An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  If Miss Clarke remembered the generous offer of support she made before Elizabeth left the Hatchett law firm, Rochester would receive a favorable reference letter, appearing to be from the elder Hatchett himself.

  She shuddered at the implication.

  But Anthony Rochester could be her chance at a new beginning. And she was willing to take that chance in spite of her reservations.

  CHAPTER 6

  Garrett didn’t believe in chance. Everything happened for a reason.

  He hefted the final shutter into place and, bracing it with one arm, drove a long screw into a hole in the frame. Three more screws secured the window, and he climbed down from the ladder and stood back to inspect his work. Still couldn’t figure why his landlady didn’t hinge the shutters back against the house like everyone else did.

  But Maggie wasn’t like everyone else in Olin Springs, and neither was her house.

  “Lovely.” She clasped her small hands like a young girl. “You came back at just the right time.”

  Exactly. No chance to it. He’d helped his landlady and learned more about the mysterious Elizabeth Betsy Parker Beaumont all at the same time.

  “It’s so warm out, I’ll make sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade if you care to wait. Or do you have duties in town to attend to?”

  Garrett stuck the screwdriver in his belt and folded the ladder. Her offer of lemonade cinched the deal. “They can wait.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll bring a tray out to the veranda. With the breeze, it will be more pleasant outdoors than in the dining room.”

  She gathered her pail and brush and rushed up the stairs, true to her state of constant motion.

  Garrett returned the ladder and tools to the old carriage house and took his time poking around inside. Not exactly a barn, but used as one, with a couple of stalls that sported busted boards and feed troughs needing repair. Fixed up, it’d be a decent place for horses to winter.

  A hooded jump-seat buggy sat in dusty neglect, its tucked leather seats dull and dry. Saddle soap, some oil to the wood, and he could have it looking in its prime. He’d not paid attention to it in the year or so he’d lived there, but had often wandered out to the pasture where a bay mare grazed. A small enclosure with a trough and pump at this end and a shallow creek cutting across the far corner, it had more than enough grass for the old girl.

  Maybe if he offered to groom and grain the mare, fix up the so-called barn and buggy, and pay extra, Maggie’d let him board his gelding here as well.

  It was worth a try.

  He hung his hat on a fence post, pumped water into the trough, and stuck his head under the flow for a quick dousing. Pulling back, he flung his head, speckling his shirt and vest with water. He shoved his hair back, then dried his face and neck with his neckerchief, remembering earlier days in another town with George M. Booth.

  Good days that ended in a bad way, pushing him back to the cattle drives and ultimately the job in Olin Springs. The trail is no place to end your days, Booth had prodded, busted up, lonely, and poorer than Job’s turkey. Nearly three decades alone are more than any man should tolerate. Though Booth was still riding single and pushing sixty.

  Resetting his hat, Garrett walked back past the carriage house and around through the orchard on the south end of Maggie’s house. The architecture reminded him of the homes of wealthy mine owners, timber giants, and Wyoming cattle barons. Maggie never talked about her departed husband and how he’d made his money, just a rare mention of her “dear Daniel.” And as far as Garrett knew, they’d had no children.

  In spite of Booth’s harping, Garrett knew the old marshal was right. He didn’t want to end up with no family other than Pearl and Rink.

  Maybe that was why Maggie took to Betsy so. Which, he admitted grudgingly, he could as well if it weren’t for her infernal arrogant attitude, subtle lies, and obvious dislike of his dog.

  Mounting the front stairs, he slowed at finding her curled up asleep on the porch swing. Her black lace-up shoes stood primly beneath the white slatted swing, and she lay tucked between its ends, one arm bent under her head, her expression guileless. Nothing about her hinted at the she-bear who’d fought it out with Pearl.

  Two rockers and a small table fronted the house. Hanging his hat on the far rocker that angled toward the swing, he planted himself there to study his fellow boarder. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, as if he could peer inside that pretty head to what drove this gal like cattle before a hard storm.

