by Bettie Jane
Ransom on the River
Deep River Inn
Bettie Jane
Copyright © 2021 by Bettie Jane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Mason
My youngest son who will probably never read this but has a creative steak that inspires me daily.
If you ever read this, keep being you. It’s perfect.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Also by Bettie Jane
Prologue
“Joel, you know Mama said we aren’t supposed to play down by the creek,” Jemmie shouted in frustration after his twin brother.
The eight-year-old twins were the best of friends, but different sides of the same coin. Joel was never satisfied, always exploring. His favorite thing to do when they got free of their school work was to pretend to be Lewis and Clark with Jemmie. They’d spend hours building forts in the forest, fishing in the creek, and when they were very brave—Jemmie considered it foolish—they’d go to their secret hideout and work on building their very own homemade canoes. Joel was certain they’d be sea worthy any day and insisted they’d be able to follow the Columbia to the Pacific just like the famed explorers who’d once traveled this very land. Jemmie enjoyed building the canoe, but if he was honest with himself, he was not truly looking forward to the actual canoeing part. It seemed much too dangerous.
Joel was reckless. Jemmie was careful.
Jemmie tolerated his brother’s adventuring, and even enjoyed himself a good portion of the time. What he didn’t appreciate was the whipping they’d most certainly get from their father if they were late for supper or if they missed their chores.
Today was Sunday so they only had the most necessary chores, which they’d completed at Jemmie’s insistence before their adventure into the same forest that the Kathlamet tribes once made their home. Papa would be less likely to be angry since they’d fed the chickens and milked Marvel, the families fair-winning prized heifer, but Mama would skin them alive if they ruined their church clothes.
Still, Jemmie followed the undeterred Joel further into the forest, toward the Elochoman Slough which fed the mighty Columbia River. It was hard to keep up with his brother while taking such care to prevent tears to his new pants.
Mama was constantly telling Jemmie that the Good Book said he should be his brother’s keeper and that even though that applied to every good and faithful Christian, it was an especially important commandment for Jemmie since Joel was his actual brother and had a tendency of finding trouble. Whenever Jemmie would ask if Joel was supposed to return the favor, Mama would smile and say warmly, “He’ll keep you from getting too comfortable, and you’ll keep him out of the fire. You’re a perfect match, you and your brother. Never forget that he’s your first friend.” Then she’d go back to humming a song—Mama was always humming or singing—and stirring whatever she had simmering in the oversized kitchen pot.
Jemmie tripped over a moss-covered log and found himself in a bed of wet ferns. His ankle was throbbing a bit and he noticed that his pants were torn and groaned.
“Joel, wait for me,” he cried out. Then muttering to himself, “Ugh, I’m going to use father’s belt on Joel myself when we get back to the house. And I’ll make him mend my pants.”
Neither of those things would actually happen for Jemmie was much to gentle to ever follow through with such a threat and Joel didn’t have the first clue how to mend a pair of pants, but it did help him to feel better when he thought about Joel getting some kind of punishment.
Being your brother’s keeper was for the birds. Especially if you were the responsible bird.
Jemmie stood, pleased that his ankle didn’t seem to be injured to badly, and called out to Joel again.
But Joel was long gone. He was probably already down by the creek. Something shiny caught Jemmie’s eye and he bent down to retrieve it.
Joel’s dog whistle.
He was forever dropping it. Their dad gave them matching dog whistles for Christmas and Joel took his everywhere with him. Jemmie preferred to leave his at home and just use it to interact with his own dogs.
Jemmie pocketed the whistle and started after Joel, knowing he was getting further behind his brother with each passing moment.
Eventually, Jemmie knew, Joel would notice that Jemmie wasn’t with him and he’d retrace his steps and find him. This is what happened every time. Joel wasn’t trying to leave Jemmie in his dust, he just didn’t have the patience to wait for his brother. Adventure pulled him along as if he were being led by a team of horses and Jemmie just kept up the best he could while trying to keep his pants in one piece.
Slowly, Jemmie made his way toward the creek. Out in front of him, he heard footsteps in the trees and the brush and was genuinely surprised that his brother noticed his absence so fast.
“Joel,” Jemmie lectured, “you need to slow down. Look, I already got a tear in my pants and I hurt my ankle.”
More rustling of the trees, but it was not Joel who stepped into the clearing where Jemmie stood.
The imposing man’s shadow fell across Jemmie and sent a nervous sensation down his spine. “You’re coming with me, kid.”
Jemmie turned to run away, but tripped over the same log he’d fallen over the first time. Before he could stand back up, rough and grimy hands closed around his arm and yanked Jemmie to his feet.
“Don’t run, kid. If you behave yourself, you’ll not get hurt, you understand?”
