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  Redemption

  By Heather Gray

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  REDEMPTION

  Copyright © 2014 HEATHER GRAY

  ISBN 978-1-62135-281-5

  Cover Art Designed by BOOK BEAUTIFUL

  Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

  Isaiah 1:18 (KJV)

  in celebration of my Savior

  in memory of my daughter

  with pride in my son

  with gratitude for my husband

  Prologue

  August 1882

  San Francisco, California

  Minnie needed to get home quickly. It was imperative. William would be displeased if she was away too long. He was not kind when angry.

  She rushed around the corner only to be stopped by the familiar sight of police gathered outside the tenement building where she and William rented a room. Given the area they lived in, seeing police was a matter of course. The sheer number of officers present, though, was anything but routine.

  At the time she’d married him, Minnie had expected to have a grand life with her husband. She was but the daughter of a small-town mayor, but William, why he was a gifted and recognized journalist. Her dreams of that happy life of travel, investigation, and collaboration had evaporated within their first month of marriage. The wonderful man who had courted her, caressed her with silver-tongued words, and danced into her heart had disappeared.

  He'd left in his place a man who was bitter and angry because she, while the daughter of a politician, had no wealth to her name, no grand dowry to finance the illicit habits he had kept from her during their brief courtship. She'd had to adjust to a life far removed from her dreams, a life where the only thing more common than police at their building was the stench of squalor in the air.

  Minnie hurried through the gathering of policemen and rushed up the stairs, hoping that William would still be asleep and wouldn't realize she'd been out. As she approached their room, she saw an officer standing in the hallway by the already-open door to the small space she shared with her husband. "Pardon me, ma'am," the officer said, "are you Mrs. Drake?"

  Nodding, she craned her neck to see around the officer. He tried to block her view, but she caught a peek inside. A strangled gasp escaped her lips. With strength out of place in her small frame, she shoved past the policeman and dashed into their quarters. Her husband of not quite three years, William Drake, lay in a pool of blood, almost unrecognizable. His corpse lay there beaten – nay, bludgeoned – to death. His lifeless eyes stared off into the distance. "W-what happened?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

  "Mrs. Drake." The man speaking wore his somber expression as comfortably as he wore his suit – both were threadbare from too much use. "I need to ask where you've been these past two hours."

  Trying desperately to pull her eyes away from her husband's corpse, she fought to speak. "An errand." The words felt as if they were being pulled from her throat. "I had an errand to run."

  "Where, Mrs. Drake?"

  About a year into their marriage, William had stopped pursuing his journalism career. He was always either deep in his cups or giving up their every possession at the gaming tables. Going to work had become necessary, but she wasn't sure how she felt about exposing that part of her life to the man in the suit, a virtual stranger. It had been easy enough to step into Will's shoes and take over his position at the newspaper. She did her writing in secret, and everything was published under the name Will Drake, the byline her husband had used.

  Minnie didn't know how to explain her job to these men without feeling the shame and embarrassment of having to admit both facts – that her husband was a sluggard who'd forced his wife to support him and that most of San Francisco believed her to be a man. Little encouragement was to be found in the stern faces of the officers, and she began to question whether either claim would be believable.

  Looking into the eyes of the suited man, she saw something dreadful. Minnie lifted her hand to her throat in foreboding. "You suspect me, then, in my husband's death." It wasn't a question. She could see the truth of it on the detective's face.

  "Answer the question, Mrs. Drake. Where have you been?"

  "Everywhere but where I should have been, it would seem," she said softly.

  Chapter One

  January 1883

  Larkspur, Idaho Territory

  Minnie accepted a hand down from the coach and stepped onto the platform in front of the stage office. It had been more than four years since she had last been here. When she'd left, her dearest friend Sarah had been running the stage office. Letters, however, had kept her informed, and she'd known of Sarah's choice to step down. The Martinez family now ran the stage office while Sarah, along with her husband Samuel, ran The Larkspur Hotel. Their son, Ethan, was a year-and-a-half old and a mischievous delight to his parents.

