An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  The welcome from Pastor Bittman and later Millie steeled Elizabeth for tsking head-shakers who would no doubt make their opinions known. She followed Maggie to a pew halfway to the front on the left side. After a few matronly parishioners frowned their disapproval in passing, Elizabeth relaxed. Their judgmental glares were not as hard to bear as she’d feared. Either that or they were constrained to behave with Christian charity inside the church.

  “Since you’ve no Scriptures, dear, you may share with me.” Maggie’s whisper was a tender gesture.

  Elizabeth had a small book of prayers that she’d taken from her mother’s dressing table before the funeral, but the family Bible was all she’d ever known growing up, and she assumed it was still in her father’s desk.

  As if returning to a familiar trail through a forest, she instinctively knew when to stand during the service or bow her head in communal prayer. Words to hymns long left unsung came to her lips without reading the hymnal, but most surprising of all was the rich baritone that rolled over the pews and people behind her. She knew without looking that Garrett Wilson was the one who lifted his voice with such controlled strength and gentle warmth.

  When Pastor Bittman directed everyone to the next hymn, she suspected Maggie had somehow requested the number. Each stanza held a tender glimpse of Elizabeth’s childhood, but at the third, her voice diminished to a whisper. “Prone to wander, Lord I feel it…”

  With a tingling rush across her skin, she knew she was not prone to wander, not at all. For she’d already proven that she had.

  ~

  The next morning, Elizabeth rose early, dressed in her simple business attire, and secured her straw hat above her knotted hair. She tucked Sophie’s note in her skirt pocket, then brushed her fingers across the Remington’s white keys before going downstairs.

  Too nervous to eat, she appeased Maggie by accepting a cup of coffee.

  “I want to be clear-headed and sharp this morning, and I can’t do that if I fill up on your wonderful cooking.”

  Maggie saw through the flattery and set a biscuit and jam in front of her. “You need your strength as well as your edge, dear.”

  Garrett Wilson had eaten and left, and for that Elizabeth was grateful. In the name of clear-headedness, he posed a stumbling block, particularly now that she knew what he called his horse and how well he sang. The man was an enigma.

  After a brisk walk to Anthony Rochester’s office, she entered to find him writing.

  He laid his pen aside and rose, smug satisfaction darting across his features.

  “Good day, Mrs. Beaumont. I do hope you are bringing me good news.”

  She pulled the door quietly closed. A small walnut table and matching chair sat against the opposite wall, lined up precisely with Mr. Rochester’s desk. Her pulse shortened its stride to a fitful skip. No turning back.

  He came around his desk and adjusted the angle of one of his captain’s chairs, offering it to her, then returned to his own, leaning back in quiet perusal.

  Only then did she realize she’d left her portfolio on the writing desk in her room. Perched on the edge of her seat, she had nothing to occupy her hands, so she folded them in her lap, straining for an air of ease.

  “Is your position for a type-writer still available?”

  “Indeed it is.” A thin brow arched like a drawn bow. “Are you willing?”

  To do what? “And the salary is unchanged?”

  He nodded slowly, with an obsidian hold.

  She could bolt for the door before he left his chair.

  “Did you receive a reference from my previous employer?”

  He slid a telegram from beneath his desk blotter. “Sterling,” he said, unfolding it and glancing over the message before returning it to its hiding place.

  She would give her first day’s salary to read what Erma Clarke had written. Forcing calm into her fingers and her heart, she stood and pressed her hands to the sides of her skirt. “Then I will get my type-writer and return shortly.”

  “Magnificent.” He got up and ushered her to the door, a light touch at the dip of her waist as he reached for the knob.

  She went cold, repugnance gripping her by the throat. His fingers seemed to linger near the lock before turning the brass knob.

  Almost imperceptibly, his head bent closer to hers. “I look forward to your return.”

  She drew back at his breath on her hair, his cologne strong and biting.

  “We’ve much to do.”

  She crossed the threshold, one leaden step in front of the other. Do not run.

