An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  She thanked Mr. Holsom and left, regrouping outside on the depot boardwalk. Olin Springs may have expanded its Main Street, but it was not as progressive as she had imagined. After a half-dozen years in Denver, the last two as a type-writer for Gladstone, Hatchett and Son law firm, she had forgotten how quaint and wholesome a town she’d come from.

  Disheartened but not enough to quit, she returned to Main Street and the newspaper, doubtful that the editor would need a type-writer. A type-setter, perhaps, but that was a completely different skill, and based on Maggie’s mention of a neighbor boy, the editor already had one. She prepared to be turned down a third time and opened the door.

  A bell clanked as she stepped inside, and a middle-aged man came from the back of the long, open room. His bib apron was inked nearly black, and he wiped his hands on a rag as he approached the counter.

  “Mr. Fischer, the editor, isn’t in, but if you want to place an ad or have a news item, I can take it down for you. I run the press.” He extended his stained hand. “Ben Witherfall.”

  At Elizabeth’s hesitation to shake his blackened fingers, he quickly withdrew them with shy humor. “Sorry, ma’am. I forget sometimes.”

  “What time do you expect Mr. Fischer to return?”

  “Hard to say. He’s over at the café trying to drum up—I mean, he’s checking in on the latest happenings. Depends on what he finds this morning.” Hopefulness brightened his face. “Do you have news for the paper?”

  “No. I am a type-writer newly arrived from Denver, and I’m inquiring about his need of my services. I have my own machine.”

  Doubtful, he rubbed his forehead, leaving a black smudge there. “All our writing is printed on the press. But I’ll let him know you stopped by.” He took a small square of newsprint from a cut stack and handed it to her with a pencil. “If you’d like to leave your name and how he can reach you, I’ll pass it on to him.”

  She wrote out the information and slid it across the counter.

  He read it, then smiled briefly. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Beaumont. I’ll be sure Mr. Fischer gets this.”

  Elizabeth detested the surname, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  She continued along the west side of Main Street, entering any place of business she thought might offer employment. By the time she crossed the street at the opposite end of town, she’d been turned down five times, recognized twice, and referred again to the attorney.

  There was nothing to do but make her way back up the street. She should have gone there to begin with, as Maggie had suggested, but the bad taste that lingered from Gladstone and Hatchett made her hesitant to work for a law firm again.

  However, if her plans to survive independently of her brother were to succeed, she needed work. She knew of many attorneys who were quite reputable and offered honest service, but doors had closed after Mr. Hatchett’s destruction of her reputation.

  In addition, the cost of living in Denver consumed a type-writer’s wages like winter consumed fall, a reality that had sealed her decision to return to Olin Springs.

  Glancing up from the boards, she neared barred windows. At the sheriff’s office, she quickened her pace and hurried by the open door, praying she’d not be spotted by the man or his dog. It was more of a panicked plea than a real prayer, for she was rusty and out of practice. She’d not prayed for quite some time. Complying with Maggie’s wishes at the dining table didn’t really count.

  Safely past with her person, pride, and portfolio intact, she crossed an intersection and slowed as she approached the shingle bearing the attorney’s name. Her reflection in his curtained front window caught her eye, and she lifted one hand to her chignon.

  A tall, angular man coming out the door stopped short and grabbed her arm to keep from colliding with her.

  His shrewd eyes quickly took her measure, and she clutched her portfolio tighter and stepped out of his grasp.

  Bending at the waist, he gave a brief bow. “My apologies. In my hurry I neglected to look for passersby. Please forgive my brutishness.”

  A familiar, litigious tone crawled beneath his words.

  She could turn and leave, but she needed work. Her grip on her portfolio tightened. “Mr. Rochester.”

  His thin mustache pulled a near smile as he dipped his head, still watching her. “At your service.” With a flourish, he opened the door for her to enter. “How may I be of assistance to you this fine morning?”

  She stepped inside, sensing the flutter of useless wings, similar to those of the fly in the spider’s parlor.

