Crossing Hope (Cross Creek Series Book 4) Read online

  “Well!” Judge Abernathy sat, propping her elbows on the large oak bench from which she presided and dropping her chin into her palms with an excited grin. Christ, Greyson was screwed. “I have to tell y’all, this is more hullabaloo than I’ve had in my courtroom since Matty Beaumont got that burr under his saddle and drove his tractor through the side of Silas Gardner’s barn. S’pose Silas should’ve known better than to load up on Harley Martin’s moonshine and tell half the town that Matty’s old basset hound is prettier than his wife. Anyhoo!” She clucked her tongue as she shifted back to riffle through a few sheets of paper that had been placed on the bench in front of her. “Shoplifting. Unpaid parking tickets. My, my. Y’all have been misbehaving, haven’t you?”

  The mischief in Judge Abernathy’s tone, and everything it implied as she linked Marley and Greyson together with her stare made Greyson’s face go hot.

  “Not together,” he said, his mouth pressing into a hard line as he punctuated his lightning-quick claim with, “Ma’am.”

  Marley stiffened and went saucer-eyed beside him on the bench as she shook her head, and at least there was one thing they agreed on. A noise of protest sounded off from behind them, a grumble of disdain that Greyson would bet his left nut belonged to Eli Cross and had been launched at the mere suggestion of impropriety regarding his sister, who—news flash—wasn’t exactly a delicate flower, but hey. Whatever helped the jackass sleep at night.

  “Order in the court,” Orville interrupted, giving Greyson some high-octane stink-eye from his spot next to the judge’s bench. “Don’t address the judge until your case has been called and you’re standing before her, son.”

  Greyson knew—God, he knew—that pushing was a bad idea. Borderline stupid, really. But the word ‘son’ burrowed deep, trapping his breath in his throat and daring him over the line.

  Before he could say anything, though, Judge Abernathy waved a hand through the air. “Ah, right. All these formalities. I suppose we should get this party started properly. Orville, why don’t you call Mr. Whittaker’s case, here, so he and I can get down to business?”

  Marley snorted, mostly under her breath. “What ever happened to ladies first?”

  “Order,” Orville snapped, and Greyson’s patience went along for the ride. He had a farm to get back to, land that needed tending and work that needed done. Not to mention the shit he’d have to endure from his old man once he caught wind of what had happened today. All Marley had to do was go back up to that big ol’ farmhouse, high on the hill at Cross Creek, and do…whatever it was she’d been doing there for the last nine months, while her old man probably coddled her into next fucking week.

  He pushed without a second thought. “Ladies first only applies when there are ladies present. As it stands, I don’t see any.”

  Greyson instantly recognized the words as meaner than most. The bitter taste they had left in his mouth told him so, and the sharp pang in his stomach seconded the motion.

  One corner of Marley’s mouth lifted, and wait…

  “You know,” she murmured, and yep, sure as the sun came up in the morning and the roosters crowed along with it, she was smiling. “That is, by far, the most intelligent thing you have said all day. I’m not a lady. In fact, I’m not even close. And don’t you forget it.”

  For a beat, then one more, they sat there, their stares locking them together as if they were gravity itself, some law of nature far bigger than either of them could fight. Greyson’s heart thundered in his rib cage, pressing his pulse in a wild rush against his eardrums, and even though he’d normally rather be up to his hips in pure manure than back down, he averted his eyes first.

  She still looked hungry.

  Orville crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Judge Abernathy, who apparently had to give the actual order for him to act before he could do it. Greyson had torn his stare away from Marley’s just in time for him to catch the look on the judge’s face, and an icy ball of dread the size of a cantaloupe formed in his gut.

  Because now Judge Abernathy’s huge, Anime-cartoon eyes were lit with curiosity, and he knew better than to think he was getting out of this mess any time soon.

  5

  Marley couldn’t breathe. Technically, she knew there was nothing wrong with her lungs, nor any of the other anatomy required for the job. But when Greyson had fixed her with that stare, so dark and deep that she’d still be falling into it if he hadn’t had the sense to turn away, something had short-circuited in her system. It was as if, in that brief slice of a moment, he’d somehow managed not only to look at her, but to see her.

