An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  At the bathing room, she hesitated briefly. The door was closed. She’d left it slightly ajar, hadn’t she? Perhaps not. She gripped the knob and stepped into the small square space, turning to secure the lock.

  The sound of splashing water brought her around to a man sitting in the tub, water sluicing off his chin, neck, and bare chest.

  Stumbling back against the door, she clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a cry.

  Sheriff Garrett Wilson’s pewter eyes sparked with mirth, not one ounce of shame or disgrace on his face. Nor did he attempt to cover himself. Instead he laid his dripping arms along the tub’s edge.

  “I wondered who had drawn a warm bath for me.” He glanced at the towel and soap in her other hand. “Did you intend to wash my back as well?”

  If the soap was not her last cake of lavender, she would have shoved it in his arrogant mouth and drowned him on the spot.

  Gathering her wits, she reached behind for the doorknob and twisted. It failed to give way.

  He chuckled.

  “I believe you locked it, Betsy.” His hands gripped the sides of the tub as if to help him rise. “Would you like my assistance?”

  Fuming, she spun, twisted the lock, and dashed out. His laughter chased her down the hallway, up the stairs, and into her room where she slammed her door and fell across the bed with a pillow over her flaming ears. Mortified. And furious.

  The next morning, she awoke in the same position. Her gown, towel, and wrapper lay crumpled beneath her. She pushed the pillow away, sat up, and sighed.

  So much for a fresh start.

  After tending to her morning ablutions at the washstand, she finished by twisting her hair at her collar. How satisfying it would be to twist a certain man’s neck into a similar knot.

  Her skirt, shirtwaist, and high-topped shoes completed her professional appearance. She fingered the red-enameled lapel watch pinned to her bodice, then braced herself to face the omnipresent and hopefully dressed Sheriff Wilson at breakfast.

  She was starving. Not as literally as she had the last twelve months in Denver, but she needed sustenance before pounding the boards for a job this morning. If she were lucky, the sheriff would have already eaten and left.

  As usual, luck made no appearance on her behalf.

  He sat at the head of the dining table as if he were master of the house rather than a tenant. Why was she not surprised?

  When she entered the room, his dimpled scar popped into place and he rose. “Good morning, Betsy. Bracing day, isn’t it?”

  She glared, willing metaphorical daggers to life. No luck there, either.

  She took the same seat she’d occupied the evening before, near the opposite end of the table.

  Maggie bustled in with a large silver tray of hotcakes, bacon, and eggs.

  Elizabeth feared she might swoon at the aroma. She reached for the china teapot in the center of the table and filled her cup. Coffee would be better, more invigorating, but that required opening her mouth and requesting it, which she was determined not to do in present company.

  Maggie disappeared into the kitchen and returned with another cup and saucer and the coffee pot. “You’re not alone in your morning preference, dear. Garrett starts his day with strong coffee as well.”

  He grinned. “Good for what ails you.”

  If Elizabeth were deaf or invisible, she would not have to respond to Maggie’s kindness. She was neither.

  “Thank you.” At least she didn’t have to respond to him.

  Maggie took the chair across the table and folded her hands. Elizabeth followed suit, and from the corner of her eye, saw that Sheriff Wilson did the same. So the scallywag prayed.

  Maggie offered a brief prayer offering more thanksgiving, then passed the platter of eggs and bacon to Elizabeth. “I trust you both slept well.”

  Elizabeth helped herself and held the platter out toward the end of the table while she stared at the butter dish.

  Would he not just take it? Her hand began to shake in its strained position. Resigned to setting it down, she lowered the dish.

  He quickly took it with a little tug that pulled her gaze to his.

  Greener in the morning light, his eyes left her feeling baited.

  She jerked her focus back to her plate.

  “Since this is such a family-like setting and I’ve asked you both to call me Maggie, I suggest that we dispense with formal titles and address each other accordingly. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Elizabeth added sugar and cream to her coffee, then downed a most unladylike gulp of the hot, rich brew.