  CHAPTER 5

  Garrett smashed the black widow with his boot.

  Snakes, coyotes, even outlaws gave him no pause. Anything he could draw a gun on. But that brittle snap of thread had chilled him when he’d picked up the broom. He found the shiny black ball dangling in the corner with its red hourglass a fitting target.

  After dashing the web and egg sack with the stiff broom straws, he finished cleaning the cells, eager for a good cold snap. But it’d be nigh on eight weeks before winter killed off the widows and sent snakes to their holes.

  Maybe it’d do the same for Anthony Rochester.

  Garrett had spent most of the morning speculating on the lawyer’s motives and the bank president’s preoccupied manner last night, but nothing added up. Just as he was about to dump the cold coffee from the pot on his stove, the Beaumont woman fairly ran by his open front door. He watched from the threshold as she crossed the side street, then followed from a distance. Sure enough, she plowed into Rochester himself, and then went into his office.

  Garrett walked that way, slowed at the attorney’s window, and met up with heavy curtains just high enough on the big front glass that Garrett couldn’t see a thing other than his own reflection.

  What was she searching for, as Maggie Snowfield had mentioned at breakfast, and why in the world would Maggie send her to Rochester?

  He turned down the alley and again at the depot, stopping at the express office. Holsom had no telegram from Booth yet, but he sure enough coughed up some interesting information when Garrett mentioned Elizabeth Beaumont.

  “Betsy Parker, you mean. She sure has grown into a fine-looking woman.” Holsom thumbed his visor up. “You weren’t here when her and Cade’s parents died that winter—’75, it was. Worst blizzard in twenty years, some of the old timers said. Sad situation.”

  The news could have knocked Garrett over with one of his broom straws. He’d heard Cade had a sister but had never met her, nor did he expect to. The questions just kept piling up.

  “Both died, you say?”

  “Buggy accident, it was. The colonel must have thought he could drive headlong into a blizzard rather than wait it out in town.”

  The colonel had to be their pa.

  “Neither Cade nor Betsy were the same after that. Fact is, Betsy up and ran off with that Beaumont fella. Based on all the money Cade wired, she was living in Den—”

  Caught in the error of his ways, Holsom clapped his jaw shut and tugged his visor down.

  Garrett tapped his knuckles on the countertop. “Let me know when you hear from George Booth.”

  Holsom jerked a nod. “Will do, Sheriff.”

  Craving more coffee, Garrett returned to Main Street, intent on the café. Bozeman’s brew could cut axel grease, but it was either that or The Pike Saloon. He took a seat at the far window table, his back against the wall and his eye on Rochester’s door. No telling if the gal was already gone or still in there.

  At lease he knew why Maggie Snowfield called her Betsy. But why the name change?

  She hadn’t out and out lied to him about where she was from, but she’d come darn close. And why wasn’t Beaumont with her? She was hiding something, and it might be in that crate she guarded like a treasure chest. It was heavy enough, but he doubted it held gold coin.

  Bozeman brought him a cup and left the coffee pot on the table. Too early for dinner, Garrett was the lone customer. A fe
w folks passed by outside, men giving a nod when they caught his eye, but Garrett was otherwise occupied, chasing an idea around the back of his brain.

  Maggie needed his help with the storm shutters, and she’d want to wash them before he hung them, just like last year. With Betsy in town, right now was the perfect opportunity, giving him time to steal upstairs. He swigged his coffee, scalding his throat and taste buds, left a coin on the blue-checkered cloth, and made tracks to the boarding house.

  Around back, Maggie was throwing a pail of water on two shutters she’d already hauled up from the basement and set against the back of the house. A more determined woman he’d never met. Except maybe Elizabeth Betsy Parker Beaumont.

  “Why, Garrett.” She smiled. “What good timing you have. Can you bring up the rest? We might get this chore completed before supper tonight.”

  He tugged his hat down. “Be right back.”

  The narrow door next to the bathing room stood open, and a soft light glowed from the basement. He tromped down and returned with two shutters under each arm, reaching the top of the stairs as Maggie came in the back door.

