An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  An old confidence lifted Elizabeth’s heart. “I always hit what I aim at.” But to appease the woman, she rolled the platen until the type came into view.

  Her name appeared first, followed by what she’d added for Maggie’s benefit. Not a mistyped letter anywhere:

  Elizabeth Madeline Parker Beaumont

  COME, THOU FOUNT

  Come, Thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.

  Maggie’s hand rested on her breast. “Oh, child, I remember your mother playing that hymn so beautifully and singing with all her heart.”

  So did Elizabeth.

  ~

  At supper that evening, Maggie could speak of nothing but Elizabeth’s demonstration. If only there were several boarders and not just one quiet man who flicked her an occasional glance, eyes amused. She was not funny. Had never been funny, and it took her back to the days of Cade’s taunting when they were children.

  “You should see her,” Maggie boasted. “Calm as a sleeping baby’s breath, yet quick and sharp and accurate.” She cut into her fried chicken leg and poised her fork before popping the bite in her mouth. “She hits that for which she aims.”

  The scar twitched. “So you’re saying she’s a crack shot.”

  “That she is. Why, I remember one summer—”

  “I’m sitting right here.” Elizabeth glared at Garrett, challenging him to speak to her and not about her as if she were a child to be seen and not heard.

  He scooped a mound of mashed potatoes, returned the spoon to the serving bowl, and resting his arm against the table’s edge, looked at her full and long. From hair to chin. Lips to eyes. “Yes, you are. And most becomingly, I might add.”

  Maggie twittered.

  Elizabeth tapped her foot against the carpeted floor, wishing for a hole into which she could fall.

  After coffee and a generous helping of hot apple pie, Garrett excused himself, thanked Maggie, and left through the front door.

  Elizabeth struggled for a deep breath, her corset straining against the meal and her frustration. She’d best curb her appetite or she’d be spending her salary on a new wardrobe. A salary that, at that instant, she chose to accept.

  “Did you get enough, dear?” Maggie collected serving dishes, balancing two along one arm.

  “More than enough, I’m afraid. I can’t eat like this at every meal, or I’ll be rolling onto Main Street and through the door of Mr. Rochester’s office.”

  Maggie picked up her own plate and gave Elizabeth a surprisingly neutral look. “So you’ve decided.”

  “My options are rather limited. No one else in town needs my services. If he receives my references and the position is still available, I have no other choice.”

  Maggie’s gaze warmed. “My dear, you always have a choice.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen.

  Elizabeth could only disagree. Where was the choice if she had no control over the circumstances? The fount of blessing had dried up. Her parents were dead, Edward had abandoned her, and Hatchett had disgraced her and let her go. Poverty lurked at her door. Where was her choice in any of those situations? Rather than making things happen, she was stuck with making the best of what did happen.

  Discouragement congealed like the white pan gravy in Maggie’s china gravy boat.

  A dull breeze shifted the lace curtain at the end of the room, signaling additional betrayal. The storm had circled Olin Springs, possibly dissipating. Clouds without rain.

  Elizabeth laid her silverware across her plate, unaccustomed to heaviness of limb from overeating. She needed fresh air, a vigorous walk.

  Avoiding the sheriff’s retreat, she took the back door next to his now-enclosed quarters.

  Evening’s long, blue fingers reached across the grounds, flirting with the light breaking through distant clouds behind her. Foreboding, her mother had always called the odd mix of light and dark. As a child, Elizabeth had thought she was saying for boating.

  The memory brought a smile.

  She approached a small barn. Slanted light washed its graying boards, and crickets called, stirring the taste of home long left behind. A pasture rolled out beyond the old building. She continued toward the fence, and a bay mare lifted its head and pricked its ears.

  Just beyond the horse, a glint of light winked. No wonder the grass was so lush and green, unlike the tall, sturdy range grass of Parker Land and Cattle. The narrow fall of a stream cut across one back corner and meandered south, disappearing onto neighboring property.

  The bay also meandered, telegraphing its intention every few steps with a flicked ear, working its way toward her. Latent joy bubbled up, a reminder of carefree days riding her beloved Blanca, gentling colts in the home corral with Cade, and frustrating him with her inborn knack for the job.

