An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  He took a sandwich from Maggie’s basket, walked back, and held it through the bars. The boy didn’t look up.

  “Clay.” No movement other than shivering. “You hungry?”

  Garrett snagged his old shirt from a hook by the back door, then unlocked the cell and laid the shirt and sandwich on the cot next to his pathetic prisoner. Backing out again, he kept his eye on the boy, ready for a sudden move. Serpents and doves.

  He shot the boy a side glance. If the kid couldn’t feed himself and take off his wet shirt, so be it. Garrett was fairly certain there were no broken bones and even more certain that he was no nurse maid. Nor would he be starving out of sympathy.

  He built up the fire, added water to cold coffee grounds, and called it good. Then he settled in at his desk, feet up and crossed at the ankles, a fat slice of apple pie to start off the meal.

  If you eat the best first, you’ll have the best left.

  He chuckled at the truism, a riddle he hadn’t understood as a youngster in his grandparents’ Texas home. He’d pestered his grandpa ’til the old man explained that whatever he had left was the best he had.

  A light scuffing drew Garrett’s attention to the cell, where Clay Ferguson stood bare-backed, facing the opposite wall and one arm huntin’ the old shirt’s sleeve.

  Garrett’s boots hit the floor. The boy jumped and turned, fear and anger and hatred marring his young face.

  “Hold up.” He tempered his voice as if approaching a skittish colt. “Come over here and let me have a look at those welts.” From what he’d seen, they hadn’t yet scarred over and were still red and tender.

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  For all the world, the kid reminded him of Pearl when he and Booth had found her at an Abilene garbage heap. “Got no pity to offer. Turn around and let me have a look.”

  The boy stood where he was, rock rigid and glaring.

  “Look, son—”

  “And I ain’t your son.” He shrugged into the shirt and, without buttoning it, plopped down on the cot.

  Garrett threw his shoulders back. “Suit yourself.”

  Stubborn, but alive.

  Half the pie and a sandwich later, he stretched his legs out again and settled in for a nap. The Regulator marked the slow, dull seconds, and the stove popped and ticked as its potbelly heated up.

  A gruff whisper perked Garrett’s ears. “What’s that?”

  Silence answered, punctuated by the clock’s steady heartbeat and then a clearing throat. “Thanks.”

  Garrett got up and poured two cups of coffee, then slid one through the space beneath the cell door and cocked a boot heel against the wall. Leaning back, he sipped the worst coffee he’d ever tasted. Maggie was turnin’ him soft.

  Clay limped over and picked up the cup.

  “You hurt your leg in a scuffle at the bar?”

  The kid’s shaggy head turned side to side. “I’m a cripple.”

  Garrett harnessed his surprise. “Where you from?”

  The boy sat down again, arching his back against the dry shirt. “La Junta.”

  “You ride here?”

  A silent nod.

  From what Garrett had seen, the boy had cause to be guarded. The napkin lay crumpled beside him. He’d eaten.

  Garrett went to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a small jar of salve. He unlocked the door, slid the key inside his vest, and sat down beside the boy who was watching him like the aforementioned serpent.

  “Take off the shirt.”

  The kid’s eyes narrowed and he angled his head away, but held Garrett in his sights.

  “Works on dogs and horses. It’ll work on you.”

  Another long look, then hard, cracked hands reached up to pull the shirt off bony shoulders. The boy scooted around on the cot but kept his head cocked toward Garrett. Apparently, trust didn’t come natural.

  “Who did this to you?”

  He flinched—either at Garrett’s touch or his question.

  A couple of stripes cut near to the muscle and drew a quick breath when Garrett pressed the rag against them. He had a pretty good idea who would do something like this to a boy with a limp, and a vengeful gall worked up the back of his throat.

  “Think you can ride?”

  A scoff.

  “I’m leavin’ before sunup to help a friend. You’re welcome to come with me if you can horseback.”

  His patient pulled away and turned piercing blue eyes on Garrett. “I could shoot you on the trail, steal your horse and saddle, and clear out.”

