An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  He dipped his head the slightest bit and ran two fingers along the brim of his hat as if caressing her cheek. “I anticipated nothing less from you.”

  Stunned into silence, she stood at the corner watching Garrett Wilson stride down the boardwalk. He never looked back, nor did she expect him to.

  Frankly, she didn’t know what she expected from that man.

  Shaking off her reaction, she checked for oncoming wagons and horses, then crossed to the east side of the street.

  Mr. Rochester, seated at his desk when she entered his office, glanced up briefly. “Good morning, Mrs. Beaumont.”

  A chill swept around his words, as if he were chiding her for being late, though the wall clock said she was two minutes early.

  Fresh from her admission to Garrett, perhaps she should also tell her employer that she was divorced. But not now.

  “Good morning.” She removed her hat and situated herself at her desk.

  He rose from his and came to stand in front of her, one hand thumbed in his vest pocket and the other fingering his thin mustache.

  “You look different today.”

  She kept her eyes down, busying herself with her type-writer ribbon.

  “More color, I’d say. Did you visit your brother at the ranch?”

  Unable to keep her head from snapping up, she managed to squash what she wanted to say and reply courteously. “A pleasant weekend.”

  “Aside from the fire at the Snowfield mansion.” He tsked. “Unfortunate loss, indeed. You are staying there, aren’t you?”

  Only so much fiddling with her type-writer would keep her hands, mind, and mouth in line. She looked up, considering how best to quit his employ.

  His lip curled in more sneer than smile, and he went back to his desk where he gathered a stack of papers.

  “I have some legal documents for you this morning. I need them by noon.” He laid them on the narrow corner of her table, then handed her the box of stationery.

  “That should be no problem.” Unless Garrett showed up with troublesome news from the doctor. She looked at her hands, ruing the time she’d spent in the round pen rather than at the piano. If she’d paid more attention to her mother’s coaxing, she could be teaching music or playing Sunday mornings for Pastor Bittman and social events rather than type-writing for Anthony Rochester.

  She rolled a crisp, clean sheet behind the platen, straightened it, and forced herself to focus on the job at hand.

  After thirty minutes of redundant and, to her way of thinking, purposefully confusing legal jargon, the front door opened and Garrett strode in without comment.

  She suppressed the impulse to run to him.

  He walked straight to her desk, doffed his hat, and said in a low voice, “All is well.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Rochester rose imperiously. “Good news is always welcome, Sheriff. I take it you are referring to the hotel fire, which you have had under investigation. And now we have the unfortunate conflagration at the Snowfield mansion.” He shook his head as if mourning the loss of a dear pet.

  A muscle in Garrett’s jaw flexed and the vein in his neck throbbed. Given his dislike of her employer, Elizabeth feared he might go to blows right there in the office.

  “I’ll make my report at the next meeting.” He tugged his hat on and left.

  Mr. Rochester followed him out the door, which he held open. “Thank you for stopping by, Sheriff. Always a pleasure visiting with you.”

  He spoke loudly enough for half the town to hear. Elizabeth typed the last three words that he said. With a furtive glance his way, she removed the paper and started a fresh sheet.

  ~

  Not much was left of the doughnuts by the time Garrett reached the livery. He’d nearly crushed the paper sack into a brown wad. Anthony Rochester’s arrogance festered inside him without relief, and he was itching to lance it.

  At the livery, he stopped just inside the open doors, adjusting to the dim light. A scraping sound rose from a stall farther back, and the familiar tap-ping of Erik’s hammer sang above it.

  In the third stall, he found Clay raking soiled hay and loading it in a wheel barrow. “Mornin’.”

  Clay grinned. “Mornin’, Sheriff.” He leaned on the pitch fork. “Need me to catch up Rink?”

  “You sound like you work here.”

  The grin grew. “Yes, sir. Thanks to you.” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and glanced up at the loft. “Slept good, too.”

  “You eat last night?”

