An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  “All right, you can go.”

  Danged if the dog didn’t understand plain English. This time he was ready for her leaping gratitude. Tall as she was, she’d nearly knocked him down a time or two.

  “You’d better not greet Betsy Beaumont that way or she’s liable to beat you off with one of Maggie’s frying pans.”

  Pearl dropped to her haunches, sweeping the floor with her ropey tail, eyes bright as torches.

  He tied the lead to her collar and walked to the buggy shed, where he tethered her to a wheel for good measure before fetching Betsy.

  Good thing.

  The second that Betsy saw Pearl, she planted herself in front of him like a fence post.

  He nearly ran into the back of her.

  “Whoa—”

  “I am not riding with that monster.”

  “Just hold on.” He stepped around her, and there sat Pearl on the clean buggy seat, nearly smiling at him. No wonder Betsy balked.

  “Get down.”

  Pearl gave him a hangdog look as she lumbered to the ground. Then she spotted Betsy.

  “No!” Stepping on the rope, he stopped the charge, then half-hitched Pearl to the nearest stall door.

  Betsy hadn’t moved. She looked more like an Elizabeth now with her straw hat perched atop her rigid head, reticule clutched at her waist, staring holes clear through him. He could almost feel a breeze.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “What?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits.

  He tugged his hat down and brushed dusty paw prints off the leather seat. There were entirely too many females trying to wrangle his life.

  Satisfied, he wiped his hands on his trousers and offered to hand her up. “You comin’?”

  She sure was uppity for a ranch gal, something he’d like to hear more about on their trip to the Price farm if he could pry it from her perfect lips.

  He switched hands, offering the cleaner of the two. “You got something against dogs?”

  She gathered her skirt, accepted his hand, and climbed to the seat. “Not if they have manners.”

  “Pearl has manners.”

  Betsy snorted. She’d done so several times since he’d made her acquaintance. That said rancher’s daughter more than anything else about her.

  He untied the dog, coiled and tossed the rope in the buggy, and headed out, avoiding Main Street and driving along the road that fronted the depot. Pride was a merciless master.

  At the outskirts of town, he set the old mare to an easy trot, surprised at her smooth gait. Pearl charged past them like a runaway train, but she’d keep him in range. Her manners might be wanting, but her loyalty wasn’t.

  Betsy’s stiff posture relaxed after a mile or so, and she drank in the countryside like a drunk took to liquor. She wouldn’t appreciate the appraisal, but he could sense the near desperation without even looking at her. It radiated from her like heat from the jail’s potbelly stove.

  He chuckled at his poor comparisons, neither of them something a lady would liken herself to.

  “What’s so funny?” She gave him that uppity down-her-nose glare even though he topped her by a few inches.

  “Just a wild-hare thought.”

  “About Maggie Snowfield’s ‘two birds with one stone’?”

  He laughed outright. “Picked up on that, did you?”

  “I thought Maggie was above such machinations. Travine Price is not the only woman in the county with a milk cow. Why, Willa Reynolds probably knows of one closer. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Fred had a cow themselves. They do sell butter at the mercantile, you know.” She brushed at her skirt, smoothing wrinkles from her lap. “But it will be good to see Sophie, and well, your agreement with Maggie precluded searching for a nearby bovine.”

  “And I’ll just bet you’d like to know what that agreement is.”

  A sharp scoff turned her head to the scenery again. “It obviously has something to do with you keeping Rink in the pasture.”

  He swallowed a laugh. Curiosity crawled her like prickly on a cactus pear. He slowed the mare to a walk. “Lolly needs her exercise, and I offered to drive her out once in a while and clean up the buggy and barn if I could board Rink with her.”

  Betsy studied the mare, tipping her head to the side. “That seems fair. She does have a grass belly on her, and at her age, exercise will keep her from stoving up.”

  For certain, the woman had grown up around horses. So why wasn’t she on the ranch instead of in town?

  He rubbed a spot on the back of his neck, conceding that Maggie was right about one thing. The outing was a perfect opportunity—one he had no intention of passing up.

