An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  Who else would have limped away from the fire flaring up the backside of the library? He certainly hadn’t been there to read books. Just torch them.

  Betsy’s lovely form filled his mind’s eye as the old guilty corpse crawled up and perched on his shoulder. How could he have suspected her?

  But wasn’t that his job? To suspect everyone?

  He jumped off Rink at the livery and dropped the reins, puzzled by the pile of scorched straw in the street. Was the kid trying to burn down the whole town?

  Angling up to the open door, he laid a hand on his holstered gun. Not that he wanted a bloody repeat of Abilene, but he was no fool, either.

  There were certainly two sides to this sheriffing coin, and the way he saw it, he was just about bankrupt.

  “Get off me!”

  Garrett crouched against the shadows and slipped inside.

  “Not until you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  Clay. Had someone caught him doing the deed?

  Garrett eased toward the voices at the end of the box stalls. Two figures struggled on the ground, but the uppermost kept his seat. Garrett straightened, pulled his gun, and held it low.

  “Stand up, both of you.”

  “Sheriff.” Clay glanced at the gun and raised his hands.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” the other fella said. The photographer for the newspaper. He struggled to his feet and hopped over to a stall.

  What were the odds of finding two men who limped, fighting each other in a barn on the night of a deliberately set fire?

  “Prentiss, what are you doing in here?”

  The reporter jerked his chin toward Clay. “He jumped me as I was cutting through the livery.”

  “He’s lyin’.” Clay took a step forward.

  Garrett nosed the gun barrel up a notch.

  The boy stopped.

  “He had Miss Betsy on the ground, Sheriff. I swear it. I jumped down from the loft and she took off.”

  “What was she doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but I heard her threaten to shoot him.”

  Things were just getting worse, not clearer.

  Prentiss started inching back.

  “Hold on.” Garrett pointed with his gun. “Your leg. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Uh…I hurt it running through the livery, on my way to get my camera. When he jum—”

  “Show me.”

  The reporter, photographer, whatever he was, glanced between Clay, Garrett, and the door.

  “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I can shoot you in the other leg quicker than you can hobble by me and out the door. Now, get on with it.”

  Watching Garrett, Prentiss bent slowly and started tugging on his trouser leg.

  Garrett gritted his teeth. “The other one.”

  “Garrett!”

  Betsy’s voice swung him around. She stared at the gun he held on her, then glanced over his shoulder. A thump behind him, and he turned as Clay hit the dirt, out cold.

  Prentiss was gone.

  Garrett’s gun hand was sweating, his heart stampeding. Not again.

  As he took off down the alleyway toward Erik’s furnace, a shaggy blur shot past him.

  “Pearl!”

  He wouldn’t look back a second time, but it sounded like Maggie calling his dog. What were either one of them doing here? What was Betsy doing here?

  “Pearl, you come back right this minute!”

  It was Maggie, all right.

  What was this, a parade?

  Out the back door, the too-familiar stench of water-soaked ash and charred wood hit Garrett in the face. Instinct told him Prentiss didn’t go toward the fire. He swung left.

  The moon had climbed high enough to light up the yard, and just past the corner of the livery barn, Pearl stood over someone sprawled on the ground. One of them was whimpering.

  It wasn’t Pearl.

  “Call him off!”

  Betsy ran around from the front and climbed over the corral fence as if she wasn’t wearing a skirt and fancy underthings.

  “I think he started the carriage house fire,” she puffed out. “Check his leg.”

  “Now there’s an idea.” Garrett holstered another snide remark as well as his gun and pulled Pearl off the sniveling man.

  “Show me your leg, or I’ll let my dog rip your pants off right here in front of God and everybody.”

  Complying, Prentiss pulled his left pant leg up. Three puncture wounds in his calf were festered and swollen, and a bloody bandage above them wasn’t exactly fresh.

  Garrett looked at Pearl and then at the punctures. It wasn’t her nature to bite a person, but he figured she’d gotten ahold of the fella at Maggie’s place. Unless the reporter had a more plausible story.