  “Yes, sir.” He pulled a few coins from his pocket, and held them out as if to hand them over.

  Garrett turned his hand upright and set the paper sack on top of the coins.” Save ’em for dinner. Here’s breakfast. What’s left of it.”

  Clay sobered. “I appreciate it, Sheriff, but I can’t keep takin’ your charity. I—”

  “No charity to it.” More like penance. Garrett adjusted his hat. “Can’t have you weakening on the job. You’re here on my word.”

  He moved on before the boy said more.

  The air warmed considerably as he approached Erik’s anvil and furnace, even though the back doors were open wide to the morning.

  “Thanks for puttin’ Clay to work.”

  The big man’s hammer bounced to a standstill and he looked up. “He is gut worker and welcome here as long as he stays that way.”

  Garrett continued his rounds, pausing at the newspaper office window. Fischer was waving his arms over his head and yelling, though Garrett couldn’t make out what he said. The pressman stood with his hands on his hips and near-death in his eyes, and the young reporter was inching away from the rant.

  Next stop, the bank.

  Harrison rose from his desk and motioned Garrett back. “Good timing, Sheriff. Have a seat.”

  He took a puff on his cigar stub and laid it in a small brass dish.

  A cigar could start a fire if the tinder was dry enough. Garrett rubbed his hand across his face, hoping to clear the thought from his mind as well.

  “The fire at Snowfield’s roused so much interest in a hose crew, that we now have enough money for a hose, reel, and Howe hand pumper. I put the order in Rochester’s hands first thing this morning, and he assured me that the equipment should arrive in two weeks.”

  Rochester hadn’t mentioned the order.

  Harrison was obviously quite proud of himself, but blind as a liquored-up judge where the attorney was concerned. Garrett wasn’t so sure he wanted Rochester knowing what he’d found at the two burn sites, but if they did have a firebug, it was best that someone else know about it too. He trusted Harrison more than the others, but not by much.

  He thumbed his hat up. “I believe the Snowfield fire was set intentionally, and maybe the hotel.”

  Harrison looked like he’d just been sucker-punched. After a beat, he picked up his stogie and drew hard on it.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you keeping that bit of information to yourself for a time.”

  The banker choked and coughed like a locomotive, apologizing as he wiped his mouth on a handkerchief. “Why? Shouldn’t we alert everyone?”

  “If we do, we could be alerting the arsonist. I’d rather not show my hand right off.”

  Harrison’s eyes darted around the room as if looking for the culprit, but he showed no sign of nervous guilt. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

  He snuffed out his cigar, and the acrid smoke curled up toward the high ceiling. Smelled like somebody’d set a cat on fire.

  “You call a meeting yet?”

  “Friday at five.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Garrett saw himself to the door, grateful for the somewhat fresher air outside. He thought back to the freshest air he’d breathed in a while. Up in Echo Valley along the river where he and Betsy had eaten dinner on Sunday. He’d give his badge for more of the same, but then he’d be out of work and back on the trail.

  Somehow, Betsy Beaumont made that option unappealing. He was goi
ng soft.

  He spent the rest of the day reading through warrants, taking down outdated wanted posters, and catching up on paperwork—generally wasting as much time as possible before heading to Maggie’s for supper.

  The doctor hadn’t seemed concerned over her condition and told Garrett that he cautioned her to rest and let someone else take care of the household chores and cooking. No misunderstanding on Doc’s part that Maggie Snowfield was not running a boarding house.

  Garrett smiled to himself as he slipped the latigo through Pearl’s collar and headed down the alley. Betsy seemed to be the only one under the impression that the Snowfield home was still in the boarding business. But he had to admit that he was glad about the misunderstanding.

  Going home every night and sharing a table with the opinionated but lovely Betsy Beaumont was something he could sit still for.

  Aside from her last name.

  Now that he knew the truth, future possibilities ran wild through his thoughts. Almost as wild as the woman herself, headed straight for him with her skirts hiked over her shoe tops and her hair flying like a horse’s mane.

