An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  This weekend she would become Mrs. Garrett Wilson, and it seemed almost impossible. So much had changed since her less-than-ladylike arrival in town last summer, and she would be forever grateful.

  “You were right about me not forgiving myself.”

  He tensed, as if she was about to give him bad news.

  “It took your words to remind me of God’s grace, something I hadn’t thought about for quite some time.”

  He nodded slowly, watching, as it were, memories that only he could see. His arm squeezed tighter. “About my scar.”

  Quickly she laid her fingers against his mouth. “You don’t have to tell me. Really. It’s all right. I shouldn’t have pried into a painful subject.”

  Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers. “When you asked, I was afraid you wouldn’t marry me if you knew the truth.”

  She pressed through a smothering sensation. “If this is about forgiving yourself, I’m surprised you have a problem with that.”

  “It’s not. Forgiving and forgetting aren’t the same thing. And I couldn’t bear it if every time you looked at me, you remembered what I’d done.”

  What could such a brave and caring man as Garrett Wilson have done that had him quivering in dread?

  She turned as much as she could on the swing, and drew his hand into both of hers. “You don’t have to tell me, Garrett.” She didn’t want him to tell her.

  His jaw set with granite determination.

  “A piece of splintered wood hit me during a shootout in Abilene.”

  “That’s explains it.” She was nearly weak with relief.

  His eyes changed color, like a forest at night. “No, it doesn’t.” He swallowed hard.” I killed a man. A boy, really.”

  Her hands jerked without her bidding. But she wouldn’t let go when he tried to pull away. “You must have had cause. You were a deputy.”

  She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. Garrett or herself.

  ~

  The way Betsy was holding on, she wasn’t going anywhere. But it grieved Garrett to tell her of his worst failing.

  “It would have been easier to live with if I’d gone to prison for it, but the judge ruled it an accidental shooting.”

  Her grip tightened. “That’s why you know what it feels like to carry guilt.”

  He looked out into the night where occasional snowflakes swirled past, sparkling when they got close to the porch lantern. “George Booth was marshal after the Hickock years. Things had quieted down considerably by then, but every so often someone got full of himself. One night, George called out a drunk who was shootin’ up the bar. The man stumbled through the batwings, firing at us with two six-guns. A boy ran out behind him, right into our fire.”

  He rolled his lips in, considered telling her more, but something stopped him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Her eyes glimmered with acceptance and what he thought might be love. “That’s why you took to Clay, isn’t it.”

  A knot formed in his throat and he pulled her closer. The feel of her against him was more than he deserved, much less her agreeing to be his wife.

  She laid her head on his chest and let out a sigh that sounded like contentment, the last thing he expected from her.

  “A wise little woman reminded me of something not long ago that I’d heard as a girl but had forgotten over the years. If God can make everything new again, in spite of the hard, painful parts, then we should let Him.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Betsy had let him inside her heart, and there was no turning back. Garrett was a part of her in a way that Edward never had been. No one had been, and the thought of living without him left her feeling less than whole.

  But thank God, she didn’t have to. What she did have to do was decide which of two beautiful gowns she would wear at her wedding.

  Hiram and Abigail Eisner had made two lovely dresses, one a rich chocolate silk with cream-colored lace ruffling at the wrists and neck and trailing down the center front, and the other a fashionable lavender silk taffeta with vertical pleats and four rows of ruffles at the hem.

  Betsy chose the warm brown.

  The Eisners refused to reveal who had paid for such extravagance. They also refused to take any money from her. Even Garrett’s dog could have figured out who had so generously stepped into the bride’s mother’s position.

  She thanked the couple and invited them to the reception on Friday evening, as well as to the ceremony Saturday morning. As she collected the dress along with a few new unmentionables and a new wrapper, Abigail presented her with another package, tied up in brown paper with a green satin ribbon.

  “For the reception,” she said, a heavy accent flavoring her newly learned language. “Something extra.”

  Betsy had to peek. The something extra was a stunning pale green gown appropriate for Friday evening, and the ribbon tying the package was long enough to work her hair into a fashionable style.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.” Her gratitude outweighed all her wasted regrets from the last six years. There were not words or tears enough with which to thank the God of grace, and she silently prayed that He would hear the unspoken language of her overwhelmed heart.

  With her arms and emotions full, she turned for the door and found it open and awaiting her exit. Anthony Rochester held it ajar and, with his signature aplomb, swept an arm toward the doorway, indicating she precede him.

  The chill that encircled her did not come from the open door.

  “May I assist you with your packages, Mrs. Beaumont?” One thin brow pulled like an archer’s bow, unburdened by smile or mirth.

  She glanced at the Eisners standing close to each other behind the counter, then stepped out. “Thank you, but no. I can manage quite well.”

  He closed the door behind them and followed her to the corner. “And so you have.”

  She stopped abruptly, emboldened by the barrier between them that she clutched so tightly. “Speak plainly, Mr. Rochester. If you have something to say, then do so.”

  He drew himself up, looking down upon her as if she were a distasteful morsel. He had exactly five seconds to speak before she crossed the street.

  “You managed quite well to misrepresent yourself to me and others in this town, and apparently, Sheriff Wilson is the biggest dupe of all.”