  And that’s the way she found him when her eyes flew open at Maggie’s unexpected announcement.

  “Perfect timing again, wouldn’t you say, Garrett?”

  He straightened abruptly and coughed back a comment.

  Betsy shot up like a startled rooster.

  Maggie set a tray on the table. “Imagine the chance of finding you both out here enjoying the breeze.” She poured two glasses of lemonade and gave one to each of them with a small napkin.

  “I promise a hot meal this evening, but for now there are plenty of sandwiches here for you, plus the lemonade. Enjoy yourselves.”

  She then disappeared through her front door, closing it soundly. As if telling them to stay out.

  Garrett’s mouth watered at the lemon slice floating in his chilled glass, and he knocked back half the drink with one gulp.

  Betsy held hers and the napkin in one hand, the swing seat with the other, and fished for her shoes with her feet.

  He couldn’t stop a chuckle.

  She glared.

  Which made him laugh outright. He walked over and took her glass. “I’ll hold this while you get yourself shod.”

  She reached for the glass. “Don’t bother.”

  He jerked it back, spilling cold lemonade on the floor. “My apologies, Mrs. Beaumont. Let me make it up to you.” Then he topped off her glass from his own, some of his ice tumbling in.

  But the chilled glass in his hand had nothing on the frosty woman in the swing.

  ~

  Elizabeth pulled knots in her laces, trying to get her shoes on in front of a man rude enough to sit and watch her. But it was either struggle in front of him or walk in her stocking feet around the end of the house to the back. Maggie had probably locked the front door after her abrupt departure, and Elizabeth refused to beg admittance by knocking.

  She leaned over to better reach her shoe and the swing dipped. Too late to counter the move, she toppled out.

  Sheriff Wilson had her in hand before she had her wits.

  “Are you all right?” Genuine alarm creased his brow.

  His gentleness stunned her as much as the bare wooden floor, and she couldn’t help but compare his concern with Anthony Rochester’s smug appraisal.

  With a hand on each arm, he helped her stand.

  She instinctively gripped his forearms, as solid and strong as they’d appeared in the bathing room. The memory warmed her neck, and she lowered her hands and her gaze. “Thank you for your help. Again.”

  She carried her shoes to the other rocker. “Don’t you have something better to do than watch me put on my shoes?”

  He chose two roast beef sandwiches from the platter and sat in the swing, rocking it in great sweeps, his feet planted squarely on the veranda floor. “Now that you mention it.” Raising one sandwich in a mock toast, he shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

  Honestly. He’d fit right in at the ranch with Cade and Deacon.

  A quick dart pinged her conscience. She should send word to Cade that she’d arrived. Which meant she must be employed first. Which meant she must decide about Rochester.

  She pulled on her right boot, snugged the laces, and tied a neat bow.

  Sheriff Wilson was still watching her. At least he chewed with his mouth closed.

  As bold as he was, there was nothing lecherous in his perusal. More brotherly annoyance, if anything. Oddly enough, he did not make her uncomfortable. He simply watched, as if he were observing someone pass by his office.

  What
did he think about all day behind that metal star? Bandits? Outlaws? The price of bullets? She glanced at his gun, worn low and tied down, then picked up her left boot and went to work loosening the laces. “Do you happen to know the new attorney in town, Anthony Rochester?”

  The sheriff continued watching, his expression unchanged. He swallowed the last of the second sandwich, finished his lemonade, and rested the glass on his knee, relaxing back against the swaying swing. “Do you happen to know Cade Parker?”

  Surprised, her fingers fumbled. She stared at her shoe, stalling for an answer the second time in one day, as she slipped her foot inside, tightened the laces, and tied them off. Straightening with as much grace as possible, she met him head on. “I asked first.”

  His mouth ticked up on the scarred side. “Why do you ask?”