  Garrett took him by the shoulder and turned him back around to finish the job. “My horse wouldn’t let you near him, and I doubt you could draw on me with your grandpa’s hog leg locked in my desk.”

  The shoulders went slack.

  Garrett put the lid on the jar and stood. “Well? You game?”

  “You don’t know me from Adam. Why should you trust me?”

  He left the cell, the door clanked against its frame, and he tossed the rag on the floor near the back door. “Somebody needs to.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Elizabeth lay awake in the dark, not trusting her senses. Torn between the past and present, she fought a queasy feeling of belonging to neither.

  Her bedroom was exactly as she’d left it, aside from dust that lay heavy on the chest of drawers and dressing table. Its dry scent clung to the quilt she huddled beneath and scratched her nose each time she stirred. She’d not shaken it last night, hoping to avoid breathing in the falling particles.

  If she were staying—which she wasn’t—she’d give the room a good scrubbing and wash the bedclothes.

  If only regret could be purged as easily.

  She threw back the covers. Her clothes had been just where Cade said they were, and she’d laid them on the foot of her bed the night before, a habit her mother had instilled in her when Elizabeth was toddling at her skirts.

  Be ready for the day before the day gets here, Mama had said.

  And so she was, shedding her nightgown and tugging into her riding skirt, shirt, and belt. Her boots showed extra wear and her hat was missing, but Cade probably had an old one lying around. After tending to her needs at the washbasin, she tied her hair back with a ribbon, paused at Cade and Mae Ann’s door for sounds of stirring, and then stopped at the landing.

  The great room seemed smaller than she remembered, but nothing had been rearranged. Her father’s desk guarded long wall-hugging book shelves, scattered steer hides covered the smooth plank floor, and Mama’s piano stood against the inside wall. Protection for its strings, she’d always said, from the drastic temperature changes this part of the country was known for.

  The aroma of dark, rich coffee drew her down the staircase. Deacon.

  “I knew you were at the stove.” She hugged his waist from the side, and he clamped an arm around her, stirring sausage gravy with his other hand.

  “Horned and barefoot. The aroma charged up the stairs to meet me.”

  Deacon chuckled and gave her a quick once over. “Now that’s the Betsy I know. Ready to ride.”

  “Your forgiveness means everything to me.”

  His mustache pulled hard to one side. “Never you mind about that now. You’re back, and that’s what matters.”

  She pulled away and opened the cupboard door, surprised to find new rose-bordered china, the remains of her mother’s ware set back to make room. Only a man in love would splurge on new dishes when old chipped plates and cups served most men just as well.

  A tug of envy accompanied the cup she set in its saucer, and she filled it with dark Arbuckle’s, spooning in sugar from the old silver bowl centered on the cloth-covered table. Polished to a sheen, it brought Garrett Wilson to mind.

  Conflict stirred within her. Exasperated yesterday by his scrutiny, she was excited about riding with him today. Why couldn’t he just settle into the same corner of her life as other men? Other than Edward and Braxton Hatchett. Why did he have to stake claim
to his own section?

  Deacon watched her without watching her, as was his way, and she wondered if he could still read her mind as easily as always. So be it. She had nothing to hide from him, and sat down at the table. “I thought Sophie was coming back today to stay with Mae Ann.”

  He grabbed a folded towel, opened the oven door, and pulled out a skillet of golden biscuits. “Should be here any minute, but we need an early start. Didn’t wanna wait on breakfast.”

  Barking dogs drew her back to the great room, where she opened the front door to find a buggy and outrider reining in at the hitching rail. Garrett’s blue roan was tied to the back of the rig. She closed the door and took her coffee to the fireplace, where she stood with her back to the warmth, facing the door. It was colder up here than in town.

  She hadn’t seen Pearl with them, thank goodness.

  Boots stomped outside and in Garrett walked, followed by a boy a few years older than Todd Price would be.

  Garrett’s silver-green gaze met her across the open space and her insides fluttered, a completely annoying reaction that served absolutely no purpose at all. She swigged an unladylike gulp of strong, sweet coffee, hoping to drown the sensation.

  “Betsy.” Garrett doffed his hat. “This is Clay Ferguson. He’s come to help.”

