An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  Cold water brought Garrett sharply back to reality and to the truth of what he’d just done. He was lucky Betsy hadn’t slapped him with her spoon.

  But that was part of the problem. She could spit horseshoe nails at him with a look, but then ease into his touch. Turned him in-side-out trying to predict her reactions. And the smell of her, in spite of the fried onions and pork, was enough to make him loco.

  He wanted more.

  “Do you mind carrying this tray to the parlor for Maggie? I’ll bring our plates.”

  Loose hair stuck to her face, shiny with perspiration.

  His fingers itched to smooth that hair out of her eyes. Just the slightest touch. Instead, he took the tray and kicked himself all the way down the hall to the parlor.

  Maggie was sleeping when he set the tray on a small table beside the settee. Rather than wake her, he laid another log on the fire and stood with his back to it, watching her. She was deathly pale in her dark dress, almost as white as her hair. He didn’t know much about older women, aside from his grandmother who was boot tough and soft as a kitten. But she would have made three Maggie Snowfields. Why was the doctor not concerned?

  “Here we are, all ready—”

  Betsy stopped just inside the room, a plate in each hand and color draining from her face as well. Her eyes deepened with alarm, and she handed him one plate, then knelt next to Maggie, still holding the other.

  “Is that for me, dear?”

  Startled back, Betsy nearly dropped the dish. He caught her from behind and took the plate while she scrambled to her feet. Just like she had the first time he met her.

  “I swear—”

  “I hope not, dear. Help me sit up, please.”

  “Maggie, you’ll be the death of me if you keep surprising me like that.”

  “No surprise. Just a hungry old woman. If it weren’t for those cookies this morning, I’d have had nothing to keep body and soul together.”

  Agitated and no doubt wanting to give Maggie a piece of her mind, Betsy gave her the tray instead, then sat down in a chair across the room. Garrett joined her in another chair just like it, separated by a small table between them. He counted five tables in the gussied-up room, none of them any bigger than the top of his potbelly stove at the jail.

  Maggie must have been telling the truth, for in no time she cleaned up everything on her plate. Betsy helped her to her room while Garrett took the dishes to the kitchen.

  If it were just him, he’d pile them in the sink and wash them tomorrow, but it wasn’t just him, and if he played his cards right, he could wrangle some more time up close to Elizabeth Betsy Parker Beaumont.

  That last name set his blood to boiling quicker than the water in the kettle on the stove. What kind of weasel exchanged a pretty young wife for a miner’s life in Dakota Territory? After the rush had petered out.

  “She’s exhausted.” Betsy marched into the kitchen, pushing up her sleeves, and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Then she clapped a hand across her mouth.

  He frowned. “It’s hard to get my clothes warmed up in the morning if they’re wet.”

  She rolled her pretty lips, a sparkle in her eye. “Turn around. If you’re going to wear Maggie’s apron, you need a bow in the back.”

  He might as well let her tie a bow. She’d already tied his insides in knots.

  She went to one of the many drawers in the kitchen and pulled out a long towel. “You wash, I’ll dry.” Then she filled a pan in the sink next to his dishpan with a mix of cold and boiling water. “Set the dishes in there after you wash them. And start with the cups and silverware. Then the plates, then the skillet. Doesn’t hurt to wash it once in a while.”

  He never washed his skillet. Just wiped it out or took a knife to what stuck. Stepping back, he spread his stance. “Next, you’ll be tellin’ me how to run my jail.”

  Her lips puckered, fighting a smile, and he fought to keep from kissing her.

  They worked side by side in amiable silence, Betsy stashing the dishes in their proper places until a thoughtful expression worked its way off her face and out of her mouth.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding Maggie not running a boarding house. And being lonely.” She dried a flower-flecked plate until he thought she’d wipe the flowers right off. “What if there’s more to it than loneliness?”

  He dunked the skillet and went to scrubbing. “She doesn’t need the money.”