  CHAPTER 21

  Elizabeth flew down the porch steps and out the front gate—straight to the only person she was certain could help.

  “Whoa-whoa-whoa.” Garrett stopped her with a hand on each arm, dropping Pearl’s tether in the process.

  The dog jumped up, whining and sniffing around her chin, but Elizabeth didn’t care.

  “Someone…has been…in the house.” She gripped Garrett’s wrists, draping her weight against his strong arms as she caught her breath. “My room—someone’s been in my room.”

  An odd look crossed his face, then he yanked Pearl down. “When?”

  “Now. Today. I don’t know. But since I left this morning.” She stepped back and reached for a more ladylike bearing. “Maggie’s been home all day alone, and someone uninvited was there as well.”

  Garrett quickly turned her toward the house, his pace barely slow enough for her to keep up. “The doctor was there.”

  “I know that.” Honestly, did he think she was an imbecile? “Did you not hear what I said? Someone was in my room.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How did you get to be sheriff?” So much for ladylike.

  He jarred to a glare-flashing stop in front of the house, and his jaw clinched back words she was certain she did not want to hear.

  Tempering her temper, she drew a deep breath. Anxiety had deteriorated into frustration, and that would get them nowhere. “The drawers of my bureau were not closed flush, and my wardrobe had been riffled through. Even my trunk. And the drawer to the writing desk.”

  He sobered at her calmer explanation, then held the gate as she walked through. At the porch, he tethered Pearl to a post, then opened the front door. Maggie stood at the entrance to her room, holding onto the doorframe.

  “Just in time,” she said with less color in her usually spry voice. “I can use your help in the kitchen, dear, if you don’t mind.”

  Elizabeth hurried forward. “Oh, but I do.” She linked her arm through Maggie’s at the elbow, then eased her across the hallway and into the parlor. “I think you should sit down with a cup of tea while I get supper on the table. Garrett will lay a fire, and we’ll all be as cozy as a bug in a rug in no time.”

  “It’s snug as a bug, dear. I thought you’d know that.”

  She did, but it sounded too intimate to include Garrett in such a phrase. She flashed him a cautious but pleading look, and he strode through the house and out the back door, for firewood, she hoped. Maggie accompanied her to the parlor settee without disagreement.

  By the time Elizabeth returned with the tea tray and a plate of cookies, Garrett had come through with an armload of wood and had a fire roaring from the hearth, warming the room with heat and light as well as his protective presence. The setting was one she’d dreamed of with Edward that had never come to pass, and an odd hope blossomed like the flames growing around the split logs.

  He pulled a chair closer to the settee where Maggie rested, her feet elevated to the burgundy velvet. “How are you feeling?”

  “Never better.” Maggie was a pitiful liar, much to Elizabeth’s shame. She had perfected the sin.

  Garrett palmed his mouth, presumably squelching what he really wanted to say. She offered him a cup of tea, and he politely took the china cup and saucer, dwarfing them with his large hands. He gave her a brief nod in thanks, and if she hadn’t been so rattled about someone rummaging through her possessions, his look alone would have rattled her.

  “Did anyone stop by today, other than the doctor?” he said.

  “I blame the two of you for that visit. I don’t need a doctor.” Maggie sipped her tea and reached for a cookie. “But no one else came. Other than Elizabeth.”

  She froze, her cup halfway to her lips.

  “I called out, but you didn’t answer.” Maggie gave her a scolding glance. “I assumed you were dashing in for something, hurrying to get back to Mr. Rochester’s, and didn’t want to visit.”

  “But I—”

  “What time was that, do you know?” Garrett interrupted with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “Dinner time?”

  “Oh no. Mid-afternoon. The clock chimed three as light footsteps ran upstairs. That’s how I knew it was Betsy. I mean Elizabeth.”