  Clay stood mute as a tree stump.

  Garrett elbowed him.

  “Ma’am.”

  At least he wouldn’t be talking up a storm. “Pleased to meet you, Clay. Have you ridden on many horse gatherings?”

  He flashed Garrett a worried look.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  She turned to the voice.

  Her brother tromped down the stairs, hair sticking out every which way and looking like he had when he was twelve. But now worry plowed his forehead and fanned his eyes.

  “Smells like we’re about to eat. Join us.” He offered his hand to both men, apparently glad for the extra help whether the boy knew what to do or not. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Grub’s on!” Deacon called from the kitchen.

  She smiled to herself.

  Cade sat at the head of the table—one small difference she hadn’t foreseen, but a most reasonable one. He was the head of the house now. She chose the chair to his left, surprised when Garrett pulled it out for her. Rather than thanking him, she flashed a look at Cade, who had caught the sheriff’s gesture. Deacon seated himself across the table, and Clay moved quickly for the neighboring chair which left Garrett beside her.

  It didn’t matter. She set her coffee cup on the table, careful not to let any telltale flutter reach her fingers. Besides, this way she wouldn’t have to avoid looking at him while she ate, a regular chore at Maggie’s.

  Cade bowed his head, and Elizabeth peeked beneath her brows to see who followed suit.

  “Thank you, Lord, for the help you’ve sent today and this good food.” Cade paused and cleared his throat, his voice weakening some, as if he was trying to hold it in. “And thank you for bringing Betsy home.”

  A lump as big as one of Deacon’s biscuits lodged in her throat and she bit the inside of her lip to keep tears at bay. She’d not cry at the table in front of four grown men. Well, three and a half.

  Still oblivious to proper manners, Deacon passed the biscuits across the table to her, towel folded around the hot skillet handle. “Eat hearty ’cause I ain’t takin a chuckbox. I’ve got makin’s for your saddle bags, but it won’t be more’n leftovers.”

  She helped herself to a biscuit and handed the skillet off to Cade, who took two. Clay glanced around the table and snatched two before passing the skillet to Garrett, who helped himself and then reached back and set the skillet on the stove.

  “More’s in the oven,” Deacon offered.

  Sausage gravy, fried eggs, and canned peaches spent little time on the plates.

  Cade looked at Deacon, worry pinching his features. “Isn’t Sophie coming this morning?”

  “D’rectly.”

  “Is Mae Ann all right?” An indelicate topic to discuss in male company, but this was ranch life and Elizabeth wanted to know.

  Cade nodded. “Just resting. She does that a lot more lately.”

  “Good.” As if Elizabeth knew anything at all about such matters. Still, it seemed a sensible thing to do when one was preparing for childbirth.

  In less time than she took to sweeten and stir her second cup of coffee, every man had cleared his plate and was outside checking his cinch and stuffing Deacon’s makin’s in the saddle bags. Cade’s old dog, Blue, and the yellow hound reminiscent of Pearl whined and sniffed around the men and horses, sensing a ride in the offering.

  Garrett unhitched the buggy horse and led it to the corral. From the looks of Clay’s gelding, the poor animal had been rode hard and put away wet, as Pa would have said. The boy wasn’t far off that mark either. Hopefully, they’d both survive the day.

  She wrapped Cade’s extra coat tighter and stepped onto Ginger, a little red mare she remembered as willing and sure-footed. Sophie finally rode into the yard on the Price’s old plow horse. The raw-boned mare had to be older than Sophie and her brother put together. It walked right up to the hitch rail, with Sophie partially hidden by a high coat collar and floppy wide-brimmed hat.

  “Got here as soon as I could.” Her crooked smile peeked out beneath her brim. “When Todd heard about the drive, he wanted to skip school and come help, but Ma said no.” She glanced at Clay, then gave him a second look like she’d seen a stray dog that needed rescuing.

  Honestly, she was as soft as Garrett.

  On second thought, Garrett Wilson wasn’t soft on anything other than a good meal. She still had a bruise on her backside.