Jemmie didn’t understand anything. None of this made any sense. The large man scooped Jemmie up and tucked him under his arm.
Jemmie wanted to fight, he wanted to scream and try to get away. He tried kicking and wriggling to get free, but he didn’t scream. If he screamed, Joel would come running for him and Joel wouldn’t be able to save either of them from this man. So Jemmie did his best to fight against the man without making noise that would attract his brother.
The man only gripped him tighter the harder that Jemmie fought. He lifted Jemmie’s face to his and squeezed him so hard that Jemmie thought he might suffocate right on the spot.
“Listen you little brat. You quit your fightin’ or you’ll regret it.”
The man’s breath smelled like stale whiskey and tobacco smoke and Jemmie thought he might throw up from the smell of him.
He started to wiggle in the man’s arms but then, out in the distance, he caught a glimpse of Joel coming towards them. He heard his Mama’s voice in his mind, “Be your brother’s keeper, Jemmie,” and he made a split second decision. He went limp and completely stopped fighting.
“You win, mister. I’ll stop fighting.” His surrender came out in a whisper.
Seemingly satisfied with Jemmie’s acquiescence, the smelly man slung Jemmie’s small frame over his shoulder and started marching through the woods. Jemmie could feel himself trembling even as he was swea
ting through his good Sunday shirt but he kept his eyes on the spot where Joel would come through the trees while the man walked the opposite ways.
Jemmie put a finger over his lips as soon as Joel stepped into the clearing he’d been in only moments ago and looked up to see Jemmie. Joel’s eyes got very big and Jemmie shook his head, hoping Joel would understand his direction to be quiet. They were still close enough that Jemmie could see Joel’s eyes well up with tears and his hand reach out toward Jemmie. Jemmie shook his head and silently shushed his brother. For once in his short life, Joel actually listened to Jemmie and didn’t make a sound. A few more seconds and Joel was out of sight.
Jemmie thought he would never forget the terror on his brother’s face. But Joel was safe from the man who’d taken Jemmie. That’s what mattered.
He was his brother’s keeper and he’d kept him safe.
For that, he hoped Mama would be very proud of him.
1
February 1921
Sadie Elouise Andersen, just Sadie to her friends, felt more at home in a saloon than she did just about anywhere else, which made this meeting with the local—and stodgy— members of the Daughters of the American Revolution particularly painful. It was nearly over but Sadie thought she might come out of her skin anyway. Six months ago, she’d have drowned herself in the Pacific before sitting through one of this ridiculous meetings.
She might never forgive her new husband for putting her up to this, even if he was the sheriff of the county. He could lock her behind bars and throw away the key before she’d sit through another of these prim and proper meetings. She’d agreed to marry him, not because she was in love with him, although she’d grown to care for him in the handful of months since they’d wed, but because she’d not really had much of a choice. With both of her parents dead from the influenza epidemic, she had made the hard decision to shutter their life’s work and family legacy, Deep River Inn, and move upriver to a tiny town on the Washington side of the Columbia.
Some old biddy cleared her throat and snapped her out of her daydream. She wondered if they held these meetings after church on purpose as an extension of their pious church services. Her thoughts were interrupted by the grand leader of the pious herself, the town expert of all things gardening. Margaret Butler. She did have a lovely garden, but it hardly atoned for the way she looked down her nose at everyone as though they were somehow beneath her.
Margaret’s fancy hat bounced about on her head as she lectured the attendees. “Now, remember ladies, as we go out into our communities and families, we all have a responsibility to conduct ourselves with the decorum expected of a Daughter.”
That was rich coming from maybe one of the snottiest women Sadie had ever had the displeasure of knowing.
She had the decorum and personality of an overly starched shirt.
As if Margaret Butler had read her mind, she turned her head in Sadie’s direction where she sat huddled in the back row and, while looking distastefully at Sadie’s long pants, said, “And remember, we do have a dress code at these meetings. Even for our guests.”
Every single woman in attendance turned to look at Sadie and each of them looked as though they’d been sucking on a lemon for half their life. Despite her unwillingness to be intimidated by these women—if these monsters could even be called women—she could feel herself blushing. Her mouth opened involuntarily and she thought of about a million things she could say to put these unfriendly biddies in their place, but instead she clenched her fists, closed her mouth, and smiled the sweetest smile she could muster. She might chew a hole into her lip from the effort of containing herself, but she wouldn’t let them see that they were getting to her. That’s what they wanted. If she could handle the rough and tumble men in her father’s tavern, she could certainly manage a few overly industrious women.
Margaret returned Sadie’s fake smile and then led the group in the closing ceremonies which included reciting the chapter’s motto and bible verse. These were not her people by a long shot and it galled her to no end that she had to play nice.