  A clearing throat turned her sharply.

  Tall and back-lit, the silhouette was several yards away. Not close enough to make his footfall heard, he’d let her know he was there.

  “Evening.” Garrett’s voice flowed deeper than before, blending with the shadows, and he joined her at the fence with a polite distance between them.

  She lifted her hand to the mare that stood with outstretched neck, whiffling at the newcomers.

  “She hasn’t come to me like that, and I’ve lived here almost two years.”

  Pride tugged, and Elizabeth tamped it down. No need to be arrogant. “People say I have a way with horses.”

  “Cade Parker one of ’em?”

  She’d walked into that one with eyes and mouth wide open.

  Rubbing the mare’s head, she reached up under the forelock. Why dodge the matter? He obviously knew the truth, or part of it. “The first one. Besides our pa.”

  He set his hat farther back, pulled something from inside his vest, and clicked his tongue.

  The mare looked over, nostrils flaring in and out, testing the scent. Then she walked unhurriedly his way and lipped a carrot from his palm.

  Elizabeth scoffed. “Bribery gets them every time.”

  “So will kindness.”

  An odd thing for a gunman to say. She slid a glance at his profile. Stern, sharp-planed. He’d seen other than kindness in his time. But he was proving more surprising at each turn.

  “When it’s accepted.”

  Case in point. Apparently, he also hit what he aimed at.

  She dodged. “How did you end up with a dog named Pearl? Rather than Pirate or Purloiner?”

  He allowed a small laugh, almost a pleasant sound. “You have a knack with words.”

  A compliment or a dig, she couldn’t tell.

  “She was an irritating little thing.”

  Elizabeth looked at him straight on. “Little?”

  He gave an easy smile.

  She fought to not return the gesture, so genuine was his reaction to her puzzlement.

  “For a half-breed Irish wolfhound, she’s on the smaller side,” he said.

  “She’s not the right size or color for pearls. That’s like naming this bay Ivory.”

  “It’s not about color.”

  Elizabeth was losing her bid for neutral conversation, along with her patience.

  “As a pup, she was an irritant. I figured I could let her be a burr under my skin or smooth her over with kindness. Like a pearl in an oyster.”

  And how would a lawman know about oysters and pearls unless he was more than he appeared to be? She pulled her arms close against her waist.

  “She’s lived up to her name. Turned out to be a real charmer. Unless something shiny catches her eye.”

  Elizabeth snorted, then slapped a hand over her mouth. Ladies did not holler, sprawl, or snort, yet she’d excelled in all three since that dog came into the picture.

  The sheriff chuckled and rubbed the mare’s neck. “I’ll gladly pay for the damages.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Sheriff.”

  “Garrett.”

  He said it more to the horse than to her.

 
; She crossed her arms, fisting her fingers where he couldn’t see them.

  “And what if I insisted?” Was he inviting a show-down? Would he next challenge her to a shooting match, a riding contest? Did he break broncs and brand cattle?

  She turned for the house. Thunder rolled off the nearest ridge, dragging the storm back to Olin Springs. A fat rain drop splashed her shoulder.

  “Elizabeth.”

  Reflexively she stopped at the warm tone, thought better of it, and continued on.

  He was at her elbow, again soundlessly, as if he were part Ute. A second drop struck her forehead, but she faced him, half curious about what he’d say next.

  He raised his hand to touch her arm, but caught himself and drew it back. Unlike his commanding presence, his voice came gentle. “Be careful with Rochester.”

  His comment snagged her as surely as a prickly pear, and she stood caught by his dark look. Another fat drop, then another. Lightning pierced her peripheral vision and she flinched.

  He gripped her arm and they ran for the back door, drenched by the time they reached it.

  CHAPTER 8

  Garrett drenched his hotcakes in blackberry syrup, then cut into the stack of three. Betsy’s chair sat empty and lonesome, and Maggie kept looking toward the door to the hallway, her expectation as clear as the sunshine through the dining room window.