  “Suits me fine, Maggie. How ’bout you, Betsy?”

  Caught in the downward motion of placing her cup in its saucer, her hand jerked at his use of her childish name and hit the edge of the dish. Coffee splashed a brown spot on the linen tablecloth.

  “I’m so sorry.” She dabbed the spill with her napkin, glancing at Maggie. The woman seemed bothered not one bit. “But I prefer Elizabeth, if you don’t mind.”

  Sheriff Wilson failed to keep his humor at bay. “But Betsy suits you.”

  Was it the man’s personal goal in life to rile her?

  “Oh, that’s my fault, dear,” Maggie said. “I shall make a more concerted effort to use Elizabeth, as you asked earlier. But I warn you, I may slip from time to time, remembering you with your flying pigtails on that white horse, outshooting your brother.”

  The sheriff’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

  Elizabeth reached for the hotcakes. The sooner she ate and left, the better.

  “I thought you weren’t from around here.”

  A simply stated remark, free of curiosity or inquiry. She ignored it, her heart drumming in her ears.

  Maggie met her gaze, then patted her mouth with her napkin. “Garrett, if you have opportunity in the next few days, would you mind helping me with the shutters on the porch. I feel an early autumn coming on, and I don’t want you catching your death out there in a surprise snowstorm.”

  He slept on the porch? In a nearly empty house? “How many other boarders do you have, Maggie?”

  “Just the two of you at the moment.”

  Elizabeth plated her silverware and tucked her napkin beneath the plate’s edge. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be on my way. Thank you for a lovely and filling breakfast.”

  “You are most welcome, dear.” Maggie raised her teacup. “I look forward to hearing how your search turns out.”

  The sheriff stood as she did, mischief rippling his features. “The bathing room’s all yours this evening—Elizabeth.” He dipped his head in deference.

  Embarrassed anew, she walked slowly from the room, determined not to reveal how intensely she wanted out of his presence.

  “Oh, I forgot to discuss the arrangements.”

  Elizabeth picked up her pace at reaching the hallway. She was not about to discuss any arrangements with the sheriff present, particularly after he had fairly flaunted his muscular arms and broad chest last night. Not that she’d noticed.

  Hiking her skirt, she dashed up the stairs and escaped into her rented room. She’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and coming home had already turned out to be more of a challenge than she’d bargained for.

  CHAPTER 4

  Garrett didn’t need another challenge, but he fully intended to call Elizabeth Beaumont Betsy every chance he got just to see her light up like a penny firecracker.

  Pearl whined and clawed the inside of the heavy office door as he opened up, happy as usual at his return. She tried to squeeze out, but he pinned her against the doorframe with his knee. “Not this time, girl. Hold your horses.”

  She followed him to the back, where he led her outside to her rope.

  “Sorry, but you’ve got to stay off the street. Who knows how many fandangled lady’s bags could be out there, luring you into a life a crime.”

  Maggie had sent him off with a bowl of scraps from the kitchen, and he set them in the shade with fresh wa
ter. “Maybe we’ll go for a ride this evening.” He rubbed the dog’s ears.

  She rewarded him with a wet lick to his hand.

  If he let her, she’d work him over nearly as good as last night’s tub-soaking.

  He chuckled, remembering Betsy Beaumont’s horror-stricken face—so worth the effort of getting in the tub before she returned. He’d known darn well who’d drawn the bath and lit the lamp.

  The hardest part was playing innocent. That, and getting outside in his soaked trousers and socks without swamping the entire kitchen after she’d run off.

  Yeah, completely worth it.

  Something about that gal drew the ornery out of him. Maybe it was the determined set of her jaw or the way she kept her own counsel and didn’t chatter like a jay. Allowing her pluck at jumping in on the bucket line, it wasn’t all that hard to imagine her outshooting the men at the annual rifle match. He just had to figure out who her brother was, and the best place he knew of for thinking was the back of his horse.

