but in that time someone had slipped in ahead of hi
m. As the clock ticked toward ten o'clock, Tate ground his teeth, trying to resist the urge to ask the woman at the desk a second time when the attorney would be free. She didn't know the first time. She won't know now.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. As soon as the reverend suggested you would ruin Lita by keeping her in your house, you should have driven her to the Justice of the Peace. He blinked his eyes open, reminding himself that with the wagon accident, he would have had no time to do that anyway. Was that just yesterday?
Exasperated with the delay, he blew out a breath and rose just as a door opened down a short hall, and a man came out, followed by Mr. Watt. Both were dressed for business, although Watt's suit seemed to speak of more money in its tailoring.
The two exchanged goodbyes; then Watt's eye landed on Tate. "Ah, Dr. Cavanaugh, to what to I owe this visit?"
Tate extended his hand to the balding lawyer, whose graying mustache had been twisted into an impressive handlebar. "Mr. Watt, I was hoping to speak to you on a matter of some importance."
Watt nodded, then moved to his secretary's desk. "Maggie, when's my next appointment?"
The brunette stopped typing and checked a book on her desk. "Nothing until afternoon—Mr. Ellis at two o'clock."
Watt nodded and waved Tate back to his office. "Have a seat." He sat behind a large, mahogany desk and leaned back with his hands clasped at his waist. "What can I do for you, Doc?"
Tate sat in one of the leather chairs that faced him, trying to hide his desperation behind an air of professionalism. "I'm here to solicit your representation for a patient of mine—a Miss Lalita Torres."
Watt leaned forward and began to write on a pad of paper in front of him. "Why does the lady need representation?"
Tate took a deep breath before beginning.
***
"Are you sure you want to do that?"
Jeremiah Fischer looked at the chess board and saw immediately that his queen was in danger. "Ah, I see. Well, I concede the next move to you."
Lalita took the opposing queen with her bishop. "Since I've never played with you before, Dr. Fischer, I don't know whether to chalk that up to a lack of skill or a lack of mental focus."
Fischer smiled. "Ah, I think the acceptable excuse in the presence of a lady would usually be distraction, but since I am happily married, I will have to concede to the lack of skill."
She laughed. "You are slick. I think you left out one possibility. Distraction by vocation. I think you are trying to puzzle me out, and that leaves precious little brain power for chess."
He couldn't help but smile as he pondered his next move both on the chess board and in getting her to open up to him.
He'd never met a woman quite like Lalita Torres, and he felt certain she was not what she was pretending to be. Besides the shorter hair, she carried herself differently. Most women sat as if on exhibition in a museum—rigid and stiff—their smiles practiced, their gestures underpronounced. Their clothing and elaborate hats say "look at me," while their demeanor says, "but not too long."
Not so Lalita Torres. She walked, sat, even slouched, in a stylish dress that seemed to be lacking the stiff undergarments that packed other women in and held them up should they grow weary. Though she had a nice figure, he could tell she was not cinched in as his wife insisted on being until she could barely breathe. No, this woman moved freely, unaware that her freedom was provocative, her expressions too unrestrained, her words bolder than was considered good politesse. Perhaps it's the Indian heritage.
He knew she was hiding something, but at the same time, it seemed obvious that she wasn't used to hiding. Her voice across the table brought his mind back to the game. "If you don't hurry up, I'm going to fall asleep over here. Dr. Cavanaugh got me up rather early this morning."
He moved a pawn forward. "Oh? Did you have plans other than jail today?"
Lalita's eyes showed a moment of sadness before she looked down at the chess board. "We did."
"An early morning picnic?" At her questioning stare, he went on. "I noticed the basket by the door."
She took his pawn with one of her own. "Are you sure you're not a detective instead of a shrink?"
Fischer cocked his head, squinting, "A shrink?"
The brown eyes across from him blinked twice. "You've never heard that term for a psychiatrist?" She bent her head over the game board. "It's pretty common in Kansas City."
Fischer sat back and crossed his arms? "How does the term apply?"
She didn't look at him. "Uh… I think it comes from 'head shrinker,' but I'm not really sure."
"Well, that's hardly flattering."
Lalita shrugged like an insolent teenager. "Don't ask me. I didn't come up with it."
Fischer moved his rook. "I'm not so sure."
That brought her gaze back to him. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"Your good doctor mentioned that you often spoke words, phrases, even whole paragraphs that he couldn't comprehend."
She looked back at the board, making a quick move that put her bishop in danger. "I told you, that was before—when things were foggy."