  She would beg his pardon, but she didn’t want it, so she refrained from the conversational cliché and merely held his eye, waiting.

  “You wanted us all to think you were married, when in fact, you were not. And now that you’ve convinced the sheriff that you were unjustly abandoned by a fortune-seeking husband, I find that is not the case either.”

  She slid one foot slightly behind the other to keep from toppling backward at his hateful barrage. “You find?”

  Seemingly aware of the effect of his words, he curled his lip with satisfaction. “Indeed. While that fool of a sheriff was investigating the fires, I did a little investigating of my own. A personal letter from one Mr. Braxton Hatchett was quite illuminating. It appears that you were let go from the Denver law firm due to indiscrete behavior on your part, in spite of your so-called notes to the contrary. Your friend, Miss Clarke, has since been let go as well.”

  The last bit of news nearly drove Betsy to the ground.

  He smirked. “So you don’t deny it.”

  Spitting was entirely unacceptable for a woman in any and all situations, but she was about to make an exception. To prevent it, she turned on her heel and stepped into the street.

  “I’m sure Sheriff W ilson would like to see the letter I received from Mr. Hatchett.”

  Do not run.

  Do not look back.

  Do not stoop for a rock to lob at him.

  She made it to Saddle Blossom Lane before her vision began to darken. Realizing she hadn’t breathed in the last sixty seconds, if not longer, she stopped at the edge of the road and drank in a precious lung-full. Tiny darts of pain shot through her temples. />
  Had the lies followed her home? And if she tried to argue against them, would her partial truths upon arriving brand her as the liar?

  Now Erma couldn’t even vouch for her, and she probably rued the day of their meeting, since Betsy had cost the dear woman her job.

  The weight of her blessings turned to stone and she bowed beneath them.

  Would Garrett believe her if she told him the truth? Would Maggie? Would anyone?

  It was said hell had no fury like a woman scorned. But if she were to hold the pen, the line would read, A proud man spurned seeks a demon’s revenge.

  Who would take her word against that of a renowned Denver attorney?

  Ironically, a refrain pressed upon her as she trudged along the road, losing a tearful battle in full view of any and all that might pass:

  Hither by Thy help I’m come; And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.

  Fresh tears fell, for that had been her hope all along.

  ~

  Maggie busied herself over the next few days washing china and glassware that Betsy had never seen, and she refused to let Betsy do a thing in preparation for the big event. She also refused to let Mr. Rochester’s threat dampen her excitement.

  “Some people are sore losers, dear, and it seems to me that Mr. Rochester is one of them.”

  Desperate for something to do, Betsy brought the broom and dust pan from the pantry. She failed to see what Anthony Rochester had lost, but Maggie was more than happy to explain.

  “You, dear. He lost you.”

  Betsy shuddered at the suggestion.

  “Think about it. If you haven’t realized it yet, you are the only type-writer in this town. Perhaps not for very much longer, but you were the first and you worked for Mr. Rochester. You were a feather in his cap, so to speak. And you are an attractive feather, at that. To add insult to injury, as they say, he lost you to an uneducated cowboy who wears a badge and carries a gun.”

  Betsy quickly looked through the windows and down the hall to be certain Garrett wasn’t within hearing distance.

  “How can you say that?” She found it hard to believe that Maggie could be so classically prejudiced.

  “Say what? That he lost you to a cowboy or that the cowboy is uneducated?”

  Out of respect for the elder woman, Betsy held her tongue and attacked a dusty corner of the kitchen. “Both. Garrett is one of the most—”

  “I know, and I couldn’t agree more. He’s smarter, kinder, and more generous than most men I’ve met, but his schooling came from life experience, not come from the halls of education in which Mr. Rochester spent too many years with too little success in what really matters.”

  Though still stinging, Betsy began to see Maggie’s point.

  “You are the prize.” A tender smile underscored the endearment. “And all the law books and halls of justice in the world cannot outshine the love I see in Garrett Wilson when he looks at you.”

  Betsy leaned the broom in the corner and sank into a chair, weary of the emotional teeter-totter she’d been riding. “But what if he doesn’t believe me when I tell him what really happened? What if he thinks I’m lying again, like I did at first by not admitting I was single?”

  Maggie dried her hands on her apron and poured them each a cup of tea before taking the other chair. “In all my years, I’ve learned several important lessons through repetition—as if the good Lord knew I’d not catch on the first time. Or the second or third.”

  Betsy huffed into her teacup, rippling the surface of the amber chamomile. “I certainly understand that approach. Like training a green-broke colt in a round pen.”

  “Well, I don’t know about any of that, but I do know that the great majority of the what-ifs I worried about never happened.”

  Betsy met her landlady’s steady gaze across the table.

  The woman had unflappable faith.

  ~

  From the way the dining room had been rearranged, Garrett figured Maggie had invited half the town to her party. Reception, she’d called it. And her fancy dishes and hardware and doodads beat anything he’d ever seen.

  A new suit of clothes was in order.

  Of course, he’d planned on that anyway, but a man’s wedding is an invisible event hard to imagine, and he wasn’t about to send a telegram to George asking him what he suggested. Erik was no help, Clay was half grown, and that left Hiram Eisner to do right by him.