  He locked the front door. As he headed for the livery, the unmistakable slap of the batwings at the Pike Saloon stopped him. A mite early for a fight.

  A man tumbled over the hitching rail and into the street.

  “Don’t come back!” Miller Pike’s bellow preceded his bulk through the swinging doors. He stopped on the boardwalk, his meaty hands clenching and unclenching.

  “Trouble, Miller?” Garrett ambled that way.

  “Done took care of it, Sheriff.” He pointed a beefy finger at his former customer. “But that youngster comes back to my establishment, and you can haul him off to yours.”

  At that, the fella glanced up at Garrett with a boyish face, white and worried. He wore no gun, and his farmer’s hat said he should be tending a plow, not tipping a glass.

  Garrett’s insides went cold, and remorse slid icy fingers down his spine.

  “Too early to be drinking—both you and the day.” He darkened his tone, aiming to turn a lad away early rather than drag him off later, dead. “Where you from, boy?”

  The young drunk struggled to his feet, pointed out of town, and double-stepped to keep from toppling over.

  “You best be headed that way.”

  He waited for the kid to find the boardwalk and head south. Didn’t need some freighter running him over in front of the townsfolk.

  Or a stray bullet bringing him down.

  Garrett shook off the encounter and the idea of riding, and crossed to the hotel. Sawdust tinged the air and hammers rang. He reset his hat and walked through the doorless entrance looking for Clarence Thatcher and a clue.

  Thatcher and another man were trying to paste green-and-gold flocked wallpaper on the lobby walls, one of a few rooms that still had a ceiling. Garrett would rather skin snakes.

  “Clarence.” He dipped his chin to the other gentleman, who was wrangling a narrow length of paper twice his height.

  “Sheriff.” Thatcher slapped paste on the wall and took hold of one edge of the paper. “I’m tied up at the moment, as I’m sure you can see.”

  Suited Garrett fine. In fact, better than fine. He’d ask questions later. “I’m gonna look around.”

  “Be my guest.”

  The other man laughed. “Guess you can’t do that, can you?”

  Thatcher cut him a hard look, and the other fella’s grin fell to the floor along with the paper.

  Garrett took to the singed staircase that was mostly intact, with one or two boards burned through here and there. The worst of the damage was on the second floor, which confirmed Garrett’s hunch that the fire had started there.

  Thatcher’s decision to work on the ground-floor rooms first made sense. Easier to get them livable in quick time. But up here, it’d take more than wallpaper to cover the damage. Walls were charred clear through, other than the outside walls of the northeast corner.

  A fire he’d witnessed in Abilene had started downstairs in the kitchen and burned up the whole place in fifteen minutes. Literally up. Different than this.

  Garrett chose his steps carefully, staying close to support beams and away from checked flooring. Only a blackened iron bed remained in the corner room above the lobby. From his precarious vantage point, he could see most of the second floor lying atop the first. Mangled beds had fallen through. One area appeared to be nothing but ash. He made his way back down for a closer look.

  Maybe it was the time of day, the angle of the light, or the fact that this end of the hotel hadn’t been cleaned out by carpenters yet. An odd shape poked up through the ash. He worked his way across the charred remains to the lump and picked it up. His guess—the brass burner of an oil lamp.

  ~

  Confident in her simple attire and straw hat, portfolio under one arm, Elizabeth marveled at how Main Street had expanded in the last six years. Apparently the Olin Springs Gazette was prospering, based on the large Gothic print painted across the building’s false front. The livery was no longer at the end of the street, for several storefronts had sprung up beyond it, including a saddle shop. New stables stretched behind the livery toward the stockyards near the railway.

  Even the church had a neighbor to the north—a modest home with a sign hanging at a right angle to its picket fence: Library.

  At the bank’s entrance, she drew a steadying breath, then stepped inside.

  Nothing had changed, other than the teller whom she approached. “Good morning. I am Elizabeth Beaumont, and I’d like to speak to Mr. Harrison, please.”

