Stealing Jake by Pam Hillman Page B

her heart sank. These men were out for blood. They wouldn’t listen to reason, and they certainly wouldn’t listen to her.
    Even if she could tell them the truth.
    Sheriff Carter stepped forward, his stance commanding, his gaze steely. “We’re handling it to the best of our ability. So far, the perpetuators haven’t hurt anyone—”
    “It’s just a matter of time,” someone called out.
    The sheriff gave the man a withering stare. “Maybe, maybe not. Looks like they’re stealing for extra money. It’s stuff that can be sold off easily. I sent Jake over to Cooperstown yesterday to see if he could find out if any of the guns or stuff from Sam’s had shown up over there. I’ll let him tell you what he found out.”
    All eyes turned to Jake. “The livery stable bought a couple of bridles off a man the day before, but the description of the man didn’t fit anyone I know. The same man offered the gunsmith two handguns, but he declined. We’ll keep an eye out. But their description of a tall, bearded cowboy who smelled like a whiskey distillery set in a pigpen is a far cry from the boys we’ve been suspecting around here.”
    “Well, of course it is,” the gunsmith said. “Do you think those youngsters would be dumb enough to steal the stuff and then try to pawn it off in another town? They’ve got sense enough to pass it off to a stranger first. We need to round up all these kids off the street and put them in jail. Ship ’em back to Chicago, where they came from.”
    Murmurs of agreement came from the crowd.
    Livy clenched her fists, fighting the urge to wade into the fray. How could he say such things about a bunch of kids no one but her seemed to care about?
    “Hold on now.” Jake’s eyes panned the room and, for the briefest of moments, lingered on Livy. “They’re just kids, like you said. They don’t have anything: no place to sleep, no food, not even warm clothes. They’re doing what they can to survive.”
    Warmth that had nothing to do with the overheated room flooded through her. Jake had defended the boys in front of half the town. True, he hadn’t said they weren’t guilty, but he’d given these people something to think about. She prayed they’d listen to him.
    Mr. McIver pounded his fist on the teacher’s desk. “Yeah, but stealing’s against the law no matter how hungry they are. If they’re hungry and cold, why don’t they go over to that orphanage Mrs. Brooks opened up?” He sought out Livy. “Right, Miss O’Brien? Mrs. Brooks would take them in, wouldn’t she?”
    Her cheeks grew warm. She’d wanted to stay on the fringe of things, but with Mr. McIver’s question, everyone looked her way. And they expected an answer. “Yes, of course; we’d love for the children to come to us. But—” She glanced at the expectant crowd hanging on her every word as if they thought she could solve the problem of the street kids. The gunsmith’s gold watch fob caught and reflected the light. Sweat rolled off the man next to him as heat from the coal-burning stove ratcheted up the temperature in the crowded room.
    These men were toasty warm, and children were freezing in the streets.
    And that made her blood boil.
    She clenched her jaw and plunged in. “But these children have been used and abused until they’re afraid to trust adults. They won’t come to the orphanage because they don’t know we won’t ship them back to Chicago to work in a sweatshop sixteen hours a day for a little bit of bread and water.” She paused, her gaze sweeping the crowd.
    This might be her chance to open their eyes to the plight of the street children. But doing so might rip her heart from her chest. Still, she didn’t have a choice. She had to try. For the children. “They don’t dare trust anybody because they’ve never been able to trust anyone. Even the police in Chicago—”
    “Well, little lady, let’s not be too hasty here.”
    Livy blinked as Mr. Gibbons, the owner of the glove factory,