  “Don’t give me anything like Rochester wears,” he told the tailor. “I’m a simple man with few needs, and I intend to stay that way.”

  Hiram and his wife shared a look that Garrett interpreted as withholding information from an officer of the law.

  “What?”

  “He was here the day Miss Betsy picked up her wedding dress. Waiting at the door for her.”

  Garrett’s right hand slid to his holster, the left balled into a fist. Mrs. Eisner caught his reaction and blanched. Garrett flexed his fingers. He didn’t need her fainting dead away from fright.

  Why hadn’t Betsy told him? “What happened?”

  Hiram cleared his throat and lowered his head, his eyes darting sideways as if he regretted mentioning it. “He offered to carry her packages and she refused.”

  Good girl. “Anything else?”

  “She’s not happy to see him,” Abigail offered in her broken English.

  Garrett set his hat, paid for his new clothes, and thanked the couple. Then he headed for Snowfield’s, fighting the urge to relocate Rochester’s mustache. First, he had to get the facts straight from the filly’s mouth.

  He stashed his duds in his room, then nosed around the stove to see what smelled so good, hoping Betsy would show up.

  “I suppose you’re hungry since you missed dinner.”

  Maggie sure enough had a soft-footed Ute’s silent approach.

  He backed away from the stove and removed his hat. “Yes, ma’am. I got tied up in town. Plus, with things all laid out in the dining room, I figured you might have other plans.”

  “Humph.” She poured him a cup of coffee and set it on the small table. In her book, that meant sit a spell.

  He sat. “Thank you, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  She gave him a look that could put the whoa in a runaway, then set a slice of rhubarb pie and a fork in front of him. “No trouble yet, young man.”

  That stopped the first bite in midair.

  “If you want more pie, it’s under the towel there on the counter. Help yourself.” And she left him there with his mouth open.

  Confounded females. He didn’t have problems like this trailing cows to the railheads. But he didn’t have rhubarb pie like this either. Or the sweet, warm kisses of Betsy Parker, which was the reason he was sitting in a kitchen in the middle of the day and not at the jail.

  He eased into the first bite and sat up at the sound of her footsteps.

  At the look on Betsy’s face, he set the fork down and stood.

  She didn’t walk into his arms, but took the chair across from him and folded her hands in her lap. Nervous. Guarded. Afraid. His heart hitched. Betsy Parker wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Anthony Rochester’s days were numbered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She avoided his eyes, so he sat down in her line of vision. He offered his hand across the small table, but she didn’t take it. The first bite of pie turned to lead in his belly.

  “I have something I must tell you, and frankly, I don’t want to.”

  He’d known dread and he’d known fear. He’d known the smoking end of a gun barrel, but none of it had twisted his gut like those words. “Whatever it is you’ve got to say, I can take it.”

  “Something happened in Denver.”

  The tension in his neck and shoulders eased. She hadn’t backed out of the wedding.

  Silently, she studied the tablecloth, and he let her, knowing if he didn’t fill the empty space, she would.

  “As you know, I wor
ked as a type-writer there. I was employed by the Gladstone, Hatchett and Son law firm.” She clinched her jaw, the muscle bulging below her ear.

  “Braxton Hatchett made advances toward me.” She flicked a glance Garrett’s way, testing his reaction, then she took up the tablecloth again.

  Fighting to slow the stampede in his chest, he opened and closed his hands, keeping them under the table, his boots flat on the floor, and his eyes on the woman he loved and would die to protect.

  She sat a little straighter, bracing her shoulders in that way she had. “I rebuffed him.”

  Garrett let out an old breath and checked his voice to a steady walk. “Did he hurt you?”

  With a dead-eye look, she answered plainly. “He tried to. He even told me it was my fault that he couldn’t restrain himself. I told him I was an expert shot, and if he ever touched me again, I would shoot him. Not dead, but his wife would never again have to worry about his wandering ways.”

  Garrett bit back what he wanted to say about this Hatchett fella, rested his arms against the table, and leaned in. “Why didn’t you want to tell me that?”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.”

  He believed her, all right. He also believed that if Rochester had tried a similar move, the local sheriff would have beat Betsy to the draw.

  He started to rise, but she stopped him with a raised hand and a warning look.

  “There’s more. Most didn’t believe my side of the story, other than my friend and mentor from Denver, Erma Clarke, who has since been fired.” At that, Betsy wilted and teared up, and he didn’t think he could stand not touching her.

  “Mr. Hatchett’s wounded pride preceded him. He sullied my reputation, spreading vile rumors about me as a divorcee. He, a highly respected attorney, was believed. I was not.”

  So far she hadn’t mentioned Rochester, so there had to be still more. “Why was your friend fired?”

  She regrouped at his question and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes before continuing. “Erma offered to write letters of reference for me if I needed them. She was Mr. Gladstone’s personal secretary, and often wrote letters on his behalf. Of course, he knew of his partner’s indiscretions, but he would never take my side over Hatchett’s. The chances of receiving a favorable report were nil, so Erma offered to help me in any way.”