Her mind raced with ways she could get out of the next meeting. She’d have to be creative or Daniel would see right through her. If she’d have known this was part of being the local sheriff’s wife, she thought she might not have married him at all. Was it too late to have the marriage annulled?
When the meeting was concluded by the pretentious lowering of the gavel, Sadie raced out of the church doors, into the cold air and onto the main street before she could be trapped into a conversation. The Columbia Saloon had some bourbon with her name on it and she made a beeline for it before any of the women could stop her and pressure her into something she didn’t want to do—like talk to any of them, for instance.
She’d put a mark on herself by frequenting the saloon in the first place and to do so on a Sunday really rubbed the high society of this town the wrong way. If she wanted to fit in as bad as she told herself she did, she likely would have avoided the saloon. Except that she really couldn’t.
The Columbia Saloon had been a place of solace and familiarity for Sadie ever since she’d come to Cathlamet, a little remote town in Washington state on the shores of the Columbia River, a few short months ago. The winter, still far from over based on the chill she felt in the air and the freezing rain that fell from the sky, seemed as though it had lasted four years, not four months. When the sheriff of Wahkiakum County proposed, he’d given her the impression that his was the warmest, most tight-knit, and welcoming community she could ever imagine. His reassurance helped her accept her own unfortunate circumstances, but she’d only been in town one day when she realized that the residents of Cathlamet may have been friendly to him, a lifelong resident and descendant of a multiple generations in this town, but they were cold as ice and closed off to outsiders. It seemed that marrying the sheriff didn’t clear her of her status as someone from the “outside”.
She hated herself for wanting to fit in so badly when they obviously couldn’t give a fig about treating her with any kind of civility, but still she continued to try just about anything to win them over. Anything except giving up frequenting the saloon. She might give up soon and just be the town hermit. Nothing said she had to interact with these people at all.
She walked into and straight up to the bar, pulled out a barstool and sat straddling it.
“Bourbon, William. And lots of it.”
He winked at her with a knowing smile. “I’m guessing your meeting with the Daughters was a big success?”
She snorted. “If by success you mean that it’s over now and I can warm myself with your delicious bourbon, then yes sir, it was a success.”
She gulped the shot he’d poured her, slammed the cup down on the counter, and grumbled, “Another.”
William, the bartender and one of the smallest handful of people who’d shown her any warmth at all, was the closest thing she had to a best friend now that she’d relocated here from Astoria, Oregon several dozen river miles down the Columbia River. He was a mixture of brother and best friend to Sadie and without his warmth and his bourbon, her short, essentially arranged marriage to Sheriff Daniel Andersen might already be over.
The ruddy haired bartender glanced at the clock over the bar. “Is the Sheriff meeting you here for lunch as usual? We’ve got his favorite special on the menu today.”
She shook her head and swallowed the last bit of bourbon, then wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “No, he’s a bit under the weather today so he’s staying home to rest.”
William raised an eyebrow and refilled her cup. “Sheriff Andersen hasn’t missed a day at work in favor of stayin’ in bed in the history of his watch. He must be real ill. It’s not—?”
“No,” Sadie said with conviction. “It’s not the flu. I think he just stayed out at his poker game too late last night. Too much whiskey, I expect.”
She chewed her lip because she didn’t want to think about what it would mean if she was wrong. “Anot
her, William. Please.”
He obliged. “Are you trying to beat your husband’s drinking from last night? I suspect you could just climb in bed with him and take the day off from trying to win over the old guard without having a hangover as an excuse.”
He grinned at her in a way that made his eyes sparkle and the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle.
“You are quite amused with yourself, aren’t you, William? Don’t you worry, I learned how to drink in my father’s tavern and I could likely outdrink most anyone in town.”
“I don’t doubt that at all.”
He shrugged his shoulders and then moved down the bar to pour a drink for another familiar face. She watched him serve Augustus and smiled when they exchanged a joke that would make most ladies blush to high heaven. This was the very specific reason Sadie preferred a tavern over a meeting of a ladies’ club. Any meeting held inside a church for that matter. Real talk, nobody in here was putting on airs. Best of all, the men who frequented the saloon treated her like she was any other man. It probably helped that she was the Sherriff’s wife.
She hated the way she’d see men act one way around their friends and then turn into completely different people around their wives. These men, and the few women who occasionally came in, were the real deal. Who they were inside over a whiskey or bourbon was who they were if you were to run into them in the market. She suspected that if any of these patrons did attend Sunday services, they’d behave the same way there. She somehow doubted if many of these tavern types were the god-fearing kind. Another reason she enjoyed their company.