  Infuriating man. How foolish to think she’d glimpsed compassion a moment ago. She leaned back in the rocker and picked up her lemonade. Two could play this game.

  “Lovely afternoon, don’t you think, Sheriff?”

  “Garrett.”

  With him clearly in the corner of her eye, she focused her attention on Maggie’s roses, blushing with their last amber and ruby blooms of the summer. Snow could be falling in six weeks—she’d seen it happen before. An azure sky one day blotted out by a blizzard the next.

  A hearty gust blew through the open space, affirming her recollection, and caught the hem of her skirt and the sheriff’s damp hair. He fingered it back with a broad, brown hand.

  He needed a haircut.

  She needed an answer.

  Without employment, her small savings would vanish in a month. Cade would insist she return to the ranch. But he was married, and sooner rather than later, the two extra bedrooms would be filled with children.

  Another dart snagged behind her ribs. She’d not thought of babies during those first few years in Denver. Not until she began seeing less and less of Edward and realized she would more than likely end up on her own.

  It was just as well. She couldn’t afford to raise a child alone. Nor would she limp back to the ranch and live off Cade’s generosity. He’d done enough. She would take care of herself.

  The sheriff rose and in one long stride, stood before her, the toe of his boot skimming her skirt hem. Towering like a tree, he picked up the lemonade pitcher and refilled both glasses.

  He emptied his to the dregs, leaned down as he returned it to Maggie’s tray, and bore into Elizabeth with gun-metal eyes.

  “He’s a snake, Betsy.” His voice had sunk with deep caution.

  Unable to breathe, she held his gaze until he turned away. Down the front steps and across the street, his long, steady gait took him back toward town.

  He turned the corner, and hand to her heart, she drew in as much air as her lungs would hold. She’d won the game, but not the prize.

  As if on cue, Maggie flitted out through the front door. “Need more lemonade, dear?”

  Elizabeth suspected the woman had watched—and listened—through the parlor window. “I have plenty, thank you.”

  Maggie took the other rocker with a deep sigh and gazed off in the direction of town. “So Garrett has returned to his office.”

  “He didn’t say.” A lot of things.

  Another gust danced across the veranda.

  Maggie lifted her face to it, inhaling deeply. “Garrett got my shutters on just in time.”

  Elizabeth looked at her sideways, curious about what Maggie did or did not know. Her tension stretched as wide as the clouds piled high upon themselves, denser and grayer than the earlier white-sailed ships. They were not the only storm churning. Sheriff Wilson was stirring into her background, for whatever reason. Perhaps he’d seen through her ruse, learned the facts elsewhere, and was now challenging her to be forthright.

  “How did things go for you in town, dear?”

  Another personal squall, though more pressing. “Only one person needs a type-writer, but I didn’t give him an answer yet.”

  Maggie picked up the last sandwich, took a small bite, and pinned Elizabeth with bright expectancy.

  “Mr. Rochester offered me a substantial salary.”

  “And you didn’t accept right away?”

  “I told him I’d let him know.”

  The older woman flashed a questioning glance but held her tongue.

  Elizabeth sighed. Who else did she have to talk to? “He’s checking my references. But something about him makes me uneasy. I can’t put my finger on it, but on my way back this morning, I even considered cleaning and doing laundry—though I would never ask to do laundry here. I’ve not played the piano in years, and I doubt I could make enough teaching music to pay my board anyway.”

  “Posh.” Maggie brushed sandwich crumbs off her lap. “You can do so much better than domestic service.” She set the rocker in motion. “To be honest, I don’t know anything about Mr. Rochester, aside from his impeccable manners and deportment. I’ve not needed an attorney’s assistance for several years now, but I can ask the ladies at my next Library Committee meeting. Someone might know something more about him.”

  Stilling the rocker, she picked up the tray and balanced it on her narrow lap. “What did Garrett say?”