  “True. But what if she needs something else?”

  He stopped and looked at the beautiful woman beside him, light glinting off her dark hair. “Like what?”

  “Help.”

  He dried his hands on the apron. “What do you need?”

  She shot him a side-long look that questioned his intelligence, and he bristled.

  “Not me. Her.”

  Oh. Confounded woman had him where he couldn’t think straight. He picked up the scrub brush. “Doc said he wasn’t worried. She just needed to rest and not do so much.”

  “Exactly. Look at this place.” Betsy spun around, sweeping her hand through the air as if clearing the fog. “She does everything. Cooks, cleans. Does up the linens and runs this sprawling home without a housekeeper. And she’s not getting younger.”

  None of ’em were.

  “What if having us here is for her sake as well as ours?”

  He liked the sound of us and ours and wanted to chew on that for a minute.

  Betsy’s voice dropped to a hush. “What if she’s afraid of growing old alone?”

  A thought he’d had a time or two himself.

  He propped the skillet upside down in the sink, drained the dishpan, then laid the apron over the back of a chair and poured two cups of coffee.

  Betsy joined him at the table and studied him over the brim of her cup.

  The look was a warning—not a threat, but an honest, open query, and he prepared for whatever unwanted question she was about to spurt.

  “What brought you to Olin Springs?”

  Like that one.

  “Tired of trailing cattle north.”

  She just kept watching him. Maybe he could hire her as an interrogator.

  “My former employer, Marshall Booth in Abilene, said it was a good fit—me and this town. I thought I’d give it a try.”

  He knew what was coming, and also knew he wasn’t about to spill his guts right there all over Maggie’s white tablecloth.

  “So cattle took you to Abilene. And you became a deputy there.”

  He nodded once, drew in a mouthful of coffee as cover.

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “Why’d you?”

  Her eyes snapped, but she held steady. “I asked first.”

  The fingers of his right hand twitched, and he set down his cup and rubbed his hand on his trousers. “Trouble. You?”

  She sniffed, unhappy with his brief answer, but she let it lie.

  “I blamed my father for getting himself and Mama killed in a buggy accident. I was young, headstrong, and looking for…” She blinked. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story elsewhere by now.”

  He held her attention, wanting to hold her.

  “People have been very kind to me since I returned, more so than I imagined possible.” She set down her coffee cup and tucked her hands in her lap. “Though I believe Cade is still quietly angry with my independent streak as he would call it. In that way, I am much like our father.”

  She frowned at mention of her pa.

  “Forgiveness is healing medicine. For both sides.”

  She cut a glance across the table, taking in the words his grandparents had lived by.

  “A couple of people have shown their disapproval, but it seems most have forgiven me. I didn’t expect that.”

  He could change the subject. Talk about the arsonist. Maggie. The weather. “Someone hasn’t.”

  The idea sent her on a frantic mental search, as clear on her face as if she were lining people up, hunting for
that one person until realization hit. “My parents can’t forgive me. They’re gone.”

  He shook his head, testing the waters.

  “Who?”

  “You ran off the last time I mentioned it.”

  “I did not.” She drew up. “When?”

  “Echo Valley.”

  “I did not run off.”

  “Well, what do you call getting up and riding away?”

  “I call it work. We had things to do.” Another pointed look. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that you haven’t forgiven yourself because you don’t believe you deserve it.” He let the words settle, then lowered his voice. “None of us deserve it, Betsy. It’s a gift.”

  From the fire in her eye, he fully expected her to ignite.

  “You don’t know what I believe or don’t believe. In fact, you don’t know me as well as you think you do, Sheriff Wilson.”

  He leaned in. “Last names and titles, is it now?”

  She stood, and the chair legs barked across the wooden floor. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He joined her—slowly, so his chair didn’t scrape. So she wouldn’t run away again. “Yes, I do.”

  Her neck could have snapped with the force of her chin lifting. “That is completely impossible. What gives you the right to tell me I need to forgive myself?”

