An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  Clay nodded at Deacon, and the old man returned the gesture.

  Watching him walk away, Deacon said, “Good kid. Make a fine cowboy someday.”

  They watched Clay with his old mount, his confident but gentle manner, and Garrett’s hand ached to get ahold of whoever had horse whipped him.

  “Says he’s from La Junta. Sort of between outfits, if you take my meaning. Lookin’ for something.”

  Deacon huffed. “Way I figure, he’s lookin’ to belong.”

  Aren’t we all?

  At sound of the ranch house door opening, the cow dog and Pearl’s pup dashed out of the barn.

  “What’s Cade call that yellow dog I gave him?”

  Deacon chuckled. “He don’t call it nothin’, but the missus calls it Cougar. Sort of a joke between the two of them, the best I can tell. Dangdest thing I ever seen. When she’s out and about, it shadows her like the big cat it’s named for. She can’t pick eggs without that hound trailin’ her every step.”

  He squared his stance and stretched his back as if working the kinks out. “Betsy goin’ back with you and the boy?”

  Icy blue peered through Garrett, reading his intentions like a tally book. Nothing much got past the old cowboy.

  “Last she said, she was.”

  Deacon glanced at the sky. “No need to hurry off. That storm’s not settlin’.”

  Garrett wouldn’t bet on it, though the old timer’d been around this country a lot longer. “Gotta keep my day job. So does Betsy.”

  Deacon took in Garrett’s vest front, clear of his badge. Garrett pulled it back, revealing the star pinned to his shirt.

  The old man’s sharp eyes said more than most sermons.

  Betsy and Cade came outside. She was wearing her town clothes—trussed up, closed up, and ready for civilization. At the buggy, she embraced Cade. “Thank you.” Her voice broke, and he kissed her cheek before handing her up.

  Garrett shook Cade’s hand, saddened by the loss of the woman he’d glimpsed in Echo Valley, then climbed in beside her.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Cade said, his attention lingering on his sister.

  Garrett turned the buggy about, and they trotted out of the yard and along the ranch road. At the juncture to the rutted trail into town, Betsy looked back, holding her gaze until Garrett figured she’d worked a kink into her neck.

  He had a nearly palatable urge to pull her close and tell her everything would work out just fine. And then a fat raindrop hit his brim and he decided he’d make a poor prophet. So would Deacon, from the looks of the low-bellied clouds skimming the horizon.

  He snapped the horse into a fast trot. Clay stayed even with them. The wind kicked up and twisted the clouds until they soon lifted and blew away. He shook his head.

  “What?” Betsy was looking right at him, trying to read his thoughts.

  “Deacon said the storm wouldn’t break. I figured he was wrong.”

  A sad smile pulled her mouth, and she settled against the seat back as if it were comfortable. “Deacon’s rarely wrong about anything.”

  He was tempted to ask what the old cowboy thought of the mysteriously absent Mr. Beaumont, but decided he didn’t need to know. Probably wasn’t far off what Garrett thought of him.

  The buggy cast a long shadow as they neared town, reaching out to join up with Clay and his sorry horse. Clear sky hung at the edge of evening, except for a long puff of dark cloud fingering up near Olin Springs.

  Garrett squinted toward the gray tower, and a sick feeling gathered in his gut. Betsy saw it too, and looked at him with alarm.

  “Clay!” he hollered. “Ride ahead and lend a hand.”

  At the boy’s questioning stare, Garrett pointed toward the buildings huddled at the horizon’s edge.

  “Hang on.” He slapped the reins. “Y’haw!”

  The mare bolted. Clay’s gelding kicked up dirt clods as it tore off from the road and across the fields.

  Betsy gripped her end of the narrow seat with one hand, the front edge with the other. “It looks like it’s just beyond town,” she yelled above the rattling buggy, “near the depot.”

  Or Snowfield’s, Garrett’s heart shouted above pounding hooves.

  CHAPTER 17

  Elizabeth’s pulse pounded as Garrett cut a two-wheeled turn at the edge of town and raced down the alley. Dark smoke belched up on Saddle Blossom Lane.

  She capped a cry with her hand. Oh, Lord, please.