  A left turn took her the length of his curtained window, her heels ticking against the weathered boardwalk, carrying her closer to the street corner. Do not run.

  Once safely beyond his view of the side street, she hiked her skirt and bolted for the boarding house.

  ~

  Garrett held a cup of charred coffee, elbows cocked on the blue-checkered cloth of Bozeman’s corner table. The new chambray shirt chafed.

  The door to Rochester’s office opened and Betsy stepped through. She hadn’t been inside five minutes. Did she tell the crook no?

  Silently, the coffee cup touched the cloth. Garrett’s hand slid to his holster, an old habit brought on by the chill at his neck that always flagged trouble.

  Betsy walked to the corner, ramrod straight, head rigid, lacking the grace and ease she normally moved with. At the cross street, she glanced over her left shoulder, closest the building, stepped around the corner, and ran.

  Garrett’s heart slammed into his throat and he launched to his feet, rocking the table and spilling the coffee.

  Bozeman looked up from where he was wiping down the counter.

  Garrett tossed him a coin and hit the door in full stride, one eye on Rochester’s place, the other on Betsy. If he blew through the attorney’s door, he’d tip his hand. He had to find out first what had happened. But he couldn’t chase her down and frighten her even more. If he hailed her, she’d know he’d followed her. Which was worse—his aching need to know or her ire if she learned he’d been watching?

  He picked up his pace at the alley, trotted across and up the block, then paused at Snowfield’s street. Betsy was fighting with the gate. He walked her way, shortening his stride, becoming as nonchalant as he knew how.

  “Is it stuck?”

  At his question, her head jerked up. Fear flashed in her rounded eyes, then relief. Her shoulders sagged and she stopped fumbling with the iron clasp. One arm hugged her waist, the other went to her throat.

  His trigger finger flinched. “Let me help you with that.”

  He fully expected her to reject his offer and continue battling the gate, but she stood waiting. Her chest rose and fell as if she’d run all the way from the other end of town.

  She didn’t move back as he approached. He had to lean into her lavender scent to reach the latch, and he came close to reaching for her instead. Drawing her close and holding her until her breathing slowed and her color returned.

  The clasp flipped up, and he pushed the gate inward.

  She hurried through but stopped at the steps, hands gripping her skirt in preparation to climb. The tops of her black lace-ups showed. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  No sneer. No retort or deflecting half-truth. Just honest gratitude before she rushed up the steps and through the front door.

  But it was still Sheriff. He had to get her to talk.

  ~

  Elizabeth fell back against the closed door to her room, shoving her hat askew and sucking air like a winded horse. She held both hands out in front of her, palms down, and they trembled like aspen in an autumn breeze. How would she be able to work with her hands shaking so?

  It had been worse than she expected. The confinement of the small office, cramped even further with the additional table and chair. Mr. Rochester’s black, all-seeing eyes. As if he knew.

  She curled her fingers and walked to the mirror, appalled by the pallor of her skin. “You need th
is job,” she scolded. “Get ahold of yourself. This is not Denver. And Anthony Rochester is not Braxton Hatchett.”

  At the washstand she removed her hat, rolled up her sleeves, and splashed tepid water on her face and arms. Droplets spotted her white shirtwaist, but they would dry. She repinned the bun at her neck, and rather than attempt dabbing on rouge with shaking fingers, she pinched color into her cheeks.

  Nervous energy made light work of loading her Remington. Hat in place and crate in hand, she started downstairs.

  Garrett Wilson stood like a wooden Indian at the front door, its beveled glass a halo to his rigid shoulders. What was he doing? Serving as self-appointed doorman?

  A blanching suspicion passed through her. He’d seen her run from town.

  She was so very good at doing all the things she should not.

  Unable to hold the railing, she descended slowly, her gaze flicking between the next step and the sheriff—feet spread, arms crossed, hat low. His impervious posture appeared a dare as much as anything. What she did or did not do was no concern of his, and he’d better not try to prevent her from leaving.