  Nobody, including her parents, knew she was coming. The sound of crinkling paper pulled her attention toward a matronly woman opening a letter at the other end of the platform and reminded her of the letter she was supposed to deliver to the sheriff upon her arrival. If the detective back in San Francisco did not receive confirmation of said delivery direct from the sheriff by the end of the month, then an officer would be sent to escort her back to San Francisco. In handcuffs. Minnie was sure Detective Wilcox had meant every word of his threat. She hoped she could count on Sheriff Spooner's discretion. There was no reason for her legal problems to become a hindrance to her father's role as mayor of Larkspur.

  Minnie asked the stage coach driver to store her trunks in the office. Then she turned to make her way toward the sheriff's office. Best to get that unpleasant business out of the way as soon as possible before word got out that she was back in town. She would have to walk past the behemoth of a hotel Sarah and Samuel had built in order to get to the sheriff's office. Considering her options, she decided to avoid the boardwalk and instead traverse the path behind the hotel, mercantile, and other buildings. Her plan was working splendidly, too, until she passed behind the livery.

  Right as she realized the sloshy feeling under her shoe was indeed dung, she heard a deep voice. "Excuse me, miss, but can I help you? People generally walk on the boardwalk, not back here. Is everything all right?"

  She peeked up and swallowed. The man was wearing the sheriff's badge, and though he was familiar with his close-cropped reddish-blond hair, he was most certainly not Sheriff Spooner. On a woman, the color of his hair would be called strawberry blond, but this was no woman standing before her. Tall, broad shoulders, kind eyes. It had been such a long time since she'd seen kindness in anyone's eyes. Detective Wilcox had been as pleasant as he could be, given the circumstances, but with William's murder still unsolved, he'd never entirely let his guard down with her. By necessity, there had always remained a shadow of doubt lurking in the depths of his eyes whenever he'd spoken to her.

  "Minnie Smith, as I live and breathe, it's you, isn't it?" The voice was familiar, yet somehow different. She still couldn't place it or the man's face. Nor could she tear her eyes away from the kindness that continued to light his eyes. If
he was indeed the sheriff, then he would read the letter she had in her reticule, and that kindness would vanish. "It's me, Minnie. Art Paulson. Do tell me you're not so far advanced in age that you can't remember an old friend."

  The twinkle of humor in his eyes was her undoing. A dam burst, and every tear she'd not shed since she'd married that horrid man — and every tear she'd held in check since his brutal murder — came rushing forth in a torrent. Arty's eyes widening in horror was the last thing she saw before she fainted.

  ****

  Art watched in alarm as Minnie burst into tears. These weren't normal tears either. He had seen women cry before. This was something else entirely. Her heart was breaking. It was evident in her rapid breathing, the way she avoided his eyes, and how she held her shoulders tight and stiff in contrast to the chaotic flutter of her hands.

  Her eyes began to roll back into her head, and he leapt forward to catch her before she hit the ground and got hurt. Holding her feather-light body in his arms, he wasn't sure what to do with her. If she was sneaking around behind the town's main street, chances were she didn't want anyone to know she was here. Deciding to honor what he assumed were her wishes, he took her to the one place he knew she wouldn't be discovered until he could get some answers from her.

  A couple minutes later, Art laid Minnie down on the cot inside the back room at the sheriff's office. He had his own home and slept there most nights, but he kept a cot at the office for those times when he had an overnight guest in one of the town's cells. Those nights were becoming more frequent as the town grew, and his cot had been getting more use than normal lately, but for now, there were no prisoners to worry about, and no deputies on duty to walk in and discover a woman in his bed. Art laid her down, made sure her pulse was strong, and then closed the door behind him as he went in search of some cool water and a clean cloth.

  ****

  Minnie slowly became aware of her surroundings. The smell reached her first. It wasn't altogether unpleasant. Sandalwood, she thought, and soap. Then the sensation of a cool cloth running along her forehead drew her attention. Where was she? Who was attending to her? The last thing she remembered was…

  Reflexively, Minnie sat bolt upright before she even had a chance to open her eyes. She hit her face smack-dab into Art's washcloth-holding hand, and her eyes flew open in panic.

  Art's startled, "Oh," pulled her eyes toward him as he sat back in his chair. "I didn't realize you'd woken. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  Minnie, who had become accustomed to not trusting others, quickly drew her knees up and scooted against the wall at the back of the cot. "H-how did I get here?" Then, looking around, she asked, "Where am I?"