  She hadn’t prayed so earnestly since her prayers began going unanswered.

  Townsfolk worked a bucket line from the pump and trough at the pasture fence to the carriage house where hungry flames chewed through its old, dried wood. Maggie held a barking, straining Pearl by a dishtowel knotted through her collar, an arm around the dog’s neck as if they were blood kin.

  The situation defied belief—that Maggie could keep that monster from dragging her off.

  Garrett pulled up next to the house and hit the ground before the buggy came to a full stop.

  Elizabeth jumped out and ran to Maggie.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Emotion choked off more that she wanted to say, and she pulled the dear woman close. “What happened?”

  “This dog,” Maggie yelled over the fire’s roar. “This dog is what happened. Had it not been for Pearl raising a ruckus and drawing me out of the house, I never would have seen the smoke.”

  The dog strained at the towel, facing away from the disaster and barking in the opposite direction.

  “What was Pearl doing here?”

  “Garrett left her in a stall rather than at the jail today. I told him it was all right, and I’m so glad I did. Heaven only knows how far things would have gotten had I not had warning.”

  “Where’s Lolly?” Elizabeth craned her neck to see past the smoke and men.

  “She broke through the fence, poor thing. Nearly scared the life out of her, I imagine. Garrett will find her for me.”

  Maggie’s undying confidence said she depended upon him more than anyone knew. What kind of man earned such faith from a woman who had seen most of what life had to offer?

  This time, Elizabeth didn’t join the bucket line. Instead she stood with an arm around her landlady’s thin waist.

  As day faded from the sky, the flames died down, and another blackened skeleton joined the landscape of Olin Springs.

  In the seventeen years she had lived at the ranch, she’d heard of only a handful of fires in town. Now there’d been two in the three weeks since she’d returned.

  A warning sparked, cautioning her about something she’d read recently. But she couldn’t put a name to it, and in a moment the thought faded.

  Clay went for Rink, took down Garrett’s rope, and gathered his horse he’d loose-tied to an apple tree near the house. With a swing up, he loped off to the east.

  Garrett stood apart from the others, talking to the blacksmith, who took a badge from his blackened apron and handed it over. If he was Garrett’s deputy, ne’r-do-wells would have no chance against his brawn.

  Soon they were joined by a little man in a bowler hat and sack suit, and Mr. Harrison from the bank. Other men drifted away, carrying their buckets, several in groups talking low and shaking their heads.

  An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, matching the wet-cinder stench in her nose as she looked around for her employer. He wasn’t the sort she expected to join in an endeavor that would foul his fine suit and fingernails, but it had looked like every other man in town was there. Even the newspaper reporter had been there and taken a photograph from a distance.

  Elizabeth suddenly noticed Pearl’s silence. The dog no longer barked and tugged at Maggie’s arm, but sat at her feet watching Garrett. When he headed their way, the dog’s tail swept the dirt, and a gentle whine rose from its unbecoming head.

  He reached for Maggie’s end of the towel, then rubbed the dog’s ears. “Good girl,” he murmured, loosing the unusual tether.

  “She certainly was,” M
aggie said. “I’m so grateful that you left her in that stall. She alerted me to the fire.”

  Urgency colored Garrett’s voice as he handed Maggie the towel. “Alerted you?”

  “She certainly did. And that’s not all.”

  Maggie took a torn piece of dark cloth from her apron pocket, similar to what a man’s suit would be made of, and gave it to Garrett. “This was on the ground when I went out to see what she was having such a fit over.” She kept her voice low. “That’s when I saw the smoke and let her out of the stall before ringing the old triangle on the back of the house.”

  Garrett turned the piece over in his hand, fingering a darker edge that looked damp. Blood stained his fingers.

  Elizabeth shuddered.

  “I think Pearl left her mark on someone poking around in the carriage house,” Maggie said. “Someone who may have started the fire.”

  “This was in the stall where I left her?”

  “No. It was on the floor near the buggy.”

  Garrett frowned and looked at Pearl, who flattened her ears and turned her head away.

  “I believe she broke her promise.” Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper, as if to keep the dog from hearing. “And I’m glad she did.”