  The sober man looked her up and down with obvious suspicion, but dipped a nod and walked back to the president’s desk. Harrison paused in his paperwork, then peered over his eye glasses in her direction.

  She was banking on him not recognizing her.

  A snicker nearly escaped at the turn of phrase, but she tucked it away as he rose from his chair.

  “May I help you,”—he glanced at her left hand clutching the portfolio—“Miss Beaumont?”

  A half-truth, but she’d take it. “I’m here to see if I might be of assistance to you, sir. I’ve recently arrived from Denver, where I was employed as a type-writer for several legal firms.” One legal firm—less than a half-truth. She opened the portfolio and presented the evidence. “I am quite proficient, as you can see by these samples of my work, and I have my own machine.”

  The firm set of his mouth gave her the answer she didn’t want to hear, but he politely looked through her work, nodding appreciatively.

  “Indeed.” He fingered back to one memo in particular and read through it again before squaring the papers and returning them to the portfolio she’d laid on the counter. “I can see that you do fine work, Miss Beaumont, but I can’t use your services at the moment. Perhaps a few months from now you might check back.”

  He removed his eye glasses and gave her a more penetrating appraisal. “You say you’re not from Olin Springs? Something about you seems vaguely familiar.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harrison.” She’d said nothing of the sort, nor did she intend to add to her little white lies, piling them up until they were as black as her type-writer ribbon. Clutching the portfolio to her shirt front, she stepped back. “A few months, then. Good day.”

  She quietly shut the door behind her, expelling a tight breath and ruing all the times she’d insisted her father take her to town with him. Only once or twice she accompanied him inside the bank, but she was the female version of his very image, especially now, so thin. The connection would no doubt come to Harrison in the middle of the night or during a meal or in conversation with local businessmen. She expected no less.

  Continuing past the hardware store and other familiar sites, she took a side street back to the depot and Western Union, where she slowed her steps and drew up her most confident posture before opening the door.

  Mr. Holsom looked up from his desk. “May I help you?”

  “On the contrary, sir, I believe I may be of help to you.” Elizabeth offered her hand across the countertop as
he approached with curiosity crinkling his forehead.”

  “Betsy?”

  Drat.

  “Elizabeth, now. Elizabeth Beaumont. It’s good to see you, Mr. Holsom.”

  Apparently pleased to see her, he smiled and pushed his visor higher. “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know you were in town. Here to visit Cade?”

  “In good time.” Telegraphers typically knew everyone’s business, which was exactly the reason she had not communicated with Maggie via telegraph. She wasn’t surprised at his response. “First I’d like to secure employment.”

  Holsom’s expression went limp and he pulled his visor back down, reaching for a scrap of paper from a nearby stack. “A telegram, then. Is that it?”

  “No. I’m here to see if you can use a type-writer. I even have my own type-writing machine and several samples of my work.” She opened her portfolio on the counter and fanned the papers to show a collection of letters, memorandums, and other communiques. “As you can see, I am quite experienced.”

  Mr. Holsom worked his mouth as if chewing marbles and lifted the corner of each paper, giving it a brief review. “That you are. Nice work, young lady.” As Harrison had done, he squared the papers into a neat stack and closed the portfolio.

  Elizabeth’s heart plopped onto her hastily eaten hotcakes.

  “If I had need of a type-writer, I’d be sure to hire you. But as it stands, I just don’t need the service right now. Maybe if the town grows like they say it will. Maybe then I could give you a little work.”

  He slid the portfolio toward her.

  “Might I ask who they are?”

  His puzzled look followed.

  “They who say the town will grow.”

  “Oh.” He chuckled. “Had me there for a minute. Well, that new attorney, Rochester, for one. He’s been telling everybody that Olin Springs is about ready to bust wide open with new people and new prospects. His office is near the end of Main on the east side if you want to stop and check with him. Right next to the feed store.”