  “You’re a dear. Just lean them against the house with the others.” She mixed water and vinegar in the pail and dropped in a heavy brush.

  He shook his head at the little lady who could near outwork a grown man. No telling what she’d have him doing next, but he’d wager that chopping firewood was on the list. He backed through the door, then stopped and turned on the stoop before taking the five steps down, where he leaned the shutters against the bottom of the porch with the others.

  Maggie kept a ladder and tools in an old buggy shed out back, and when he returned with them, she was busy dousing and scrubbing.

  Seizing the opportunity, he calmly went inside, then hurried through the kitchen to the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. Chancing that Betsy’s room was the first on the right, he knocked and waited a moment. What he’d say if she came to the door he had no idea, but he wouldn’t just barge in on her.

  The memory of her doing just that last night, and the stone-cold shock on her face, drew a chuckle. He twisted the knob and peeked in. A might fancier than his quarters, but he hadn’t wanted to bunk upstairs. He needed to be able to leave at a moment’s notice without waking the whole house, and he didn’t take to lace curtains and flowers all over the walls and bedding.

  The crate in question sat on a writing desk in front of the window, the lid pried up.

  Checking his back trail, he glanced at the landing and stairs, listening for Maggie’s footfall in the kitchen. Nothing. He ducked inside, and opening the weighty little box, he found the last thing he expected.

  ~

  Anthony Rochester’s narrow shotgun-style office held a large oak desk with an ancient leather chair hunched behind it. Two captain’s chairs languished in front. A worn leather writing pad, ink pot and fountain pens, and a shallow, walnut box of letterhead adorned the top.

  The nicest articles in the room were the man’s suit and a brown velvet curtain across his window, hung just low enough to allow some sunlight in above it.

  Only two framed certificates decorated the walls.

  Rochester’s touch at her elbow made her flinch.

  “Please, be seated.” Light but persistent pressure urged her toward the tired chairs.

  She chose the one closest to the door, settling on its very edge.

  He took his position behind the desk, planted his elbows on the writing pad, and steepled creamy white fingers. An image of Sheriff Wilson’s rough, weathered hands flashed in her memory.

  “How may I be of service, Miss…”

  “Beaumont.” Fighting for her nerve, she straightened her back even more and laid her portfolio across her lap. “Mrs. Elizabeth Beaumont.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Beaumont.”

  She didn’t miss his glance at her left hand. Oh, why had she sold her wedding band in Denver?

  For the same reason she was sitting in this office. Money.

  “How long have you been in business here, Mr. Rochester?”

  He flipped a hand, making light of his meager surroundings. “This is all temporary. My permanent furnishings should be arriving any day on the train.” He leaned forward. “But I’m sure you’re not here to discuss my décor.”

  So much for niceties and straightforward answers. “I am a type-writer looking for work, but I can see you are not set up for an assistant or employee, so I won’t take up any more of your time.” She rose.

  His arm swept theatrically across the room. “Please, don’t be put off by appearances. I most definitely could use someone with your capabilities, though I expected to hire a man here in Olin Springs. Your employment here would be seen as progressive.” He indicated her portfolio. “Have you a sample of your work?”

  Choosing what she believed was her least-important example, she laid it on his desk.

  “Come, come, Mrs. Beaumont. Let me see all your work.” His smooth hand waited, pale palm up.

  She gave him the collection, revealing more of herself than she wanted, but retained her portfolio and again took the seat’s edge.

  He read each page thoroughly, frowning at a few as though troubled by their content. At others he nodded appreciatively, and at one he simply stared, but she couldn’t see which one drew such concentrated attention. Then squaring the pages as everyone else had, he handed them back. “Nicely done, Mrs. Beaumont. Obviously, you have worked for another legal firm. Have you letters of reference?”

  Her heart threatened to crash through her ribs, and maintaining her composure cost a fair amount of energy. “Not at the moment.” Sudden departures from self-indulgent employers left little time for supportive correspondence.