  Promise? Elizabeth rubbed her temples, suddenly weary from the day’s events. Pearl made a promise? Such a thing was absolutely not possible.

  “You ladies go on inside. I want to sift through things, make sure no hot spots flare up.”

  At Garrett’s managerial tone, Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to not go inside. She could sift as well as the next person.

  Maggie latched on to her arm and addressed Garrett. “I told you I’d say a prayer for you both today. The good Lord heard it.”

  A prayer for Garrett and the promising Pearl? Or a prayer for Garrett and Elizabeth?

  Her insides quivered. Garrett Wilson was the most infuriating and kindest man she’d ever known. Poking into her affairs one minute and rushing to someone’s aid the next. But in spite of his tendency to always find her amusing in some way, she was tempted to trust him.

  A frightening predicament. She’d trusted one man, and he’d let her down. Why was she inclined to trust another? Especially one intent on telling her what to do.

  Turning for the house, she stepped closer to Maggie. “I desperately need a bath. Could I commandeer your bathing room?” If she didn’t wash her hair, she’d smell like trail dust, horses, and cinders at work tomorrow.

  “Oh my, yes.” Maggie leaned heavily on her arm, less for emotional support, it seemed, than physical.

  Elizabeth slowed her step, taking note of the woman’s stooped shoulders and unsteady bearing. “Why don’t you rest in the parlor with a book or some needlework, and I’ll see to a bath and then fix dinner.”

  Maggie bristled half-heartedly. “I can’t let my guests prepare their own meals.”

  “Yes, you can. I insist.”

  Clay rode into the yard leading Lolly, a lariat looped around the horse’s muzzle and behind her ears in a loose figure-eight.

  Maggie pulled away to greet them. “Oh, Lolly, you poor dear.” She hugged the mare’s neck and rubbed her shoulder, assuring herself as well as the horse that all was well.

  All is well. There it was again—another phrase of reassurance, sweeping through Elizabeth’s weary mind like a wheel in a familiar rut.

  Clay stepped down, and Garrett took the lead from him. “Nice work.”

  “She was about half a mile from here.” Clay rubbed her left shoulder and indicated a shallow gash above her knee. “She took out a chunk of the back fence. Got any more of that salve?”

  “That I do. Take her to the livery and tell Erik I sent you. I’ll lock Pearl in the jail, get the salve, and meet you there.”

  As Clay led the mare away, Maggie shrank even further, letting out a ragged sigh. “Lolly and the carriage house are all I have left of Daniel.”

  Elizabeth’s heart squeezed with a kindred ache at the little woman’s cherished memories of someone loved and lost. “Come on.” She slipped an arm around Maggie. “Let the men take care of things out here.”

  Maggie stopped short. “Garrett, you can’t take Pearl to jail. If it weren’t for her, the fire might have spread. Bring her inside. I have something for her. And she can stay in your room tonight.”

  Elizabeth felt Garrett watching them, and peeked to find his encouraging regard supporting her as she supported Maggie.

  Then it was gone, replaced by a scar-tugging quirk. “If I can stand her snoring.”

  In spite of his turning the moment with humor, the impression remained, and a shiver ran up Elizabeth’s back the same way the filly’s flesh had quivered beneath her fingers earlier. A man’s support was as foreign to her as her touch was to the foal.

  A truly strange sensation, but one she wouldn’t mind feeling again.

  ~

  Garrett walked the ashy perimeter of what was once the buggy shed, looking for clues. Looking for anything. A lamp, a kerosene can, an empty bottle. This was no accident.

  The rancid odor of burned hay and smoldering wood pinched his nose.

  Not one fire during his couple of years in Olin Springs, yet since Rochester arrived, there had been two.

  His skin chilled as he realized he could say the same of Betsy, though she’d come upon both fires after the buildings were fully engulfed. In fact, she’d been with him when this fire started.

  He crumpled the dark, torn cloth in his hand.

  What if she had a conspirator? What if she and Rochester were in cahoots? And if so, why?

