An Unexpected Redemption

by Davalynn Spencer

  “And she wrote a reference letter to Anthony Rochester.”

  Betsy nodded. “My deception has robbed her of her livelihood. For whatever reason, Mr. Rochester wrote to Mr. Gladstone and heard the other side of the story. The side he chooses to believe, like everyone else. He intends to show you the letter he received from Gladstone.”

  The chair scraped back beneath Garrett’s rising, and one stride took him to her. She came to him willingly, releasing her tight-fisted hold on her emotions. Hot tears soaked through the front of his shirt, and he prayed for a level head when he faced that no-good viper who called himself an attorney.

  His voice was a ball of barbed wire, but he forced it out, breathing the words into her hair. “I love you, Betsy. And I believe you. And I’ll kill the man that spreads lies about you.”

  She pushed back, her eyes pleading. “No, Garrett. Please don’t do anything so foolish. It doesn’t matter what others think of me, just so you know the truth.” She tipped her forehead against his chest. “If I’d not misled everyone from the beginning, when I first arrived in town, people might be more inclined to believe me. My deception paved the way for them to think I’m lying.”

  He pulled her closer, fully encircling her, determined to shield her from the cynics in the world and anyone else who threatened to hurt her.

  CHAPTER 28

  Betsy pulled a sheet of paper from her portfolio, retrieved her cherished Lincoln pen from the desk drawer, then settled against the pillows atop her bed. Erma Clarke deserved a handwritten letter, not one from the type-writer.

  Discretion was called for, since Betsy had no specific address and anyone might read the missive. But urgency pressed upon her, as well as the need to present things honest in the sight of all, and she prayed the letter would reach Erma via General Delivery at the Denver post office.

  My dearest friend,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  Please know I grieve to hear that you have lost your employment on account of me, but I pray the Lord will reward your faithfulness and provide for all your needs. If you can forgive me, please write care of the woman and town we discussed earlier.

  Ever,

  EP (EB)

  P.S. I can never thank you enough for your advice to return and wait.

  Betsy felt lighter of heart after posting the letter at Reynolds’ Mercantile, and even enjoyed visiting with Willa while there, again inviting her and her husband to attend the reception.

  Willa didn’t take issue with the reception occurring the evening prior to the ceremony rather than the following afternoon.

  In fact, no one seemed to care when the party was held. They were simply glad that there would be one.

  Betsy stopped at the jail on her way home, but Garrett was gone. Tending to a typical sheriff duty, she hoped, and not going to blows with Anthony Rochester. She’d managed to draw a solemn vow from him yesterday in the kitchen, which made her love him even more.

  The thought stuttered her steps at the corner. Yes, she loved Garrett Wilson. With all her heart. And she had no doubt that the attorney would somehow tie his own noose, given time.

  Rather than continue on to Saddle Blossom Lane, she crossed to the west side of Main Street. An hour remained before she must be home to help Maggie with dinner, just enough time to confer with Mrs. Fairfax. The librarian might be able to answer a lingering question.

  ~

  Friday evening, Betsy stood before the mirror, her hair done up with the green ribbon. She turned to see as much of the matching evening gown as possible, marveling at Abigail Eisner’s, or her husband’s, giftedness as a dressmaker and attention to detail, right down to the white lace edging the neckline. Betsy had never felt so…pretty.

  After she and Edward arrived in Denver and were married, he never again told her she was pretty. He never again said any of the things with which he had wooed her childish heart.

  With a flounce of her silky skirt, she brushed the past aside. Tomorrow she would be Mrs. Garrett Wilson, the wife of a man who, with his laughing eyes, said over and over again that he loved her, whether she was dressed in her Sunday best, sweeping the kitchen in an apron, or riding horseback across Echo Valley. Yes, even then she’d known he loved her.

  Voices in the hallway below drew her back to the moment, and she trimmed her lamp and slipped out to the landing.