  The storm had washed a week’s worth of dust from the air and cleared a few things in his mind as well. “Have you ever thought of renting out your pasture?”

  Maggie acted as if she hadn’t heard him, but he knew for a fact she could hear a whisper in a windstorm. Probably knew he’d sneaked into Betsy’s room, but he waited for her to sip her tea. He’d learned as a lawman that if he didn’t fill the silence, the other person usually did.

  “No, I haven’t. Lolly’s had that pasture to herself as long as we—I’ve lived here.” She covered her single cake with currant jam. “Why do you ask?”

  He hadn’t mouthed the mare, but he’d put her at twenty-five, if not older. Without exercise, she was growin’ a grass belly, and a little company might do her good. “Would you consider letting me board my gelding here? Plenty of feed for two horses, three even. I’d pay extra, make repairs in the shed, and polish up that old buggy.”

  Maggie cut a small bite off her cake and thoroughly chewed it before taking another. He’d have wolfed it all in two.

  The mantle clock kept time with the woman’s jaw, ticking the rhythm of the pancake’s demise. He finished his coffee and tucked his napkin under his plate, something he’d seen Betsy do. Blasted woman was as irritating as Pearl had been.

  He pulled the napkin out, dropped it on top, and pushed from the table.

  Maggie looked at his plate, then up at him. “I think we could work something out. Would you drive her once in a while?”

  The mare. Right. He ran his hand over his mouth, not liking the picture of himself in a buggy, taking a spin through town. Maybe on a back road. For Maggie. “Once in a while.”

  Her head bobbed twice. “All right. If you’ll do all you say, you can keep your horse here for no extra fee. But if they start fighting,”—she leveled a hard glare—“he’ll have to go back to the livery.”

  “Fair enough.” Garrett set his hat and tugged it down. “Appreciate it, Maggie.”

  She rose and picked up her plate and the coffeepot. “Why didn’t you think of this last year?”

  He had no idea. And he didn’t like the accusation in her voice. “Didn’t occur to me.” He touched his brim. “See you this evenin’.”

  He didn’t miss the irony of moving Rink in with a female, a situation similar to his own, though he wasn’t no gelding. George Booth would laugh him into the next county.

  Out the front door and through the gate. He stopped to latch it and glanced up at Betsy’s window. Opened, curtains pulled aside. Unable to resist the taunt, he slid two fingers along his hat brim in salute, then turned toward town with a grin.

  ~

  Elizabeth stood back from the window, glad she’d parted the curtains and certain the sheriff couldn’t see her. She gasped when he looked up as if he could.

  Her heart lurched. What was it about that man that put her on edge, on guard, and on pins and needles all at the same time?

  Thank goodness, he was gone.

  Her yellow cotton day dress spoke of spring rather than advancing autumn, but her wardrobe was as limited as her employment options. She twisted her hair into a bun, smoothed her skirt with a final glance in the cheval mirror, and went downstairs.

  Maggie had insisted Elizabeth enjoy the bathing tub last night after coming in soaked to the skin from the storm. The bath had warmed and refreshed her, and she’d slept better than she had in months.

  An untouched place setting waited, but she picked up her cup and saucer and took them to the kitchen. “Good morning, Maggie.”

  Pots and pans clanked in a sudsy bath. “I wondered if you’d slipped out early, dear. I have hotcakes in the bread warmer, and it will take me no time at all to scramble up some eggs.”

  Elizabeth hefted the big coffee pot from the range. “I couldn’t eat a bite, but thank you just the same. I’m still full from last night.”

  She pulled out a chair and helped herself to the hand-painted sugar and cream set centered on the small table.

  Maggie dried her hands on her apron and joined her. “The Ladies’ Library Committee meets today, and I’ll inquire—discreetly, of course—about Mr. Rochester. Bertha Fairfax mentioned something about him two weeks ago, but I paid her no mind.” She added sugar to her coffee. “That woman is always fussing about something, but I don’t want to ignore her if anything is truly amiss.”