  He jerked his hat off and scrubbed through his hair. Dad-blastit, he didn’t like the direction his thoughts were headed. Rochester was the more likely suspect, not a beautiful, bull-headed woman. But like it or not, before the whole town burned down, Garrett had to suspect everyone.

  And then he saw it.

  Near the far corner where old hay had been piled, a dark spot stained the soil. He stepped over the remains of the buggy and stooped for a closer look. Smooth beneath his fingers, the substance had cooled and hardened.

  Who would bring a candle to a barn?

  Pearl bounded toward him.

  He waylaid her before she plowed through the debris.

  “Hold on there. You can’t be runnin’ over the evidence.” He led her over to Rink, took a latigo strip from his saddle, and tied her to an iron garden bench at the back of the house.

  Then he rode Rink to the jail and finally the livery. It hadn’t been all that long since he’d ridden her from the livery.

  Inside, Clay leaned over a stall gate, watching Lolly nose through clean bedding. She’d been rubbed down and groomed, and had already cleaned up most of the hay and oats in her feed tub.

  Garrett held out the jar and a rag.

  “Me?” The boy looked at the salve as if it were a rattler. “But I—”

  “Know exactly what to do.”

  Blue eyes flicked between Garrett and the jar, and Clay finally took it.

  He stepped through the stall door, talking easy to the old mare and moving slow.

  “That’a girl,” he murmured. “You’re doing just fine.” He worked around her to the left side.

  Garrett lifted his rope coiled on a knob in the alleyway and stepped inside. He eased the loose end around the mare’s neck and stood close against her opposite shoulder. If she reared, she’d have to lift his weight.

  “Where’d you learn to work with horses?”

  Clay dipped the rag in the jar, then smoothed his other hand down Lolly’s shoulder and leg. His tone of voice never changed, but remained low, easy, and comforting as if the mare was his only audience. “Back home.”

  He carefully applied the salve.

  Lolly jerked her head up, tugging on Garrett’s firm grip.

  “I preferred working with the animals over working the land. Pa and I saw things differently.”

  Garrett’s earlier suspicions solidified.

&nbs
p; After the mare was settled, he and Clay unsaddled their mounts, brushed and grained them, and turned them into the livery’s corral. Erik was already gone, but Garrett would settle up with him in the morning. If he needed a night man, Clay might fill the bill.

  Garrett took a dollar from his vest pocket and slapped it in Clay’s hand. “Go get something to eat at the café, then take that bedroll I saw on your saddle and bunk in the loft.”

  Stunned, Clay turned the new Morgan coin over in his hand, then gave Garrett that sideways look, as if waiting for him to take back the money and the offer.

  “If I hear you spent a nickel of that at the Pike, the deal’s off and you’re outta here.”

  Clay closed his fingers over the coin. When he looked up, he’d aged. Stood taller. “Yes, sir.”

  Garrett walked back to Maggie’s, where the pinch of burned hay and charred wood filled the night air. But as soon as he opened the back door, the stench gave way to fried potatoes and onions and the subtle scent of lavender soap. The bathing room door was slightly ajar.

  Betsy stood at the stove, her back to his quiet entry, for he’d not stomped his feet or rattled the door. Didn’t know why. He just knew he wanted to take in the sight of her there, apron strings tied in a bow at her waist, her skirt draping the gentle curve of her hips. A lonesome corner in the back of his heart opened up, that place he kept closed off and sealed up.

  The crazy notion to pull her into that place sparked like kindling on banked coals, and he cleared his throat and shut the back door before he made a fool of himself.

  Without any sign of surprise, she glanced over her shoulder, a pleasant look on her face. Almost a smile. “Maggie’s resting. I told her I’d fix supper.”

  Foolhardy bravery pushed him toward her, close enough to smell that fancy soap in her loose damp hair.

  She didn’t move away, just kept stirring the big skillet as well as a feeling in his gut he’d avoided for too long. His hand twitched as he reached into his vest pocket for the ribbon.

  Without saying a word, he laid one hand on her shoulder. She stilled and turned her head to the side. Gently, he gathered her hair in his hands, then tied it at her neck with the blue ribbon. Even managed a bow. Then he stepped back before he took her in his arms and kissed the breath right out of her.