An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  “It’s not the whole story, dear. People rarely know the whole story.”

  There was little to be said in defense of gambling one’s future on the promise of love. Elizabeth knotted her napkin in her lap. “Edward left me.”

  Exactly what she’d intended to not say.

  The muted ticking of the mantle clock punctuated the silence, poking holes in Elizabeth’s resolve. “I wouldn’t go with him to the Dakota gold fields, so he filed for divorce and went without me. He said I was too dowdy for his tastes anyway, and he didn’t know what he’d been thinking when he proposed our elopement.”

  A less than flattering epithet darted past Maggie’s pursed lips, if she heard correctly.

  She said nothing and instead drained her tea cup.

  Maggie quickly refilled it. “He will be at the head of the line.”

  She glanced sheepishly at her hostess. “Line?” The only line she could think of involved grimy men and buckets of water.

  “As I said, dear. Horsewhipped.”

  Elizabeth immediately saw who stood behind Edward and shuddered. The image of stick-thin Maggie Snowfield chasing Edward Beaumont and Braxton Hatchett with a buggy whip pushed her tottering soul over the edge.

  Maggie reached across the table and held her palm up in invitation. Elizabeth joined it with her own.

  “You are not the first person to make a poor decision in the wake of grief. Nor are you the first woman wooed by promises of love and then abandoned to the lure of easy fortune.” Maggie’s eyes dimmed briefly, then flared to life with a squeeze of her fingers.

  “So, Elizabeth, I am even more pleased than before that you entrusted your homecoming to me and my humble abode. If you’d gone to the ranch, as I’m sure Cade will insist you must once he hears of your return, you would have been rarely seen and rumors would have propagated like the lilies around my veranda. This way, you are facing the music and shall make your reappearance in strength of character, holding your head high.”

  Any more of such supportive talk, and Elizabeth might melt off her chair into a puddle of tears.

  “Though I’m sure your appearance in the bucket brigade last night has already set tongues to wagging about the identity of the young woman not put off by custom and hard work.”

  Elizabeth palmed her hand down her throat, still raw from breathing smoke and irritated further by her earlier coughing fit. “Rather obvious, was it?”

  “Covered as you were in soot and soil, I should say so. Now.” She squared her frail shoulders as if taking on the world. “You must have a skill. I know you can break and ride any horse on your family’s ranch just as handily as Cade, and I remember you outshooting him and every other man at the county fair one year. What were you—fourteen?”

  Elizabeth flexed her right hand, recalling the single shot from her father’s Winchester rifle that raised cheers from every woman there.

  “But it won’t do for you to join a Wild West Show or hire on at the livery. Do you sew? Can you teach music? You played beautifully at church when Mrs. Pottsinger took ill. What about cooking?” Maggie paused to sip her tea. “Of course there are more menial tasks, such as cleaning and doing laundry, but I hate to see you take that route.”

  “I am a type-writer.”

  The woman’s thin cheeks blossomed like primroses. “Really? Oh, how marvelous. You must have learned in Denver. I’ve heard about those machines. Do you have your own? Is that what was in the heavy little crate?”

  Impressed by her confidante’s ability to string questions together so rapidly, Elizabeth smiled for the first time in a long while, encouragement pricking a tender spot behind her ribs. “I’m going to call at the bank tomorrow, and possibly the Western Union office. If the telegraph agent doesn’t already have his own machine, he might be interested in my help. Do you know of any other business that could use my services?”

  Maggie thinned her lips in thought and then raised one finger. “There is a new attorney in town, at the north end of Main Street on this side.”

  Elizabeth wadded her napkin into a tight ball. An attorney. Even here.

  “You might visit him tomorrow after checking with Mr. Holsom—he’s still in the express office—who, I’m sure will be happy to see you. But whether or not he has need of a type-writer, only he can tell you.”

  Maggie picked up her plate. “I’ll clear these dishes, then help you with your trunk. Surely between the two of us, we can get it up the stairs. If not, I’ll ask the boy down the road. He helps the pressman set type at the newspaper and has other odd jobs, but he’s usually home by dark.”