  “Hauling guilt around, that’s what. It’s the same as lugging a dead body.”

  She recoiled at the image. “Who says I’m carrying guilt?”

  “You.”

  The word fell between them, blocking his view of her heart through her eyes.

  He turned and walked out the back door.

  CHAPTER 22

  Elizabeth’s stomach turned like a grist mill wheel. She pressed one hand against her middle, the other over her mouth, and ran upstairs to the narrow door at the end of the landing. Twisting the glass knob, she yanked. The door stuck, sealed by time and disuse. She tugged harder and it gave way, expelling a chilly cough. Five steps into the narrow black throat, her toe kicked against the first stair. Fourteen more, and she burst out into the night.

  From the shelter of the cupola, she could see the whole of Olin Springs. The railroad twisted away into the foothills, a silvery ribbon in the moon’s thin light, and to the north, the Big Dipper stood on its handle, spilling countless stars across the sky.

  Tears spilled across her cheeks.

  She hated Garrett Wilson. She hated him for stealing her heart when she wasn’t looking, for making her want to love again. For making her wonder what life could be like with a man like him.

  But she hated him most for being right.

  Her fingers curled around the railing. How could he have guessed her secret when she didn’t even know it herself until he pointed it out? How could he so calmly strip away her carefully layered veneer and make her see the truth?

  She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from breaking apart and tipped her head back, standing soul-naked in the night.

  “Oh, God.” Her voice squeezed up and floated out to the countless stars. “Oh, God, help me. I’ve deceived others and myself as well.”

  A light breeze brushed against her, and with it came the aroma of someone’s supper—evidence of home and family and togetherness. All the things she longed for that seemed as far from her reach as the sparkling Dipper.

  Slowly, another essence whispered through the cupola. Nearly unnoticeable at first, it grew with soothing warmth, washing over her bare soul, her past mistakes.

  Come, Thou fount…

  Not her mother’s voice this time, but her own—small and thin and bleeding. “Oh, to grace how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be.”

  The words came with new meaning, not just words to a song, but words for her life. Unexpected and full of peace.

  “Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it. Mount of Thy redeeming love.”

  ~

  Pearl whined, but Garrett strode off without her. He needed to be alone. Completely alone. And she’d be better off tied to the porch. Unless she pulled out the post and brought the whole thing crashing down on her. It’d be just his luck if she did.

  No such thing as luck, son. Life is what you and God make it. If you let Him.

  His grandfather’s advice bounced off the insides of his skull, and not for the first time.

  So why couldn’t he make Betsy see what he saw—that her misery was self-inflicted?

  He’d seen the way everyone had welcomed her, Cade included. Yet, still she believed she didn’t measure up. Hadn’t paid enough recompense. Didn’t deserve to be happy.

  The same song he’d danced to for a half dozen years until George Booth got ahold of him.

  Maybe she’d have listened if he’d told her the whole story.

  The livery was shut up, but a lantern flickered low in the alleyway. Using the muzzle of his gun between the doors, he lifted the bar, saddled Rink, and rode out. Some night man Clay turned out to be. Probably snoring like a bear in January.

  But it suited Garrett. He didn’t want to explain anything to anybody. He just wanted…he didn’t know what. Other than Betsy Parker. Beautiful, irritatingly stubborn Betsy Parker.

  She was no more Elizabeth Beaumont than he was.

  The moon threw long shadows from the building fronts along Main Street, and Rink’s hooves clopped a lonesome beat as they rode north out of town.

  Garrett’s nose twitched.

  He drew rein, and Rink’s ears swiveled back to ask why. Leaning down, he patted the gelding’s neck. “You smell that, boy? That’s no campfire.”

  Alerted to a new danger other than his racing emotions, he followed his nose and cut between buildings to the west side of the street. He rode the length of the alley, past the church, and on toward the library house.

  As he approached, a shadow lurched out from the fenced yard and cut in front of Rink.