  “Since we’re clearing the air, I figure it’s my turn now.”

  A sharp look arrowed past, just missing his nose. “Your turn for what?”

  “Questions.”

  She huffed. “Ask away. No answers promised.”

  No surprise there, but it was worth a shot.

  “What’s the real reason you came back to Olin Springs?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Reason had nothing to do with it.

  Elizabeth had been enjoying the outing, feeding her hungry soul on the scenes of her childhood, and marveling at the graceful ease with which that otherwise gangly dog loped across the grassland. She’d let her guard down again, in spite of her resolve, and Sheriff Garrett Wilson had picked it up and run off with it, the opportunistic lout.

  How had she allowed herself to get into this fix? She folded her hands in her lap. “That’s really none of your concern.”

  Sitting so close, his silent chuckle vibrated through the seat.

  “In my line of work, I make everything my concern. Especially a woman who is on her own.”

  “How magnanimous of you.” That was just the kind of attitude that got her back up. As if she couldn’t take care of herself. “Truth be told—”

  “Which you haven’t done since you got here.”

  Her head snapped his way.

  “Have you.” Not a question.

  Trapped as surely as if he’d thrown her in jail, she turned away from his ever-present badge and holstered gun, and watched the dry grass and stony roadway slide by. She was imprisoned in a narrow buggy with a man she didn’t know asking about her past and doubting her veracity. If Pearl wasn’t gamboling about, Elizabeth would have gladly walked the rest of the way to the Price farm.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You’re not married.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He reached for her left hand.

  She tucked it under her arm, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled. His rough hand held hers aloft, and he ran his thumb over the faint line circling her ring finger.

  She jerked away, but not before his strength and warmth made an unwanted impression. And not far enough to outdistance Maggie’s warning to tell him the truth of her divorced state.

  Divorce was such an ugly word.

  However, she’d never said she wasn’t divorced.

  Legally, she still bore her married name. Emotionally, she never had. But she wore the unseen yet definitive boundary of matrimony like a shield in certain circumstances, such as in the offices of Gladstone, Hatchett and Son and Anthony Rochester.

  With Garrett Wilson, it had been merely habit to pronounce the Mrs. in front of her name when she arrived in town, and Beaumont rather than Parker. Now might be the time to correct the misconception.

  “The question is, why? Why would you come back to your hometown, lead everyone to believe you’re married, and not go home to the family ranch?”

  Or not. She buried her burning fingers in the folds of her skirt and blinked away the frustration that threatened to do more than threaten. “Don’t you have better things to busy yourself with? Like hunting down real criminals?”

  “Tell me one thing.”

  She stared straight ahead.

  “How long has it
been since you’ve been home?”

  She wanted to defend herself. Explain her reason for leaving like she had, her reason for staying away. Her reason for returning now. But she couldn’t justify herself to herself, let alone, to him. Let the facts speak for themselves.

  “Six years.”

  Without further inquisition, he raised the ribbons and snapped Lolly into a trot. The rolling grassland and scattered scrub oak that had drawn her back to better days now fled past as if running from her. What power words had to dampen one’s spirit—a truth she had too quickly forgotten.

  After some time, the Price windmill bloomed like a steel flower on the horizon, and Garrett drove as if he had every intention of passing by the turnoff.

  “You’ve never been out here, have you?”

  He shot her a frown.

  “Turn here.”

  Lolly drew up beneath his quick hand and backed a few paces.

  Elizabeth fully expected him to chide her for not letting him know sooner, but he said nothing. She may have finally succeeded in silencing him.

  Oddly enough, she wasn’t sure if she liked that.

  He slowed as they drove into the yard, where a familiar buckskin stood at the hitch rail. She’d know that horse anywhere.

  Straightening and checking the position of her hat, she looked around at the outbuildings and barn and squinted to see between the corral rails.