  Mention of her trunk dipped Elizabeth’s mood again, drawing her back to the necessity of sharing a roof with the sheriff. The alliteration amused her, but he did not. Neither did the idea of visiting a lawyer. She’d had quite enough of the breed.

  However, avoiding Sheriff Wilson at meals might be her biggest challenge, for he certainly would not have a meeting every morning and evening, and she had no intention of missing out on Maggie’s cooking and companionship.

  Eager to help, Elizabeth took her dishes to the kitchen and set them by the sink. “How long do you think it will be until the town is a-buzz with my return?”

  Maggie laughed outright. “Oh, I’m sure it has already begun. The sooner you face, it the better, dear. Let the old biddies stew. You’re safe here with me, you know. And with Sheriff Wilson. I dare say, he seemed rather protective of your trunk, though he declined to carry it upstairs when I told him you were resting.”

  Suspicion wiggled from the back of Elizabeth’s mind to her tongue. “How did you know it was my trunk?”

  “He described you to a T.” Lowering her chin and voice, she comically mimicked the man. “‘An independent, becoming young woman with a temper.’ I knew it had to be you.” Maggie laughed again and caught both of Elizabeth’s hands in her own. “I would have been upset too, dear, if that man’s monstrosity of a dog had stolen my reticule.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “He most certainly did. But that’s not all he told me.” With an impish look, she lifted her apron from the back of a kitchen chair and tied it on. “He was disappointed to learn that you were married, but no words were needed for me to hear it. I read it in that handsome face of his all on my own.”

  Warmth seeped into Elizabeth’s skin.

  “Off with you, now. I can’t have my guests helping in the kitchen.” Maggie shooed her into the dining room. “While you’re unpacking tonight, you can think about how you’re going to break it to him.”

  Elizabeth stopped at the doorway, her throat tightening with the question she already knew the answer to. “Break what to him?”

  “The truth, dear.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Truth was, sleeping in his chair tied him in knots.

  Garrett dropped his feet to the floor, rolled his right shoulder, and rubbed the back of his neck. Cell bunks were softer, not by much, but this way he always woke just before the Regulator’s soft chime.

  The first tone trailed the thought.

  He let Pearl in the back door and set a bowl of water by her mat. “Guard,” he growled.

  She pulled her jowls into a possum grin and wagged her tail. A so-called gift from Booth when Garrett took the job in Olin Springs, it was a toss-up as to who owned whom.

  As he locked the front door and then angled across the street toward the bank, he mulled over the reasons for his requested presence at the meeting.

  One reason was inside, leaning against the new safe, hands in pockets and a polished shoe cocked against the enameled cast-iron door. Rochester.

  Harrison laid his spectacles aside and rose from his desk chair when Garrett walked in. “Sheriff Wilson.” The big man rushed around the end of the counter and offered his hand. “Glad you could make it.”

  Ranch-born and raised, Harrison usually didn’t hurry anywhere.

  Garret slowed his breathing and his movements. He glanced around the room bef
ore returning to the uncharacteristically nervous bank president. “Happy to oblige, Charlie.”

  He nodded to the attorney.

  Rochester dropped his foot to the floor and slid his hands in his pockets. “Sheriff.”

  Mayor Overholt, short and flustered, arrived a moment later with Jim Holsom, the Western Union agent, close on his heels,. Fred Reynolds from the mercantile joined them, and finally the barber, Bartholomew Ward. One face he expected to see and didn’t was Clarence Thatcher, the hotel owner. Probably still calculating his losses.

  Miller Pike couldn’t leave the saloon open, and Hunt Fischer hadn’t sent his reporter. Either that or he wasn’t invited. Seemed like they’d want the press to know.

  Garrett helped Harrison gather extra chairs from the back room while Rochester stood smoothing his thin mustache with his thumb and forefinger and staring out the front window. He then took a chair to the wall opposite Harrison’s desk, affording himself a view of everyone there as well as the front and back entrances. Rochester remained standing.

  Harrison cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll keep this brief because I’m sure you’d all like to get home to supper.”

  “We here to talk about a fire brigade?” Ward’s question turned every head and drew Harrison off course.