  Maybe Maggie hadn’t been eavesdropping after all. Or maybe she was playing her own game. How else would she know that Elizabeth had asked him about Mr. Rochester? “He said the attorney was a snake.”

  Maggie rose. “Then perhaps you’re right to distrust Mr. Rochester. Garrett would tell you the truth.”

  Elizabeth sniffed. She’d believe a man spoke truth when he did so to his own detriment, but she’d keep her opinion to herself.

  And yet, those gray-green eyes…

  Maggie took the tray to the door she’d left slightly ajar and nudged it open with the toe of her shoe. “He spent more time here today than any day since he’s been boarding.” One dark brow arched beneath her snowy topknot. “Last year it took him weeks to get around to my storm shutters. That’s why I asked so early this time.”

  Catching the questioning tilt of her landlady’s head, Elizabeth folded her hands over a sudden flurry in her stomach.

  CHAPTER 7

  Pearl’s tail swept up a flurry where she sat waiting behind the jail. Garrett turned her loose and watched her follow her nose from building to bush, scouting for just the right spot. Her search was as disjointed as his curiosity about Betsy Beaumont. He didn’t have time to get sidetracked by some gal who hedged the truth and refused to give him a straight answer. And he sure didn’t need her getting tied up with that attorney before he figured out exactly what the fella was up to.

  He set out a bowl of fresh water and left the back door open.

  At the front, someone tapped on the window.

  He unlocked the front door.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff.” Holsom stepped inside and handed him a folded telegram. “Just arrived.”

  “Much obliged.” Garrett fished a nickel from his vest pocket and gave it to the express agent for his trouble, then waited for the curious fella to leave.

  Easing into his desk chair, he read the last line first: GMB.

  Above it, brief and to the point, the six-word reply carried code from earlier days:

  Opened box. Found snake. Gold toothed.

  Evidently, he and Booth had the same opinion.

  A lesson he’d learned from his granddad rose up clear and sharp in his mind. Garrett had been eight years old, lying on his belly with a rifle aimed at a rattler coiled under his grandparents’ house. He was more familiar with the shotgun, but Grandpa said they didn’t need a hole in the kitchen floor.

  Be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove, the old preacher said. He was one for quoting the Good Book at the oddest times. Watch him, son. A snake never takes his eyes off his prey.

  Garrett squeezed the trigger.

  ~

  That afternoon, Elizabeth lifted her Remington from its crate, centered it near the front edge of the writing
desk, and set the crate against the wall. With a hankie, she cleaned dust from the black finish on all exposed parts and gently wiped each ringed key, beginning with the numbers along the top row and continuing to the lettered keys of the second row—Q W E R T Y…

  She took a blank sheet of paper from the back of her portfolio, then flipped a lever on the Remington and slid the sheet between the feed roller and rubber platen, rolling the paper in and straightening it along the top edge. A chair from a corner of the room seated her perfectly in front of the desk, at just the right height. She locked the type-writer into lower case, then straightened her skirt around her legs and poised her fingers above the keyboard. As if it were a piano.

  Depressing the Upper Case key with the little finger of her right hand, she struck the letter E with the middle finger of her left hand and quickly released both keys. The rest of her name followed precisely and cleanly, like individual notes of a melody. A touch of the wooden bar beneath her thumbs added a space before the next word.

  A knock at her door halted her practice. “Come in.”

  Maggie peaked around the door’s edge, a slave to curiosity. “I heard clicking.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the childlike admission and waved her over. “I’ll show you how it works.”

  Facing the desk again, she lifted the lever at the back of the machine that locked the letters into upper case and typed a few words. Then she lowered the lever, returning the letters to lower case, and continued, her fingers flying evenly over the keys, pausing only to press the Upper Case key occasionally with the little finger of her right hand, or to pull the carriage-lever gently forward and push it to the right.

  “But where are the words?” Maggie leaned over the machine, squinting into its workings. “How do you know if you pressed the correct letters?”