  No wonder he’d turned away.

  Marley forced herself to inhale, then stamped the thought into dust. She had so many other things to worry about right now. Bail. A trial date. The fact that her brothers had all looked at her with far more concern than anger as she’d walked into the courtroom.

  The way the judge was staring at her with enough curiosity to sink a cruise ship in about three minutes, start to finish.

  “My, my,” Judge Abernathy trilled, an impish smile shaping her mouth. “That was quite the exchange. I reckon I should’ve expected it, seeing as how one of you is a Whittaker and the other a Cross. Dogs and cats have more affection for each other than y’all.”

  “My last name is Rallston. I’m not a Cross,” Marley said, the words sailing out of her by default, and the bailiff guy…Otis? No, Orville, let out an exasperated huff.

  But Judge Abernathy simply tilted her head. “Nevertheless, here you are, acting like one. At least when it comes to present company.” Her humungous eyes traveled to Greyson, and she tapped a finger on the bench in front of her. “As a matter of fact, that gives me an interesting idea. Come on up here, you two. Before Orville here goes into apoplexy, and so I can holler at you both properly.”

  She lifted her hands, the long, black sleeves of her robe flapping around her birdlike arms as she motioned for them to come forward and stand at the large oak table on the left side of the courtroom, but all Marley could do was gape at the woman.

  Thankfully, Greyson seemed to be just as stunned as she was. “I’m sorry?” he asked. But Judge Abernathy simply raised a brow over the rims of her crazy glasses.

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Whittaker. You might be a lot of things, but I hardly think hearing impaired is one of them.”

  The prosecutor, who was a mirror image of the bailiff but for the suit and tie instead of the uniform that matched Lane’s, finally chose that moment to throw in his two cents from the right side of the courtroom. “I think, Judge, that perhaps what Mr. Whittaker is saying is that this is a bit, ah, unorthodox, as we’re here for two separate bail hearings for unrelated incidents.”

  Funny, none of that seemed to register with the old bird. “Psssh! Of course it’s unorthodox. It’s my courtroom. Don’t worry.” Judge Abernathy sighed heavily, dividing her glance between Orville and Vernon, who both wore matching expressions of here-we-go-again. “I might not be stodgy enough to do things in a customary manner, but it’ll all be on the up and up. I do know the law, after all.”

  She tapped her temple and winked, and oh God, she was serious.

  “This is crazy,” Marley whispered. She’d known Millhaven was backwards, but this took the crown. Not that she had any recourse, what with the whole having-been-arrested thing and all, and neither the prosecutor nor Lane argued with the judge’s request, so she pushed to her feet and followed Greyson to the defendant’s table.

  “There!” Judge Abernathy smiled brightly. “That’s so much better. Now, before we get to brass tacks”—the look she sent in Vernon’s direction read yes, bail—“there is one thing we need to address. Mr. Whittaker, if you don’t see a lady in front of you, you need to get yourself to Doc Sanders for an eye exam, sooner rather than later.”

  Greyson got as close to remorseful as he probably ever would, dropping his stubbled chin toward the marble floor. “My apologies. I didn’t mean you, ma’am.”

 
“Lord mercy, but you’ve got the sense of a goat,” Judge Abernathy said with a shake of her head. “I don’t mean me, either. I know exactly who you are, Greyson Whittaker. Your reputation precedes you, and there is that old saying about the apple and the tree.”

  Greyson went rigid beside her, and if Marley didn’t know any better, she’d have thought the words had hurt him. But since she was pretty sure he was all bravado and dark, dirty stares and not much else, she let a smile escape at his come-uppance.

  The gesture lasted for less than a heartbeat. “Oh, don’t be too quick with that smile, Miss Rallston. You’ve got a tree of your own, now, don’t you? It does make you two quite the interesting pair.”