  “Thanks for coming, Sophie.” Cade swung into the saddle. “There’s biscuits and coffee left from breakfast.”

  Another glance from Sophie made Clay sit up straighter and hold his head square.

  “We’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” She loose-tied the mare and walked over to Elizabeth. “Ma says I have a healing touch, and I’m happy to help make her comfortable.” She grabbed Elizabeth’s hand, tugging her down, her voice a whisper. “That baby’s gonna come before everybody thinks. I feel it in my bones—and from the way Mae Ann’s bones are carrying it.”

  Alarm shot through Elizabeth and she squeezed her friend’s hand. “Does Cade know?”

  Sophie shook her head and rolled her lips as if she were holding in a heavy secret.

  “He needs to.”

  “Not today. We’ve probably got a few weeks, but for sure not clear into November. The baby won’t come while you’re gone. Get the horses, then we can tell him tonight.”

  As much as she didn’t want to, Elizabeth agreed. Her brother would try to be two places at once if he knew, and that wasn’t safe. He couldn’t bring horses down from the mountain with his mind and heart at home.

  He and Deacon struck out to the west, away from the brightening horizon. Garrett and Clay followed, and she urged Ginger into an easy lope, intent on catching up with Deacon.

  The three of them rode abreast until they topped a ridge that dropped off into a wide park. It stretched long and lazy into the hills, narrowing where a river cut a path to the back country. Snowmelt flooded the pass each spring, but in winter, ice made it treacherous going. Cade was right. They needed to get the mares down now.

  With the rising sun behind them, Cade kicked into a lope across the park, startling deer that bounded effortlessly across the meadow. A watery rush of wings and raucous honking sent a gaggle of Canada geese skyward, sunlight flashing off their bellies.

  Elizabeth’s heart squeezed at the familiar sight so long absent from her daily life. Denver and all that had happened there seemed miles and years away.

  Riding into the back country, she consciously threw off everything she could think of from her time in the city. The lack—so different from her life of abundance on the ranch. Cold, lonely nights waiting for Edward’s retur
n from his so-called business. An unnamed hunger for warmth and love as much as for food.

  She’d known early on that marrying Edward was a mistake, but ingrained in her very fiber was the fact that one did not go back on a promise.

  Clearly, Edward did not have the same upbringing.

  She looked over her shoulder at Garrett and Clay riding side by side. She imagined their horses’ hooves trampling her discarded memories, grinding them into the dirt where she’d dropped them. Lord, let it be so.

  By full daylight, they rode single file along the narrow river. As they climbed, the temperature dropped. It would stay cold until the sun rose higher, and even then it might not warm that much.

  She envied Cade and Deacon their shotgun chaps.

  ~

  Garrett raised the collar on his sheepskin coat and pulled his leather gloves from his pocket. The boy had done the same, though the old coat Garrett had given him didn’t keep the cold from nipping his ears bright red. Snow hadn’t flown yet, but warmer temperatures had—all the way to Mexico. It had to be ten degrees colder up here in the pines than it was at the ranch.

  Betsy wasn’t suffering. Wrapped in an oversized coat, she sat her horse as if born there, lightly holding the reins.

  Naked aspens raced down the gullies, and at the mountain’s shoulder they bunched together, bony white, skirting timber stands like skeletons on guard.

  A few miles in, the river broke through to another wide park. As they trailed along beside it and into the grassland, Rink’s ears pricked at a high whinny, sharp and clear.

  Cade pulled up and waited for everyone to join him.

  “That’s the lead mare. Even though we’re downwind, she knows we’re here, and may take the band across the valley.” He looked at Deacon. “Skirt the edge and get around behind them if you can. Garrett and Clay, you ride around the opposite side. Betsy and I’ll pull back up against the trees and wait for the horses to head this way, then we’ll flank ’em toward the pass.”

  He shifted in his saddle toward Garrett. “It’s not like drivin’ cattle. Don’t worry about strays breakin’ out—they won’t. They’ll band together. It’s that lead mare we need to turn. The others will follow her. Once she gets through the pass, she’ll remember the feed down at the ranch and head home.”