  “How’d you get that bite?”

  A furtive glance at his dog was answer enough.

  “Don’t you mean when did you get that bite?” Betsy walked up close enough to get a good look and horn in on his questioning.

  Garrett grabbed Prentiss by the arm and hauled him up. “You’re coming with me.”

  “You can’t take me to jail. I didn’t do anything. You can’t prove I started those fires.”

  Betsy planted her hands on her hips. “Maybe not, but you just did.”

  Prentiss swore under his breath.

  “Watch your language around the lady.” Garrett caught her surprised look, even in the moonlight. “You’re goin’ to Doc Weaver’s and then you’re goin’ to jail.”

  Maggie tottered around from the front of the livery and up to the corral. “Come here, Pearl,” she cooed.

  The dog lowered its head and wagged its tail, whipping up a wind.

  “You good girl. Come to Aunt Maggie.”

  The diminutive woman patted her knees, coaxing Pearl to step through the corral poles. From beneath Maggie’s ministrations, the dog lifted soulful eyes to Garrett.

  “Go on, you two-timer.”

  Pearl licked Maggie in the face, then dropped into step beside her as if the woman had fed her every day of her pitiful life. Maggie rested her arm along Pearl’s bony back, a perfect four-legged crutch.

  Betsy pushed the corral gate open and waited beside it.

  Garrett hoisted Prentiss up, helped him hobble out to the street, then stopped.

  “Will you check on Clay for me?” he asked her.

  “Of course.” She stepped back inside the corral and slid the board latch, then waited as if she had something to say.

  He wanted to ask her what she was doing here, but not with Prentiss in earshot. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  She gave a quick nod and then turned for the livery barn.

  Garrett would have preferred to see to Clay himself, but he couldn’t let this no-account take off again. And if he knew Betsy as well as he thought he did, Clay wouldn’t be the only one on the receiving end of her attentions. She’d have Rink rubbed down and fed as well. He almost envied the gelding for the gentle touch and sweet talk sure to come along with a can of grain.

  On second thought, he did envy his horse.

  ~

  Doc had his place open and a lamp lit, anticipating a crowd, Garrett figured. But it looked like Prentiss would be his only customer.

  While Prentiss was laid out on the table half naked, Garrett took advantage of the situation and probed along with the good doctor.

  “Did you set the hotel fire?”

  A huff, followed by a curse at Doc’s timely snipping of the makeshift bandage.

  “Might as well tell me. You’re gonna be a guest of the Olin Springs Iron Bar Inn until you’re fit to ride to Cedar City and introduce yourself to Judge Murphy.

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, I didn’t start the hotel fire.”

  “I saw you there, taking pictures for the newspaper. How do I know you weren’t there before the fire started?”

  “I wasn’t. You can ask Fischer. But I cau
ght the results with my camera. Best photograph I ever made for the paper. Had people in the picture and everything. Good enough to get me out of this two-bit town and up to the Denver Tribune.”

  So that was it. “You set the fire at the Snowfield place?”

  Doc applied a cleansing agent with impeccable timing, and Prentiss jerked upright only to be shoved back down by the good doctor.

  He sucked air between his teeth. “That ol’ rickety barn was falling down anyway. A real hazard. I just saved Old Lady Snowfield the trouble.”

  Garrett’s hands clenched, and Doc threw him a warning glare. A fairer man than Garrett wanted to be at the photographer’s disrespect.

  “More photographs?”

  He grunted.

  Red streaks fed out from a deep tear in his leg. Not a good sign, Garrett knew, but he was fresh out of sympathy.

  Doc prepared to stitch the wound and gave Prentiss a whiff of chloroform.

  Garrett snugged his hat down. He’d question him about Rochester’s involvement in private. “I’ll take him off your hands after he comes to, but I’ve got another fella to look after right now.”