  Garrett waited at the bottom of the stairs in a new white shirt and dark vest. He stood hatless, his hair recently cut, but the look on his face when she rounded the railing to the first step made her heart stand still. He was either shocked speechless at her appearance or he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him. She considered fleeing to her room until her name floated up the staircase.

  “Betsy…you’re beautiful.”

  She could kiss him. In fact, that sounded like a wonderful idea.

  The doorbell buzzed, and Maggie welcomed Mae Ann and Cade, who were followed by Sophie, Travine, and Deacon. All of them stopped and stared up at her, and she prayed she hadn’t left something untied, unfastened, or uncinched.

  The baby whimpered in Mae Ann’s arms, drawing everyone’s attention except Deacon’s. He just kept watching her, his bushy mustache spreading across his face.

  If Betsy didn’t know better, she’d say he was the proud papa of the bride. Exactly the reason she’d asked him to walk her down the aisle tomorrow morning.

  She descended the stairs as gracefully as she knew how, and accepted Garrett’s outstretched hand. He lifted hers and brushed his lips across her fingers, thrilling her into a fever right there in front of her family and dearest friends.

  The door opened again, and several people entered, but she was too taken by Garrett’s attentions to see much farther than his handsome face. Grasping the moment she’d waited for, she leaned toward him and whispered, “I love you.”

  His hand tightened on hers and his eyes shone like polished silver.

  Besides kissing him, she wanted to take him aside and tell him what she’d learned from Widow Fairfax, but this was not the time or place. Her news would have to wait, and it might be prudent to delay it until after the wedding, when they arrived in Cedar City and he couldn’t immediately act upon the information.

  “Betsy.” Sophie approached, hands reaching, and Garrett stepped back with a gentle squeeze.

  “Thank you for coming all this way, Sophie. And your mother too. I so appreciate it.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Sophie’s sincerity warmed her smile as well as her embrace.

  “I’m sorry you missed the first wedding, though in reality, you didn’t miss much at all.”

  “Stop apologizing, Betsy. The past is gone. Look at all these people who have come to wish you well.”

  Sophie glanced over her shoulder toward the door and then looked beyond Betsy into the dining room.

  “He’s in the kitchen, helping Maggie.”

  Sophie blinked rapidly, aghast. “Whoever are you talking about?”

  “Clay Ferguson, of course. Who else?”

  Sophie fussed with her hair and cast a few side glances. “Is it that obvious?”

  Betsy snickered, which set them both to giggling like school girls.

  “Maggie told me she has rooms for both our families, so later, after everyone else is gone, I’ll show you how to get to the cupola. It’s as romantic as we used to imagine.”

  “You’ve been up there?”

  “Yes, though I must admit, it wasn’t for romantic reasons. But you can see forever.”

  Recently arrived guests were admiring young William Cade Parker, and Betsy noticed Deacon laid a roughened hand against Travine’s waist as they all gathered around the baby. Perhaps Travine was the one to see the cupola.

  When Cade and Mae Ann worked their way toward the dining room, Betsy joined them, reaching for her nephew. “May I?”

  “By all means.” Mae Ann beamed with motherhood, and Betsy squelched a small jealous impulse as she snuggled the warm little
bundle. By God’s grace, at twenty-three she still had time for a child of her own.

  Lively conversation, sincere well-wishes, and delectable aromas filled the Snowfield house and Betsy’s heart as she watched Maggie reveling in her hostess duties. The woman should always have a home so full, and Betsy was glad she would have a part in making it a welcoming place for guests and visitors alike.

  Welcomed visitors. With a shiver she recalled one unknown person who had crept upstairs and ransacked her belongings, and she worked her way through the guests to the hall, where she had a clear view of the landing. Hadn’t she left her door ajar?

  Across the dining room, Garrett, Deacon, and Cade stood locked in conversation. The perfect opportunity. Gathering her full skirts in hand, she stole out of the room and up the stairs.

  ~

  One minute Betsy was there, the next she was gone. Garrett’s neck chilled. He told himself he was letting his sheriff side get in the way of enjoying the evening. She was a grown woman, surrounded by people who cared about her, and she had every right to go powder her nose or fuss with her hair or do whatever it was that women did.