  “We surely need one,” Reynolds offered.

  Everyone began talking at once—everyone but Rochester.

  Overholt raised his hands as if the gathering were a city council meeting. “We need to spread word for volunteers. Where’s that newspaper man?”

  “And raise money for a pump and hose,” Reynolds said.

  Rochester coughed just enough to catch the bank president’s attention.

  Harrison ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Those are fine ideas, Mayor, Fred. Thank you for suggesting them. Perhaps you both could get the ball rolling by signing up volunteers and gathering donations.” He tugged on his vest, searching the group as if looking for someone. “Mr. Thatcher didn’t make it, I see. That’s unfortunate, since the hotel is one of the reasons I’ve called you all together.” He glanced at Rochester, then looked away with a frown and raised a hand toward the attorney. “Actually, it was Mr. Rochester here who thought it would be a good idea for us to meet.”

  Garrett’s stomach tensed. The lawyer straightened, tall yet half the bulk of Harrison, who returned to his chair and fell into it with resignation. Garrett’s mind clicked through possibilities like tumblers on a safe lock.

  Rochester nodded. “Thank you, Charles. Gentlemen. As Mr. Harrison has so aptly stated, the hotel fire was a costly tragedy, not only for Mr. Thatcher but for the entire town.” Addressing Garrett, he added, “Any luck, Sheriff, determining the cause of the unfortunate conflagration?”

  Rochester’s choice of words grated on Garrett. “As an attorney, Mr. Rochester, I’m sure you know that luck has no hand in it at all.”

  The overdressed man smiled. A snake-oil salesman if ever there was. “Of course, Sheriff. Your investigation—”

  “Is still under investigation.”

  “So you don’t consider this an accident.”

  A few men mumbled at the attorney’s deliberate conjecture and glanced back at Garrett.

  He held his posture and expression steady, as well as his tongue.

  “I see.” Rochester spread his coat flaps, revealing more of his brocade waistcoat and a gold watch chain, then pocketed his hands. “Well, gentlemen, be that as it may, this growing community will continue to do just that—grow. And it is my opinion that fire insurance would be well worth the investment to help victims such as Mr. Thatcher if such an unfortunate incident were to occur again.”

  From a tube on Harrison’s desktop, Rochester withdrew and unrolled a large map of the state, webbed with heavy, dark lines.

  “I have here a map of the Denver & Rio Grande Railway in our state, showing its connections and extensions to all principal cities and mining regions. This map is hot off the press, if you will, from Chicago. Please note this particular spur.” He pointed a clean fingernail to the end of one short black line. “This is the latest railway extension to be added.”

  Ward leaned forward, his head tipped back to read through his spectacles. “That’s Crested Butte. There’s no train to Crested Butte.”

  Based on Rochester’s smirk, Ward had played into the setup. “The railway extended its reach to Gunnison in June and to Durango in July. It’s on schedule to link to Crested Butte by November.”

  The telegrapher scoffed. “Snow’ll keep that from happening.”

  “Tracks are already laid. In six weeks, the train will be pulling in at the new depot there.”

  He let the news sink in. A fisherman setting the hook.

  “Seven hundred and seventy-six miles of track covering Colorado and the Territory of New Mexico, with another seven hundred under construction. A veritable web blanketing the mountains.”

  “What’s all this got to do with us?” Reynolds asked.

  “With more railroad comes more business for you and the mercantile, Mr. Reynolds. Progress. And with progress comes trouble. I’m here to help the fine citizens of Olin Springs when that trouble arrives.”

  The hair rose on the back of Garrett’s neck. He fingered the rawhide thong that held his holster to his leg. Was Rochester predicting the future, or planning trouble in order to line his own pockets?

  “We’ve had a depot here a couple years and ain’t had no trouble,” the mayor said. “What makes you so certain we will now?”

  Rochester let the map roll up on itself with a snap. He returned it to Harrison’s desk and his hands to his pockets before addressing his audience. “I’ve seen it before. A quiet little town welcomes the railroad and all goes well for a while. But eventually—sooner rather than later—trouble follows. More people. A greater stress on the infrastructure, increased demand for housing, et cetera.”