  “Perhaps I can contact someone at Gladstone, Hatchett and Son to vouch for you. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Certainly.”

  Experience told her he was reading her like an open ledger—every move, every blink of her eye. She held her hands immobile atop her portfolio, her posture poker straight. “Contact Miss Erma Clarke and she will see that your inquiry gets into the proper hands.” Which would be Erma’s.

  “Might I assume you also possess stenographer skills?”

  Precious few. “Yes.” She could always practice at the boarding house.

  “And you understand the utmost importance of confidentiality.”

  Her pulse ricocheted from temple to throat. “Indeed.”

  He continued to wait, poised, like a spider at the corner of its web. Suddenly he leaned back. “Very well. I shall telegraph Gladstone, Hatchett and Son today. Should I receive a favorable reply, when could you begin?”

  He’d snatched her tongue as surely as that yellow mongrel had snatched her reticule. She slid her work into the portfolio, stalling, raking her brain for a reason she could not work for him. None came, other than an edgy discomfort.

  “I am waiting to hear from others, but I will get back to you.” Such a bold, pathetic lie.

  She rose a second time.

  He followed suit, eyeing her with a challenging expression. “I assure you, you would have your own desk and a proper machine within the week.”

  “I have my own type-writer.” As soon as the words escaped, she regretted them, fearing she appeared desperate.

  His right brow arched. “I see. Very well, then. Until we meet again.”

  For the second time that day, she wanted to run from a room because of a man, but she walked calmly to the door.

  “Mrs. Beaumont?”

  She gripped the door knob and turned slightly to find him half the distance to her.

  “Are you not curious about the salary I offer?”

  Frankly, she was not. Perhaps cleaning and doing laundry weren’t as bad as Maggie warned. Or she could swallow her pride and go back to the ranch. She raised her chin in false bravado. “Of course.”

  He smiled. “Twelve dollars a week.”

  Surprise tightened her hold on the knob, but
she schooled her expression at hearing his offer match what she’d made in Denver.

  “Thank you. Good day.”

  After closing the front door behind her, she clipped along the boardwalk, two heartbeats for every footstep. She’d done more play-acting in the last twenty-four hours than in all her life. And told more lies. Circumstances were not at all as she’d hoped they’d be. Nor had they been in the last six years.

  At the corner, she turned for the boarding house, slowing her steps and her breathing. The pleasant grounds that skirted the Snowfield home just ahead helped ease her fretting. Maggie must employ someone to tend to the roses and lilies, and the crowd of apple trees gathered below the house.

  A breeze slipped by, and Elizabeth turned her face to the blue expanse above, filling now with towering clouds—an armada of tall ships sailing into port. A summer storm would soon break the heat and wash the dusty streets.

  If only it could wash away her misgivings as well.

  Rather than go immediately to her room, she fell into a corner of the quaint swing suspended at one end of the wide veranda. She unlaced her boots and lifted her stockinged feet beside her, the action setting the swing in motion. House wrens and sparrows twittered nearby, flitting between a feeder she’d not noticed earlier and a giant elm that shaded the end of the house.

  As a young girl, she had paid little if any attention to Margaret Snowfield herself, simply aware of the woman’s mansion-like home, so out of place in Olin Springs. Now it was a refuge, and as Maggie had suggested, Elizabeth did feel safe under its wing. Gratitude had made few if any appearances in the last several years, but it welled quietly within her now.

  A sudden gust whipped around the corner, hushing the birdsong and rattling the rosebushes. Clouds scuttled past the sun, and in the weakened light, she shrank from the prospect of working for Anthony Rochester.

  Was it merely his profession that unsettled her so? He’d said or done nothing inappropriate and, in fact, had behaved himself most gentlemanly. Perhaps that was it. Edward’s similar manner had once lured her off course, and she vowed never to be led away again. That and her hasty departure from Denver had formed the foundation of her return to Olin Springs, where she hoped to find her footing once more if given the chance.