He took her bishop. "And yet, you just confused me."
She sat back, and he could see he had her riled. "Well, isn't that just typical of this oppressive era. A woman couldn't possibly utter something that a man might not know about."
"Which era do you prefer, Miss Torres?"
Her glare was interrupted by the marshal, carrying a plate of food. "I'm sorry, Dr. Fischer, but I'm only allowed to serve the prisoner. You'll have to find your lunch elsewhere."
Fischer rose, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. "Ah, yes, well I don't suppose you'd allow me to return this afternoon, Miss Torres?"
"I think I'll be resting after lunch, Doctor. I'm suddenly tired."
He smiled. "As you wish. Here's hoping that Dr. Cavanaugh can secure your release in a timely manner."
Leaving the jail, Fischer donned his bowler and made his way to his rented buggy, pondering the woman he'd left behind. He could see why Tate had been baffled. She was a riddle even without any confessions of time travel. Unhitching the horse, he climbed aboard the buggy and pointed her toward the business district to find some lunch, itching to speak with Tate.
***
"What did you find out?" Lalita was on her feet the moment Tate, followed by Claude Watt, came through the door.
Tate gave a sideways glance to the marshal as he unlocked her cell and waited until he was back in his office before speaking. "Miss Torres, this is Mr. Watt. He has agreed to represent you."
Lita looked nigh unto panic. "Do I need representing? I thought you were going to get me out of here."
Tate nodded, resisting the urge to take her in his arms. "That was our hope, but we are having a difficult time reaching the judge in Colorado Springs. There is evidently a trial underway, making it impossible to gain an audience to determine bail. Mr. Watt will keep trying, but—" Tate found it difficult to go on. He swallowed hard. "But should the hour get too late, you may have to spend the night."
Lita's eyes misted over, but she bravely blinked the tears away. "Okay."
He took her by the elbow and steered her toward the table and chairs, at the same time waving his newly acquired lawyer to the other side. "Mr. Watt needs to ask you questions about the incident in the carriage house, and in the meantime, I'm heading over to the saddlery to see if I can talk some sense into Dickson."
He paused but a moment, then called for the marshal to let him out.
***
Mrs. Kettler had hurried Nellie through the store, sending her mood straight into pouting. Lalita lets me look at things.
Only when Mrs. Atkins stopped Mrs. Kettler right next to the apples to ask her about something she'd heard at the Ladies Aid meeting, did Nellie get to pause, although she would have chosen the side of the store that held penny candy sticks if she planned on lingering anywhere at all.
Her attention was caught however at the nam
e Torres. Mrs. Kettler was filling in everything Mrs. Atkins hadn't heard about Lalita's trip to the jail, and unlike what she told Nellie on almost a daily basis, she was not thinking before she spoke. Nor was she being kind.
All sorts of "secrets" tumbled out of Mrs. Kettler's mouth, including the beautiful flowers on Lalita's shoulder, and instead of wishing for their own as Nellie did, they said terrible things about her friend and said she was a bad woman who deserved time in jail.
And once again, Nellie wanted to cry.
***
Tate strode into the saddlery, the smell of leather hitting his nose like a locomotive. William was cutting a thick piece with a knife, while Max was sitting on a stool stitching a saddle that looked nearly complete.
They looked up when he entered, and Tate forced a smile he didn't feel. "William, Max…" He craned his neck trying to see into a back room. "I don't suppose your father's here?"
Seth Dickson appeared through a side door before either of his sons could answer. "Doc, what took you so long? I thought sure you'd be here before lunch."
Tate's anger only surged with Dickson's flippant attitude, but he didn't want to have it out with the man in front of his sons. His lip twitched. "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"
Dickson walked across the room to pick up a carved piece of wood that would form the seat of a saddle. "Sorry, Doc, I don't really have the time. What with business and" —he looked back at Tate over his shoulder— "other plans."
Tate stepped forward. "These other plans… have you shared them with your sons?"
Seth looked from one to the other. "Not yet, but they'll find out soon."
Max and William exchanged baffled looks, the older pausing in his work. "What kind of plans, Pa?"
Any other time, Tate would be loathe to get in the middle of a family disagreement, but Dickson not only put him in a position to be in the middle, he handed Tate a match to light a fire under it. I gave him a chance to talk privately. "Your father plans to marry Miss Torres."
Both boys' eyes grew wide, and Max immediately rose, grabbing his crutches leaning nearby. "You want to marry her? You're old enough to be her pa!"