  “No hurry, Sheriff. He won’t be running off anywhere soon, plus I’d like to keep an eye on that blood poisoning. Worse comes to worse, we might have to take his leg to save his life.”

  Garrett left and trotted down the stairs, determined not to be the other half of Doc’s we. He much preferred sharing that position with Betsy, but he had to check on Clay first. He’d held a gun on the kid. Unjustly. And then left him behind. That could tip the bucket the wrong way.

  Men ambled by, wet, grimy, and tired, but Rochester wasn’t in the mix. No surprise there. Probably pounding on doors trying to sell his fire insurance, using this latest scare to his advantage.

  He still wasn’t exonerated in Garrett’s mind. He could have egged Prentiss on by building up his dreams of writing for a big newspaper. But that matter would have to wait until he cleared things with Clay.

  Erik met him coming out of the livery. “Another fire, ach. When will this stop?” He slammed the two heavy doors together as if they weighed nothing. “The boy is gone but not his horse. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, I think he’ll be all right.”

  Erik gave him a puzzled look. “I am going home. You should too.”

  What Garrett wouldn’t give for one to go to. The closest thing to home he’d had in a long time was Maggie’s, and that was exactly where he hoped to find Betsy and Clay.

  But first he had to check out Pike’s Saloon. Clay better not be there either.

  ~

  Elizabeth poured coffee for Clay, then stepped over Pearl’s tail on her way back to the stove. The dog had stretched out beneath Maggie’s kitchen table with a soup bone between its paws. Elizabeth feared that all the excitement had addled the poor woman into allowing the smelly creature into her home.

  Clay held a piece of raw meat against his swollen lip—as if that would help. But Elizabeth had learned that arguing with Maggie Snowfield was useless.

  Maggie brought another cookie tin from the pantry, arranged the thin ginger wafers on a rose-edged china plate, and set it before Clay. “Keep your strength up, dear,” she said with a pat of his shoulder.

  He blushed around the slab of meat, and followed Maggie with a grateful eye.

  Elizabeth joined her at the stove. “Please, sit down. You don’t need to be serving everyone. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “I slept all day, dear. Don’t you remember?” The half-hearted resistance lasted until Maggie sank into the chair across from Clay.

  Elizabeth had already taken her derringer upstairs and tucked it into the desk drawer, uncomfortable with it loose in her skirt pocket, but too concerned about Maggie to take the time to return it to its hiding place.

  She joined the table group, grateful that the ordeal was over and everyone was safe. “I never thanked you for coming to my rescue, Clay. That was very gallant of you.”

  The poor boy blushed to the color of the meat he held. “You were in danger, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Bets—” She caught Maggie smiling against the edge of her tea cup. Pleased as a peafowl, the woman was, but correct in her own way.

  Something broke loose inside and ran like a long-tethered horse set free. “Betsy. You may call me Betsy.”

  The kitchen door closed. “It suits you.”

  She twisted in her seat, mostly irritated at how Garrett could open a door without being heard. And mostly glad to see his haggard self at home and safe.

  Their eyes locked and held for too many heartbeats, but Betsy couldn’t look away as she stood.

  Pearl yelped.

  Betsy stumbled, breaking the spell. She wouldn’t broken her neck too, had Garrett not moved in and steadied her with a hand on each arm.

  Heat flooded her face and neck, and she likely rivaled Clay with his red meat. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  Garrett joined them.

  Maggie beamed. “Now this is more like it. A full house.” Looking at Clay, she continued, “Where are you staying, young man?”

  Clay shot Garrett a silent question.

  Garrett cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “He’s staying at the livery where he works.”

  Tension drained from Clay’s shoulders, but Maggie was having none of it.

  “Not tonight he isn’t. Not with an injury. I have plenty of rooms in this drafty old house, and I’m sure one of them will work just fine.”

  “You can have mine,” Garrett told him, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward the shuttered porch. “I’ll be at the jail with the photographer.”