  With temper tightening her hold on the crate, she considered ignoring him and leaving through the back door. But that was wishful thinking at best, recalling his long, galloping stride. He’d get there well before her. Instead, she braced herself for his inquisition, resentful of, yet grudgingly calmed by his presence.

  He relaxed his arms and came toward her when she reached the bottom of the staircase. “I’ll carry that for you.”

  It was neither request nor offer. Simply a stated fact, as if he’d said, “The sky is blue.”

  Without argument, she allowed him to take the crate from her. He hitched it under one arm and opened the front door.

  She raised her chin, assuming a stoic, professional demeanor. “I’m going to Mr. Rochester’s office next to the feed store.”

  She descended the front steps before him.

  His boots echoed across the veranda in her wake.

  “I know where it is.”

  He didn’t sound exactly pleased, but she was not in the sheriff-pleasing business. She was in the survival business, and at the moment, that meant working for Anthony Rochester, Esquire.

  Fumbling with her empty hands, she hid them in her skirt pockets and discovered the note she’d written to Sophie. She’d intended to take it to Reynolds’ Mercantile before she went to Mr. Rochester’s office earlier.

  This time the gate latch yielded, and she stepped through. “I must make a detour to the mercantile. I have a letter to post.”

  He stood like a tree inside the gate, shaded, unreadable. “On one condition.”

  Irritation wiggled up her spine. Now he was making deals? “Which is?”

  “You call me Garrett.”

  His plain, hard tone left no room for argument.

  Clenching her jaw, she drew a deep breath through her nose. “Very well.”

  She continued on, expecting him to follow, which he did not. Stopping, she faced him, her jaw tight. Had those tall boots sprouted roots right there in front of Maggie Snowfield’s spired fence?

  His head rose a notch. That was a look she’d seen before. He wasn’t bluffing.

  Annoyance puffed from her lips, but low enough that he couldn’t hear it. “Very well, Garrett.”

  A smile threatened, softening slate eyes in a surprisingly appealing way.

  She turned around before she smiled back into that face with a dimpled scar.

  ~

  At Main Street, Betsy turned south for the mercantile. Garrett easily moved ahead of her and opened the door. Fred Reynolds looked surprised to see him, but didn’t speak to it. “Good morning, Betsy. How can I help you?”

  She glanced at the mail slots behind the counter. “Does Todd Price ever stop by and check the mail for his family?”

  “Regular as clockwork. At least when he’s in school. This is his last year, and some days he doesn’t ride in. Helping his ma work the farm and all.”

  Betsy drew a folded letter from her skirt and turned it over to reveal Sophie Price in elegant script rather than blocky print from the type-writer.

  “I’d like to leave this for Sophie, if you don’t mind. I’ll be glad to pay postage.”

  Reynolds waved that off and took the letter. “No charge, Betsy. It’s just good to have you back home after all this time.”

  She looked down at her empty hands and her voice quieted. “Is there by any chance a letter for me from Cade?”

  He sobered some. “No. Not yet. But if he came to town to mail it, he’d probably just come find you. Unless he sent it with Todd, of course.”

  She offered a polite but empty smile. “Of course. Thank you.”

  As they left, she looked up at the clinking bell, melancholy dousing her usual fire.

  A pin pricked Garrett’s chest, and he slid his right hand beneath his vest. The badge was intact. He was not.

  Betsy kept her eyes down on their way to Rochester’s office, walking so slowly that Garrett nearly had to shuffle to stay with her. Tiny beads of sweat popped out on her temple, and with one hand, she fingered her collar.

  A raw urge to protect her tightened like a cinch around his lungs.

  “You all right?”

  She stared straight ahead, not exactly focused on anything, but lost in a place he couldn’t see. He wanted to help her but didn’t have the slightest idea what to do other than haul her type-writer to Rochester’s. And sit in there with her, making sure the lawyer didn’t get too close.

  That’d be the day.