  A flush of warmth stole over Marley’s face, creeping all the way up into her hairline and over her ears. “Respectfully, uh, ma’am?” Unsure of how else to avoid the bailiff’s death glare, she raised her hand, waiting until Judge Abernathy nodded before continuing. “But we’re so not a pair.”

  “Ah, but you both have a penchant for getting into a pickle, now, don’t you? Let’s see, here.” Scooping up the sheaf of papers in front of her, the judge slid her reading glasses lower on the bridge of her nose, her lips moving silently as she read. “Well. Given your reputation, Mr. Whittaker, I can’t say I’m surprised about these parking tickets. But we’ll get to that in a tick. As for you, Miss Rallston”—she peered at Marley—“I’ll admit to at least being curious.”

  Marley’s pulse knocked at her throat. She’d known this part, where the judge set bail and decided how to punish her, would suck. But it was still better than Sierra and her mom being pulled apart just because they couldn’t make ends meet, even if it cost her. Bracing herself, Marley waited for the judge to say something, to give up a dollar amount that would likely tempt her to cry (not that she’d ever dream of actually doing it in front of all these people—or, you know, anyone. Ever), or, God, worse yet, make her stay in jail for a little while first.

  She didn’t. Instead, the silence stretched through the courtroom until every single eye in the place had bored into Marley from some angle or another, and finally Judge Abernathy leaned forward.

  “That was your cue to tell me what happened at The Corner Market today, sugar bee.”

  “Oh.” A rush of embarrassment moved through Marley’s chest, partly from the duh factor and partly at having been called ‘sugar bee’ as a grown woman, by a grown woman. The less she said, the better, though, so she nodded at the papers between Judge Abernathy’s fingers. “Well, it’s just like it says in the arrest report, I guess.”

  “Sheriff Atlee is excellent at his job,” the judge agreed. “He’s written a very thorough account. But all things being equal, I’d like to hear this yarn straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon again, Judge, but…well, isn’t all of this better suited for an actual trial, rather than a bond hearing?”

  The thought of having to come back for an actual trial gave Marley a serious case of the shakes, and she struggled for an inhale that barely made the trip past her lips. God, couldn’t they just get it all over-with right now?

  Judge Abernathy smiled serenely at the man, and although it was soft enough for her to be the only one, she caught the “oh, shit” Greyson had let escape on a barely there whisper.

  “Mr. Stackhouse, let me ask you a question. Have I ever walked into your house and told you how to run the place? How to balance your bank statement, or what to have for Sunday supper?” Judge Abernathy asked.

  Vernon’s mouth fell open, his spine going stick-straight against the back of his chair. “Why, no, Your Honor. Of course not.”

  “Well, then, I’d thank you kindly for not interrupting and telling me how to run mine.” She turned back to Marley and asked, “Miss Rallston, are you certain you don’t want an attorney while I ask you a few questions? Because you’re not obligated to say a word, and if you’ve changed your mind, we can absolutely accommodate you.”

  The woman’s expression had turned genuine, so much so that Marley believed her, despite all the eccentricities she’d trotted out like a show pony since she’d taken the bench. But it was a question Marley could answer with ease. An attorney would only cost more time and money, and having one wouldn’t change one ounce of her answers or her situation, anyway. Better to just answer the judge’s questions and get on with it.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure.”

  “Alrighty, then.” Judge Abernathy looked at Vernon, who nodded in deference, then she leaned forward to refocus her gaze on Marley. “Now, where were we? Ah! You were telling me how you thought today was a good day for allegedly developing sticky fingers.”

  Marley froze. She hated lying—she’d never seen the point—and this woman might be nuts on toast, but she was a judge.

  Marley chose her words with caution. “Yes, ma’am.” Not a lie. That was the topic of conversation.

  The judge’s brows dipped. “You didn’t have anything better to do than put”—she paused, tilting her chin over the arrest report on the bench—“five cans of tuna fish, four cans of tomato soup, two packages of instant noodles, and a Snickers bar into your backpack and hightail it out of The Corner Market without paying for said groceries?”