  “Hold up!”

  The figure ran with an awkward limp and disappeared between two buildings. Intent on chasing him down, Garrett gave Rink his head, but the horse back-stepped.

  He smelled it again.

  Whirling round, he saw yellow tongues licking up the back of the old clapboard house. As much as a hose and reel crew, they needed some kind of bell. He drew his Colt, took aim at the base of an old cottonwood twenty yards away, and fired three shots.

  He counted ten heartbeats, each one thudding in his ears, and fired three more. Then he rode around to the front of the house and bailed off at the nearest water trough, praying that folks would smell the smoke.

  ~

  Three gunshots shattered the stillness. Betsy turned in their direction and waited. Again, three more—the universal call for help.

  Garrett.

  She dashed down the narrow stairway, counting the steps so she didn’t tumble off at the bottom, and ran into her room, where she threw open her trunk. After tossing clothing onto the floor, she opened the secret compartment, loaded her Remington derringer, and slipped it into her skirt pocket.

  It was no Winchester rifle, nor would it hold a candle to Garrett’s Colt, but in a tight spot, the double-barreled derringer could be the difference between dead or alive.

  She ran downstairs and paused at Maggie’s door. The little woman lay curled like a child amidst her pillows and quilts, undisturbed by the gunfire, thank the Lord.

  Yes, thank You, Lord. Please, watch over Maggie. And Garrett.

  Elizabeth’s heart raced as fast as her feet to Main Street, where running men shouted, some in nightshirts, others with suspenders flapping. Two blocks away, flames leaped up the backside of what she thought was the library. The church stood in her line of vision, and she couldn’t be sure. Hiking her skirts, she ran across the street, on to the next block, and into the livery for a bucket.

  A sputtering lantern gave little light from a post in the alleyway, but she took it down and headed toward the back. The few horses stalled inside were qui
et, yet alert, but a shuffling sound from the dark interior stopped her cold. She raised the lantern, fully aware she was revealing herself and not much else.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice sounded less forceful than she’d hoped.

  More scuffling, and a shadowy figure half-ran, half-limped into the alleyway, straight for her.

  “Stop right there!” She shifted the lantern to her left hand and slid her right into her skirt pocket.

  He didn’t stop.

  With a grunt, he lunged at her. She fell against a wheel barrow and dropped the lantern onto the load of soiled straw. With a life of its own, it flared high, lighting up the livery and her assailant.

  “You! What are you doing here?”

  He pulled back his fist.

  She ducked, feeling for her derringer, and raised it still concealed by her skirt. “Get back, or I’ll shoot.”

  His sharp laugh hit her before he did. They both fell to the ground while he groped for the gun. Fighting her tangled skirts as much as her attacker, she kicked and shoved him off, then rolled across the alleyway.

  Above them, a man stood at the edge of the loft, illuminated in the split second before he jumped. Clay.

  He landed with a yell, and the two men wrestled near the blazing wheelbarrow, oblivious to its deadly threat. Clay quickly got the upper hand and pinned her attacker down.

  Regaining her feet, she grabbed the handles and turned the burning load to the door. The movement blew flames toward her. Cinders dotted her bodice, stinging into her flesh. Again she turned, and this time ran backward, praying she wouldn’t fall and spill the burning straw inside the old wooden livery.

  As she cleared the front door, the express agent came up beside her. “I’ll take that!”

  She relinquished her hold and ran toward the bigger fire. Most of the men ran with buckets, a few had dishpans. She assured herself that the derringer was secure, and worked her way through the growing crowd of onlookers and volunteers, searching for Garrett.

  She needed to find him. She needed to know that he was safe so she could tell him that he was right.

  CHAPTER 23

  Garrett needed answers, but first he had to douse the anger rising like a storm inside him. He’d trusted that kid. Given him money and gotten him a place to stay. A second chance. And the boy had bitten not only the hand that fed him, but others’ as well.