  Garrett could name a few Kansas towns that fit the description. Abilene, for one, a decade ago.

  “This fire insurance you mentioned.” Reynolds shifted on his hard oak chair. “Where would a businessman find such a thing?”

  “I can help you with that, Mr. Reynolds. And any of the rest of you who are interested. I have associates in Kansas City who specialize in such coverage. And like I said, that’s why I’m here. To do all I can.”

  That last phrase cut two ways.

  An hour later, the group disbanded, more somber than when they’d arrived, aside from Rochester who looked like a coyote fresh from the chicken house. Harrison had a few more furrows in his forehead.

  And Garret had the distinct impression he’d just watched a slick operator shoot fish in a rain barrel.

  ~

  Elizabeth unpacked her trunk, using two wardrobe shelves for unmentionables and petticoats, and the uppermost for her bedraggled traveling hat and a modest straw. She laid her leather portfolio on the floor of the center compartment and hung three dresses above it, a deep rose blush, a summery yellow, and a more practical forest green. A brown woolen skirt and two white shirtwaists made up her professional attire, and she hoped to add to her collection in time. Though considered quite meager in Denver, her clothing was more than adequate for Olin Springs, and the unpleasant weight of fashionable demands lifted from her shoulders.

  Truth be told, she missed the days of her girlhood, when riding skirts and boots were her less cumbersome, everyday apparel. But one did not change the past. The present, however, was another matter.

  She laid her wrapper and gown across her bed and went downstairs to start a kettle of water. Piped hot water was not one of Maggie’s luxuries, but Elizabeth had no complaints. Warming tepid tap water in the bathing room was an easy chore compared to hauling water for her family’s copper tub as a child.

  Childhood memories pressed in of Cade grousing about having to use her “old” water during their Saturday night preparations for Sunday morning services. One more sorrowful tug from days that had ended s
o suddenly and completely.

  She’d often regretted not taking her riding boots with her when she left that wintery afternoon. Her wide-brimmed hat and leather gloves. Her beautiful mare, Blanca. As if Edward would have allowed it.

  Such thoughts had not accompanied her flight from the church following her parents’ funeral. Only a naïve young woman’s dreams of promised love and provision—dashed immediately upon the courthouse nuptials in Denver.

  Shame heated her face and neck, or was it the kettle steaming on Maggie’s massive kitchen range? With a quilted hot-pad, she hefted the large kettle and carried it to the bathing room adjacent the kitchen. Wainscoting encased the cozy closet, with rose-covered wall paper above and a thick oriental rug next to a deep soaking tub. A person could submerge themselves completely. She set the plug, turned the porcelain-handled faucet to fill the tub, and poured in the boiling water. Then she lit a lamp on a small side table, raised the wick against the approaching night, and dashed upstairs for her wrapper and gown.

  Anticipation lightened her steps, and at the top of the stairs she noticed a door at the end of the landing that didn’t match those for all the other upstairs rooms. It had a glass knob, and she immediately wanted to test it. But water was running. She’d investigate later.

  At her dressing table, she let down her hair and brushed out the tangles. If only her life could be unpinned and straightened as easily, the painful knots smoothed. Demoralized first by her husband and then her employer, she had little use for men at the moment. If Sheriff Wilson believed she was married, so much the better. Why should it matter to Maggie?

  She gathered a towel from the towel horse by the washstand and her bar of lavender soap, then hurried downstairs, anticipating a warm and leisurely bath.

  Maggie must have retired for the evening, for she was not in the sitting room when Elizabeth looked in on her way past. Nor was she in the kitchen or the odd room at the rear of the house.

  Curiosity got the better of Elizabeth and she peered through the door into a porch with screens rather than glass windows. She’d not seen the like even in Denver. A single bed and chest of drawers took up one end of the narrow room, a washstand and chair the other. Oddly enough, she envied the evening breeze that filtered through the airy space, though it was not nearly as well-appointed as her room upstairs. Perhaps it served as an overflow when the Snowfield home was full of boarders, though without shutters, winters might prove chilling for its resident.