  “It…seemed like a good idea at the time,” Marley said, and okay, yeah. She’d slanted the truth there with the heavy implication that she’d been the one to put the groceries in the backpack. But bending the truth with the store manager had seemed like a good idea at the time, and she still didn’t regret taking the blame. Since Sierra couldn’t take the blame without being taken from her mother, it would have to do.

  “I see,” Judge Abernathy said. “And is there anything you’d like to add to this account of what happened today?”

  “No, ma’am.” Marley’s rib cage tightened beneath her tank top, and she resisted the urge to fidget, even though it took a metric ton of effort.

  Surprisingly, the judge didn’t push. “Interesting,” was all she said before shifting her gaze to the spot where Lane stood in the gallery. “Sheriff Atlee, am I correct in assuming all of the groceries in question have been safely returned to their shelves at The Corner Market, undamaged?”

  Marley turned to look at him over her shoulder, just in time to catch his nod. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Oh, goodie. I do love it when retribution takes care of itself. Not that it means you’re off the hook, sugar bee. Nor you, Mr. Whittaker.”

  Again, Greyson tensed beside her, and again, Marley’s curiosity tripped despite the fact that she knew she shouldn’t care less about anything other than getting out of this predicament as unscathed as possible. “I’m not really sure what her shoplifting has to do with my parking tickets,” he said. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “And I didn’t break the law six times in a row,” Marley shot back with a glare.

  “Ah, and there it is,” Judge Abernathy replied with a smile that could only be labeled beatific, and seriously, was anything about this process going to be normal? Hadn’t this woman ever seen Law & Order, for God’s sake?

  Greyson looked at the judge, his dark brows lifted in obvious confusion. “I’m sorry, ma’am. There what is?”

  “What landed you both here in the first place,” Judge Abernathy replied, not skipping so much as a heartbeat. “You wanted to know what your cases have to do with one another? Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Whittaker. You and Miss Rallston, here, may have allegedly committed separate offenses, but you both need an attitude adjustment, lickety-split. Lucky for you, we’re going to take care of that right now.”

  Vernon cleared his throat, and Judge Abernathy rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright. Go on, Orville, and read the charges against Mr. Whittaker and Miss Rallston—separately—so we can get to the good part.”

  “Finally,” Greyson muttered, entering a guilty plea a minute later as the bailiff read the charges against him. Although Marley’s stomach clenched when it was her tur
n, she managed to get the word “guilty” past her lips, and she pressed the soles of her boots into the floor a little harder, standing tall to take whatever bail the judge finally sent her way.

  “Okay, you two. Here it is. I am prepared to release you both on your own recognizance, provided that you meet a few stipulations, and that the prosecution agrees to the terms.”

  Greyson’s “what?” crashed into Vernon’s “Your Honor”, but neither one of them held a candle to Marley’s thankfully internal “holy fucking shit”. The judge was going to let them off with no bail at all? Not that Marley was complaining—God, she was half-tempted to rush the bench and kiss the woman on the mouth—but how was this even possible?

  The prosecutor won out, recovering his wits first. “Your Honor, while I hold the deepest respect for the court, I must revisit my previous claim that these proceedings are all rather, ah. Unusual.”

  “And that is what makes them such fun, don’t you think?” Judge Abernathy asked with a laugh. “Come now, Vernon. I’m not suggesting we skip trials altogether. But if we can focus on the steak and not the peas, why shouldn’t we bypass all the blah, blah, blah of drawing this out and enjoy a lovely dinner together right now, hmm?”

  “All the evidence seems to be in order and both pleas have been entered,” he replied slowly, likely beginning to realize that both cases would be slam dunks in his win column. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have the trials now, as long as both defendants agree.”

  “Atta boy. How about you two? Would you like to proceed?”

  “It’ll save time, right? We can just cut through all the cr—ah, stuff that takes up time, get our punishments right now, and we won’t have to come back?” Greyson asked. His trademark cockiness had strangely fallen away, but his stare still remained as dark as it was intense, and wow, he wanted to get out of here as badly as Marley did.