  But the sheriff didn’t shut down on command, and he took another headcount. No one had gone with her. The Price women were standing near the punch, Clay falling all over himself trying to talk to Sophie with her mother standing there.

  Betsy had five minutes, then he’d go find her.

  Deacon’s throat-clearing drew Garrett’s attention, and the old cowboy shot him clear through with a blue-eyed threat made to sound like well wishes. “Take care that you take care of my girl.”

  Garrett gripped Deacon’s hand, sealing a solemn agreement between two men who loved the same woman in different ways. “I promise you, I will.”

  The mantle clock’s ticking drowned out his future brother-in-law’s voice as Garrett planned a discreet exit. But a thud from upstairs and breaking glass sent him running from the room.

  Lamp oil fumes met him on the landing.

  He kicked in Betsy’s door. With a hungry rush, flames followed the path of spilled oil and leaped up the window curtains. Garrett jerked them off the wall, yanked the quilt from the bed, and smothered the fire. Water from the basin and pitcher soaked the smoking mound, and he stomped it into submission. Only then did he sense he was not alone.

  Betsy stood in the corner near the door, eyes wide, hands gripping a man’s arm clamped across her throat.

  Garrett slapped his right hip—and found nothing. His gun and holster were in his room.

  A double-barrel derringer pressed into Betsy’s right temple, held steady by the hand of Anthony Rochester. He laughed. “Unprepared, are you, cowboy?”

  Garrett’s hands balled into fists and he took a step forward.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Elizabeth’s Remington is closer to her pretty curls than you are to me.”

  Never taking his eyes from Garrett, the slimy rat dipped his head forward and kissed her hair. “And pretty she is. Don’t you agree?”

  His left arm squeezed against her throat.

  She shot up on her toes, gasping for air.

  “What do you want, Rochester?” Lord, calm me. Don’t let me get Betsy killed.

  “I hadn’t intended for things to work out this way, Sheriff. A simple entry, a more detailed search, a quiet exit. But Elizabeth’s brash interference called for a change of plans.” His tone darkened. “She is quite the journal-keeper, I’ve learned, and I suspect that she may have found some of my correspondence fascinating enough to record.”

  From the corner of his eye, Garrett saw Cade and Deacon crouching at Betsy’s door, ready to charge in. Without looking at them, he opened his left hand, fingers stretched flat, praying they’d heard enough to know the situation and read his message. Any sudden move could startle Rochester into pulling the trigger—whether he intended to or not.

  Garrett met Betsy’s strangled glare. Her face was as white as the lace on her bodice, but she flicked her eyes toward her trunk. Once, twice.

  “Put the gun down, Rochester, and let Betsy get the journal.”

  “Really, Sheriff. Do you think me a simpleton?” His arm pressed harder and Betsy’s eyes grew rounder. “Betsy. Such an innocent endearment for a less-than-decorous divorcee.”

  He sneered at Garrett’s effort to contain himself. “Easy, there, cowboy. Do you even know what decorous means?”

  Garrett lifted both hands waist high, palms flat, pulse pounding. “Okay, Rochester. I’ll look. Just relax your hold. Let her breathe.”

  “Oh, she’s breathing just fine. I can feel every inch of her quivering body.”

  If not for the derringer at Betsy’s head, Garrett would have shoved the man’s words down his throat one bloody blow at a time.

  Again she looked toward her left.

  “I’m going to check the trunk.”

  Rochester’s sneer vanished and he stepped sideways toward the door, distancing himself from the camelback trunk. “Slowly, Sheriff. No sudden moves.”

  The eerie quiet in the house assured Garrett that Cade and Deacon were keeping the guests calm, a miracle in itself. But most likely, everyone smelled the burned curtains by now.

  Garrett took a knee and lifted the trunk’s lid as a triangle clanged outside.

  Rochester flinched and looked toward the door. Garrett coughed, trying to cover the sound, and started throwing petticoats and stockings onto the floor—any distraction to keep Rochester focused on the search.