  Stunned into silence again, she regretted her earlier insistence on her given name. It sounded more and more foreign all the time. She stood and refilled Maggie’s cup. “I’m going to fix us some supper. You stay here, please, and rest. We can all eat in here by the fire.”

  Maggie fussed and sat upright. “But that’s just not done.”

  Garrett gently lifted her feet back to the settee. “Think of it as being on the trail. You always eat near the fire when you’re out under the stars. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Maggie waved him off, muttering under her breath.

  Elizabeth fled the room before she completely melted at Garrett’s tenderness, but waited at the foot of the stairs.

  He joined her without comment and followed her to her room.

  She’d left everything as she found it, and in a most professional manner, he looked in every spot she indicated. The desk drawer, the wardrobe, even her trunk, where he delicately moved her things aside as if they were priceless and fragile.

  Edward had never shown such deference, and the sight of Garrett doing so struck her as remarkable.

  Yet someone else had handled her most private things—uninvited. She shivered.

  “Is anything missing?” He took in the room with a careful eye, from floor to ceiling and beneath every piece of furniture, including the bed.

  “I don’t think so.” She’d checked for her journal and found it safely concealed in the bottom of her trunk. Even Garrett had not noticed the incongruity in the bottom.

  “Why would someone come up here and go through things? And who would do it.” He murmured more to himself than to her. Finally, he captured her with sober eyes. “What do you think they were looking for?”

  She swallowed, longing to be straightforward and truthful, but not willing to give up her journal. It held every sordid detail of her miserable life in Denver, from her disastrous marriage and divorce, to Braxton Hatchett and his bold advances. Little good it had done her.

  “Was Rochester in his office all day?”

  His question saved her from either extreme—disclosure or deceit. “Yes. He was there the entire time I was. At one point he went into his back room and closed the door, but he frequently does that.”

  Garrett’s right eye twitched. “Do you know for sure he was in the back room the whole time he was not in the front office?”

  She did not.

  ~

  Troubled by Garrett’s final question and embarrassed by her lack of culinary skill, Elizabeth splashed cold water on her face at the kitchen sink, then lit the pull-down gas light above the small table.
A warm glow spread across the room and into the once-dark corners, banishing some of her discomfort. She filled a bowl with potatoes and onions from the pantry, assuaging herself with Garrett’s mention of eating on the trail. Fried potatoes, onions, and salt pork would be the fare, she knew. And coffee. She set a pot on to cook while she peeled potatoes.

  Memories spread through her like the gas light, complete with the sweet tinge of sage and pine. Of riding the high parks with Cade and their pa and ending the day with whatever Deacon could fit in a skillet.

  Sadly, she realized it was the first time she’d had good memories of her father since she’d returned.

  The echo of Garrett’s boots in the hall did little to prepare her for his arrival. She was quivering on the inside long before he stopped behind her and closed his strong hands lightly around her arms. He ran them up and down the sleeves of her dress, and she feared her legs would give way if he didn’t stop.

  “Is there a back door to Rochester’s office?”

  His question grounded her enough to focus, and she stirred the skillet supper and shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve not been back there, but surely there is more than one door.”

  She stilled. “You know I wasn’t the one who ran upstairs at three, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” His fingers gently pressed. “But didn’t you come back earlier for dinner?”

  “After all those doughnuts?”

  Another squeeze. “All two?”

  She breathed a small laugh. His hands slid up to her shoulders, and his thumbs grazed her neck. No more laughing. No more breath.

  “Smells good.” He moved closer still, trapping her between his warmth and the heat of the stove. He nuzzled her hair. “But not as good as you.”

  Lord, help her. If he didn’t let go and step back, she’d burn their supper and have to start all over again.

  As if sensing her distress, he pecked the top of her head with a chaste kiss and went to the sink where he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands.

  A kiss? That was completely unacceptable. He was becoming entirely too familiar, a dangerous situation, indeed.

  And she ached for more.

  ~