  Travine Price stood at the derrick tower, her head tilted back, one hand on her aproned waist and the other blocking the sun. At the sound of their arrival, she turned to scrutinize her visitors. Ruthless winters and endless farm work had etched their stories in deep lines. But the eyes—her eyes still said Travine Price was a beautiful woman where it mattered most. On the inside.

  “Mornin’, ma’am.” Garrett slowed Lolly to a stop and touched the brim of his hat. “Sheriff Wilson and—”

  Travine rushed to the buggy. “It’s not Todd, is it?” Her worry flashed between Garrett and Elizabeth as she searched for an answer before hearing an explanation.

  He jumped down. “No, ma’am. Far as I know, he’s fine and working hard at school. I’m here for Margaret Snowfield. She’d like some fresh milk for her boarding house, if you have extra.” His usual attendant humor was missing, and as he faced Elizabeth, the small scar lay cold against his cheek. “And there’s someone to see your daughter.”

  Now she was merely someone.

  Puzzled, Travine looked again at Elizabeth until recognition dawned and her hands reached out. “Oh, Betsy, look at you! All grown up.”

  Elizabeth climbed down into Travine’s embrace—the closest thing she’d felt to a mother’s love in a long, long time.

  A creaking whir scratched across the morning, and they all looked up as the windmill began its slow and steady turn. A tall, angular man made his way down from the platform, his back to the onlookers until he stepped to the ground.

  Elizabeth’s heart nearly burst through her bodice.

  The man offered his hand to Garrett, his silvery mustache not as bushy as she remembered. Then he turned toward her and the years fell away.

  She was a young girl learning to gentle a skittish foal. Older, at the fallen cottonwood, aiming for tins lined up like soldiers on the dry, white bark until she pinged them from their perches. And older still, sneaking her carpet bag into the back of the wagon, caught by his sad, knowing eyes. Not a word. Just a slight shake of his head.

  She’d never said good-bye.

  Wild horses, they say. Wild horses could not have kept her from him, and he caught her up and swept her off the ground in his tough old arms, as strong as they ever were. A catch in his chest answered her own quaking breath.

  “Deacon,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you so.”

  Gently he set her down and held her at arm’s length, his old blue gaze misty with memory. “A fine woman you’ve become, Betsy girl. A fine woman.”

  She’d never be Elizabeth to Deacon. Only his Betsy.

  “Well now, come inside, all of you.” Travine swiped a quick hand across her eyes and shooed everyone toward the house. “I’ll get that milk out of the root cellar, Sheriff, and then we can all have a cup of coffee and some of my apple fritters.”

  Elizabeth fell in beside Deacon, his long arm draped around her shoulders. Garrett followed a step behind.

  She glanced back and caught a glint of gray light, fleeting but there nonetheless. Gentleness had settled around his mouth, and he looked at her as though he’d never seen her before.

  What had happened to his lawman’s calloused questioning?

  ~

  Garrett knew Deacon Jewett was Cade Parker’s foreman. He’d seen him in town a time or two, but this welcome at the Price farm was unexpected. Elizabeth Betsy Parker Beaumont was a passel of unanswered questions.

  He and Deacon washed at a bench behind the frame farm house.

  “When’d she get in?” Deacon’s rusty voice did a poor job of hiding his feelings.

  “Couple weeks ago.”

  The old cowboy dried his hands on the roller towel, then stepped back for Garrett to hunt a dry spot.

  They entered through the kitchen, filled mostly by an old cook stove and a large table, where the sweet aroma of coffee and fritters drew everyone together. Cups and saucers waited.

  Mrs. Price poured coffee round the table, but with Deacon, she laid a hand on his shoulder and poured slowly, stretching out the time she stood there. Garrett glanced at Betsy, who’d also caught the gesture.

  “Sophie’s at the ranch, checking on Mae Ann.” Taking a seat at the end of the table nearest the stove, Mrs. Price pushed a plate of fritters toward Deacon on her right. “Cade’s as nervous as a goose at Christmas. This being their first child and all.”