  Elizabeth’s uneasiness stirred like Maggie’s spoon—silent, slow, and steady. But she must have work. And if Mr. Rochester hired her, she could always resign if he was anything like someone else she’d worked for.

  She sipped her coffee. If he was anything other than above reproach.

  “I’m sure all will be well.” Frankly, she wasn’t sure about anything. She really must get a handle on this habit of lying at the drop of a hat.

  “I’ll be walking to services tomorrow, dear. I hope you don’t mind. But with the weather still warm, I much prefer walking to taking the buggy.”

  The assumptions of others had always irritated Elizabeth—like a splinter in the finger that one couldn’t see well enough to remove. But Maggie Snowfield was not easily put off, and Elizabeth would not intentionally hurt her for the world. “I don’t mind at all.”

  A short visit later, she stepped through the spired gate, determined to face the music Maggie had mentioned. And the best place for a Saturday morning dance was the mercantile.

  Purged of dust and residue by the previous night’s storm, the air sparkled with promise, winking from dewy grass tips fringing the roadway and shimmering in scattered puddles. She’d not seen a post office during her earlier walk through town, so with the letter she’d penned to Cade last night, she marched toward Reynolds’ Mercantile.

  Traffic on Main Street was heavier, children bobbing from the backs of farm wagons come to town for groceries and supplies. Pausing at the corner, she waited for an opening, then dashed across the road, up onto the boardwalk, and into the past.

  A small brass bell clinked. The scent of lye soap, spices, leather, and dry goods whirled around her, drawing her eyelids down until all she could see were her mother’s boots peeking beneath her skirt, her hand tightly clutching Elizabeth’s pudgy fingers.

  “Mornin’, Miss.”

  Stunned by the impact of memory, she opened her eyes to Fred Reynolds, the spitting image of himself and not a year older, unloading a crate behind the counter. His wife, Willa, attacked canned goods with a gray feather duster.

  She glanced Elizabeth’s way, continuing to hunt down and dispense with all foreign particles—then jerked to a halt and whirled.

  “Betsy Parker? Is that you?”

 
; Willa and Maggie could have been sisters, though Willa’s hair had silvered rather than gone white. She set down her duster, pressed her hands against her apron, and approached with wonder and disbelief.

  Elizabeth swallowed a soap-cake-sized lump. “Hello, Willa.”

  The rail of a woman swept her into a hearty hug, then stepped back and dabbed her eyes with her apron hem. “Child, I thought I’d never see you again. But, oh my, you are no longer a child.”

  Elizabeth could have warded off winter with the heat in her cheeks.

  Willa drew in a sharp breath and her glance deflected over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Oh, Betsy—”

  Elizabeth turned, ready for the worst, and met the welcoming gaze of a beautiful woman near her own age.

  A long dark braid hung over her shoulder, and she reached out with one hand. The other rested against her rounded belly. “Betsy, I’m so glad to finally meet you. Cade has told me so much about you.”

  Cade? About her? Numbly, she took the woman’s hand.

  “I’m Mae Anne. Cade’s wife.” She glanced at their joined hands.

  Elizabeth realized she was squeezing and released her grip. “Please forgive me. It is an unexpected pleasure to meet you, Mae Ann.”

  She’d been prepared to dance, but she hadn’t envisioned this partner. An involuntary glance darted toward Mae Ann’s condition. “Is Cade with you?”

  Gentle laughter brightened brown eyes. “No, he’s at the ranch, getting ready for roundup and fit to be tied that I insisted on driving myself in.” Absently, her hand caressed her protruding belly. With the other, she touched Elizabeth’s forearm.

  “You must come out to the ranch. I know he’d be thrilled to see you. So would Deacon.”

  Elizabeth’s heart gave way. How she’d missed that old cowboy and his orneriness, as full of love and wit as a hive was of honey.

  Mae Ann glanced out the window as if looking for someone. “Are you, um, visiting?”

  “Not exactly.” Elizabeth fumbled in her skirt pocket and drew out the letter. “I’m here to stay, if all goes as hoped. I’m employed here in town.” Or she would be soon. “I’ve written to Cade and was about to post it. Would you mind?”