  Betsy’s heart sank at the pending separation, which was absolutely childish and uncalled for. Not to mention inappropriate.

  “Is that necessary?” Maggie’s dark brows drew together in a motherly fashion.

  Garrett nodded. “It is. I’m convinced that fella is our firebug, and I’m not about to let him get away before I can prove it.”

  Clay relaxed even further, and Betsy feared he might fall out of his chair and do more damage to his face than what Prentiss had done.

  “Well, I suppose that will be acceptable.” Maggie gave Garrett a scolding scowl. “Are you taking Pearl with you?”

  His mouth worked sideways as he fought against laughter. Betsy covered her own with a napkin as the conversation continued.

  “She could stay on the porch with Clay, I guess.” He stood and pushed his chair in. “Do you happen to keep your old newspapers?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. They work quite well starting a fire in the parlor. Right there in the pantry. Help yourself.”

  In a moment he came out with one tucked beneath his arm and tipped his hat to Maggie. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

  He turned to Betsy. “You too tired to walk me out?”

  Grabbing her heart by the throat and shoving it back inside her ribcage, she stood and excused herself. “I’ll just get my wrap.”

  ~

  Garrett held the door for Betsy, then followed her down the steps and around the side of the house, where she stopped and tugged her cloak tighter. Her hair shone beneath the full moon, straight above them now on its dash before dawn.

  He pulled a piece of straw from a strand, twirled it in his fingers, and smiled down at her nervousness. She hadn’t looked him in the eye since coming outside. “You tumble in the hay with someone this evening?”

  With the desired spark and a huff, she gave him a scathing look. “And what if I did? It’s entirely none of your affair.”

  He moved closer. “It is if you were with anyone other than me.”

  The tilt of her head told him she was blushing, though it didn’t show in the moon’s wash.

  “What were you doing at the livery, anyway?”

  “If it is any of your business—which it isn’t—I was looking for a bucket. The library was on fire, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  He chu
ckled and thumbed his hat up. “A bucket, is it. That’s not what I heard.”

  A daring glance. “Then why did you ask?”

  “I heard you were armed and dangerous.”

  She sniffed and turned her pretty face away defensively.

  With his thumb and forefinger, he gently turned that face toward him, then leaned down and did what he’d wanted to do since he saw her wrestling with Pearl.

  She stiffened at first, but then leaned into his kiss like she’d leaned into his hands the few times he’d touched her. Her mouth was soft, as he knew it would be. Warm. Sweet, in spite of the coffee on her breath. Pulling back just enough to breathe, he whispered, “What were you going to do, save me?”

  He felt her lips tilt in a smile. “If need be.”

  Enclosing her in his arms, he kissed her more deeply, praying he wasn’t dreaming. Her hands slid up and around his back, and she clung to him like she meant it.

  He refused to let her go and rested his chin atop her head as she turned her own and laid it against his galloping heart. “There’s a need all right, Elizabeth Betsy Parker Beaumont.”

  “And what might that be, Sheriff Garrett Wilson?”

  Her breath warmed a spot on his chest and fired through him like sheet lightning through a summer’s night. “I need you to let me court you.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Clive Prentiss’s court date was set for a week out. Garrett folded the telegram, slipped it inside his vest with a nod at Holsom, and returned to the jail.

  He had taken the photographer’s confession and statements from Maggie, Doc Weaver, and the Widow Fairfax and sent them all to Judge Murphy in Cedar City. Should be an open-and-shut case, but the man was entitled to a trial if he wanted one.

  Garrett slid the telegram into his desk drawer, right on top of a month-old newspaper with a picture of the hotel fire on the front page. Watching from the boardwalk, behind a group of onlookers, was Mr. Fire Insurance himself, Anthony Rochester.

  The photograph could be Prentiss’s insurance against Rochester if he’d been paid to start the fire. But until Garrett knew for certain, he had a house guest and would be spending the better part of his nights in his desk chair by the stove dreaming about Betsy.