  When the trunk was empty, Garrett looked up at Betsy. Her head had lolled to the side.

  “Betsy, I don’t see a journal.”

  Slowly she revived, as if fighting for consciousness, and threw a frown toward the trunk before sagging again.

  “She’s passing out. Let up. She can’t tell you anything if she’s unconscious.”

  Betsy’s hands dropped from Rochester’s arm, and she slumped against him. Alarmed, he lowered the gun to catch her as she fell.

  Garrett lunged.

  The front door of the house crashed open, and men ran into the hall, yelling, “Everybody out!”

  Betsy rolled and kicked the gun from Rochester’s hand. Garrett grabbed him by the shirt front and drew his fist back. One blow opened the man’s nose and blood splattered against Garrett’s face and shirt. The second punch knocked him cold.

  Garrett let him lay where he fell and stooped to retrieve the gun. Betsy flung herself into his arms, grasping the back of his vest as if she’d never let go.

  Straightening, he lifted her with him and just held her, thanking God she was safe.

  Downstairs, Cade and Deacon out-shouted what must have been the hose team before they doused the inside of Maggie’s home.

  Pearl started barking, and the Parker baby wailed.

  “But the call,” Mayor Overholt yelled. “We heard the triangle call.”

  “And I’m glad you did,” Maggie said. “That was the whole point.”

  Garrett tightened his hold on Betsy, kissing the top of her head over and over, smothering the spot that Rochester had fouled until she lifted her face to his and met his lips with her own. He would never stop kissing her. A lifetime would not be enough.

  A light knock at the door to her room turned their heads but failed to draw them apart.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff, but would you like my help getting him to the jailhouse?” Clay blushed pinker than a beet top and indicated Rochester’s crumpled form.

  “Sure thing, Clay. I’ll drag him downstairs for you.”

  “But don’t you want to carry—”

  “No, son, I do not.”

  Clay grinned and made no comment about Garrett’s use of the word son. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tack up Rink for me, and I’ll meet you outside. You can help me throw him over the saddle.”

  Alone again, Garrett focused on Betsy. He brushed her fallen hair from her face and pulled the ribbon free. “Mind if I use this to bind his hands?”

  She rubbed
her temples. “Please do. It smacks of poetic justice.”

  Reluctantly releasing his bride, he rolled Rochester face down and tied the man’s hands with a couple of loops and a hard knot. The ribbon wouldn’t chafe his wrists, but he wouldn’t be breaking its hold anytime soon either.

  There was something to be said for the combination, soft yet strong—similar to a certain woman he was in love with.

  He dragged Rochester out to the landing and pointed him feet-first down the stairs. Betsy followed, hands propped on her hips, eyebrow cocked and loaded.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.

  “As a banker.”

  He swung Rochester around, grabbed him by the back of his coat collar, and dragged him down, not nearly as pleased with the bounce of the man’s shiny shoes off each stair as he would have been with the alternative.

  His horse and Clay waited in the front yard, and they made light work of throwing Rochester across the saddle.

  “Walk him down, and I’ll catch up with you.”

  Clay led Rink through the front gate, and Garrett pulled Betsy close against his side as they watched the attorney jostle down Saddle Blossom Lane, hinder side to the stars.

  “Can I ask you something?” He grazed her hair with a kiss.

  “Anything.”

  “Why’d you act like the journal was in your trunk when it wasn’t?” Even without looking at her, he could feel her make that little huffing noise.

  “What makes you think it’s not in the trunk?”

  “You’re going to keep me guessing the rest of my life, aren’t you, Elizabeth Madeline Parker?”

  “You left off Wilson.”

  “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow for that.”

  She cuffed him on the shoulder and tried to wiggle away, but he held her tight.

  “If you’re as accurate with a gun as you are with your foot, you could be dangerous.”

  She leaned into him and slid her arm around his waist. “Maggie told you that I hit what I aim at. I’ll match you any day of the week, but not with my derringer.”