  “I saw Mae Ann at the mercantile a week ago,” Betsy said. “She appeared happy and healthy, and just as sweet as Cade mentioned in his letters.”

  “So Cade knew you were coming home?”

  Deacon cut a look at Betsy, but he missed the shade that drew across her face.

  “Not exactly.” She studied her fritter. “He knew I would be returning, he just didn’t know when.”

  Garrett bit into a fried pastry, hiding his reaction to her partial explanation.

  Silence settled like a blanket, and he helped himself to another fritter.

  “Deacon rode over early this morning to fetch help for Mae Ann, and Sophie said she’d go.” Mrs. Price’s weathered cheeks pinked. “When he saw the windmill wasn’t turning, he stayed to work on it for me.”

  It never ceased to amaze Garrett that in the face of silence, a person’s nerves would drive them to say more than was necessary. Except in the case of Betsy Beaumont.

  Deacon coughed and fidgeted. “Weren’t nothin’ much.”

  Betsy rolled her lips and kept her head down.

  Garrett could have eaten a half dozen fritters but reined himself in at three.

  “Thank you, ma’am, for sharing your fine cooking with us, but I best get that milk to Mrs. Snowfield.”

  She sprang up like a much younger woman. “Oh yes, I nearly forgot. I’ll be right back.”

  When the door closed sharply behind her, Deacon zeroed in on Betsy. “You gonna stop by the ranch?”

  She dallied with her coffee cup and flashed him a questioning look.

  “It’s all right, girl. Cade got your note. He ain’t mad. Just distracted with his missus in the family way and all.”

  Betsy’s shoulders eased and her eyes puddled, but she managed to maintain a calm front.

  “Won’t be much outta your way,” he offered.

  Garrett stood and took his cup and saucer to the sink. “We’ve got time.”

  He stepped out the back door, giving Betsy some time with Deacon, then met up with Mrs. Price at the buggy. He gave her Maggie’s money, took the two quart jars she’d brought, and set them in a basket under the seat with toweling bunched between them.

  Betsy and Deacon came out, and the old
cowboy handed her up.

  Garrett joined her on the bench.

  The Price woman stepped in close to Deacon as if she belonged there.

  “Thank you, both.” Betsy’s voice caught, and she cleared her throat and pulled herself up stiff and straight. “I’ll see you again.”

  Deacon jerked a quick nod and may have smiled. Garrett wasn’t sure. Mrs. Price dabbed her eyes with her apron corner and waved as they drove out of the yard.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think those two were Betsy’s parents.

  Pearl trotted out from behind the barn, and Garrett hoped she hadn’t been chasing chickens. He hadn’t heard squawking and she didn’t have any feathers growing out of her mouth, but he wouldn’t put it past her.

  At the end of the farm road, he slid a sidelong glance toward his passenger, who sat staring straight ahead as if eyeing her firing squad.

  “I know your brother, but I’ve had no occasion to come out to the ranch, so you best tell me where it is.”

  “Northwest as the crow flies, but the next cut off will get you there.”

  “I suppose Deacon takes the crow’s route.”

  A near laugh puffed out and she relaxed a notch. “Yes, I imagine he does.”

  “Were you surprised to see it?”

  She looked up at him. “You mean Deacon and Travine?”

  At least she was talking to him. He had other questions he’d rather ask, like why she’d waited six years, but this’d do for now.

  She made a soft breathy sound. “Not really, I guess, though I never noticed Deacon taking an interest in Travine when I was at home. But I had other things on my mind in those days.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Her sass returned and she snapped him an icy glare. Back on familiar ground.

  If he hadn’t been watching, he’d have missed the thin trail cutting off to the west. He put Lolly to it, and they bounced over the seldom-used track a rough mile or so before a sprawling log barn rose up in the distance like an eagle about to take flight.

  Betsy sat up straighter and gripped her hands until her knuckles turned pale.

  “Breathe, Betsy. Remember what Deacon told you.”

  He knew guilt when he saw it, and Betsy Beaumont was wearing it like Lolly wore her riggin’.