  Dad-blasted woman had his brain in a knot. Her fiery-eyed ire was preferred over this. He swiped his hand across his mouth and jaw. “We could get a cup of coffee at the café.”

  She looked at him, her face mirroring thoughts that tied her to some other time. Then she jerked her head quick-like. “What? I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  He swallowed. “You want some coffee? Café’s just a few doors down.”

  “Oh.” Her pace picked up some. “No. Thank you. I need to get to Mr. Rochester’s.”

  Like she needed a three-legged horse.

  Speak o’ the devil, the man himself was peering through his window, the dark curtain giving the appearance that the top of his head was floating. A definite frown sank his expectant look, and he moved to the door as they reached his office.

  “Mrs. Beaumont, I do apologize. I would have been happy to carry your type-writer for you.” An ice house couldn’t hold the glare he shot above Betsy’s head.

  Garrett warmed to the challenge. “No need, Rochester. Got it handled.”

  Betsy went to a small table against the far wall, and Garrett set the crate on top.

  “Thank you, Garrett.” She did not look up.

  Rochester sniffed behind him.

  Garrett tipped his hat. “My pleasure, Elizabeth.”

  He left her fussing over the machine and the attorney steaming around his collar. Best morning he’d had in a spell.

  CHAPTER 11

  Elizabeth sat spellbound, her view from the small table confined to the brown velvet curtains and a strip of daylight above them. She might as well be in jail. With Garrett Wilson.

  A slightly disturbing thought.

  She had avoided looking at him when he left because she didn’t want him to leave—also disturbing. He’d called her Elizabeth.

  Shaking off a sense of abandonment, she adjusted her Remington against the table’s edge, placed her hat behind it, then glanced across the narrow room. Her new employer was watching her, tracing his thin mustache with thumb and forefinger as if considering how to consume her. She’d rather face the foul-smelling Pearl, but she had to give this job a chance.

  “You mentioned that you had quite a bit of work for today. What would you like me to begin with?”

  He hesitated a moment, then picked up the box of stationery on his desk and brought it to her. It barely fit beside her type-writer.

 
; Next he gave her several hand-written letters. “Print these out for me. Or type-write, whatever you call it. Let me know if you can’t read my writing.”

  He returned to his desk, gathered a few papers, and, without a word, left through a door at the back of the room, which he closed behind him.

  She relaxed in her chair. Not sure how she would let him know anything, as he had suggested, she was grateful that he wouldn’t be sitting there watching her work or standing over her shoulder.

  Each letter was written in bold, pointed script, sharply slanted to the right with a slash over every i rather than a dot. Not only had she learned to type-write, but thanks to her mentor, Miss Clarke, she’d learned to recognize handwriting patterns and quickly decipher nearly illegible penmanship.

  She held a sheet of fine letterhead to the window’s light, revealing a clear watermark near the bottom edge. At the top, Anthony D. Rochester, Esq. arched in heavy print over a larger, more ornate underscore: Attorney at Law. The overall effect made quite an impressive statement, as attorneys were wont to do.

  She chuckled at the stuffy phrasing used so often by Miss Clarke, but the woman was spot on. Fitting a sheet between the roller and platen, she fed it into her Remington, leveled the paper, and started on the first letter to a Mr. Charles Hayworth of Kansas City, Missouri.

  After the fifth letter, she walked to the window and pressed both hands into the small of her back, arching against tight muscles. A shadowless street agreed with her lapel watch that it was just after noon, as did several people coming and going at the café two doors down across the way. Her stomach rumbled a reminder of the breakfast she’d declined, a timely word to the wise for tomorrow.

  The door at the back of the room opened, startling her.

  “Finished already?”

  Unfamiliar with his tone, she neutralized her own as she returned to her table. “Five are completed if you care to review them.” She held out the crisp sheets, but he ignored them as he lowered himself into his chair. Reluctantly, she crossed the short distance and laid them on his desk.

  His manner was much brusquer than it had been earlier that morning, to her great relief. Taking her seat, she positioned a clean sheet of letterhead in the machine.