  ****

  Art watched Minnie's reaction to him. He wanted to scratch his head in wonder but resisted the urge. Everything about her, from the way she held herself to the look in her eyes, told him she was afraid. She'd gotten married while she was off in San Francisco for college — he knew that much. Other than that, her recent history was a mystery to him.

  Aiming to find out more before he allowed her out of this room, he sat back in his chair, put his feet up on the edge of the bed farthest away from Minnie, and pushed the hat back on his head. He'd learned that people were more apt to give him answers when they thought he was a folksy, small-town man.

  "You fainted in the alley, so I brought you to the sheriff's office. I didn't think you'd thank me for laying you down on a cot in one of the jail cells, so we're in a back room." He drew the words out nice and slow, keeping his pitch easy and relaxed. Running his tongue along the backside of his teeth, he bit back the dozens of questions that demanded his attention and fueled his curiosity.

  "What happened to your Adam's apple?" Minnie's hand shot to cover her mouth the moment the words were out. Her eyes grew wide with a fear he didn't understand.

  Giving a wide-toothed grin and a relaxed shrug, he answered, "I finally grew into it." It had been a while since Minnie had gone away. Thinking back to when he'd last spent any real time with her, in the root cellar of her family's home while a shoot-out rocked the town above them, he tried not to blush. He'd been young, awkward, and gangly — more kid than man, although he'd wanted to think otherwise. He'd come a long way since then, and he was not going to let the diminutive, raven-haired beauty sitting before him shake his confidence. "Want to tell me why you were sneaking along the back alley? Does anybody know you're here?"

  Minnie eyed her reticule before meeting Art's gaze. "I must speak with the sheriff. It's of utmost importance."

  With a lazy nod, Arty said, "You're looking at 'im."

  Minnie's shocked expression did nothing to bolster his ego. "Where's Sheriff Spooner?"

  "His brother-in-law was killed, leaving his sister alone with three young'uns and a farm. He resigned his post here and moved to Montana to help her. That was a little over a year ago."

  "And you're sheriff now?"

  He wanted to ask why she sounded so incredulous. "Duly appointed by the mayor," he instead said. He couldn't help but notice the way her eyes continued to move from him to her handbag and back again.

  "Are you truly the sheriff, Arty?" Her voice was smaller this time, frightened.

  "Yes, ma'am. Is that a problem for you?"

  Tears again welling in her eyes, she said, "I need someone I can trust. You're friends with everybody in this town. How can I trust you to keep my secrets?"

  ****

  Minnie watched a transformation occur before her eyes. Art stood and spun the chair around, then straddled it. With the flick of a wrist, he tossed his hat over onto a desk before resting his arms on the back of the chair. The country bumpkin of a moment ago had disappeared, and in his place sat a lawman with intelligent eyes and a visceral strength. He didn't make a show of it, but she could sense the restrained power in him. Where it once would have intimidated or even frightened her, it now made her feel safer than she'd felt in years.

  When he opened his mouth and said, "I go by Art these days. Nobody's called me Arty for years. I am the sheriff of this town. If you have secrets that you need to entrust to someone, I'm your best bet. In fact, I'm all you've got at present since you're not getting out of this room until you tell me what has you so frightened."

  A tentative smile spread across Minnie's face before she could stop it. Then she caught a glimpse of her reticule, and the momentary happiness dissipated like a weak fog. Rather than thinking of it as the only option, she wanted to believe that coming home to Larkspur had been a good choice, the right thing to do. She knew better, though. Choice was a long ago friend that had abandoned her when she'd been most in need.

  Minnie withdrew an envelope and handed it to Art, afraid to hope he wouldn't turn against her. Not sure she could handle the hurt of seeing his eyes cloud with suspicion and distrust, she avoided looking at the sheriff as he took the letter from Detective Wilcox.

  Chapter Two

  Art glanced down at the envelope in his hand, his brows creased with confusion. It was sealed. His raised an eyebrow at Minnie who said, "I've not read it, but I think I know what's in it. Go ahead and get it over with."

  "Why don't you tell me what you believe is in it. I would prefer to hear the story from you first, if you don't mind."

  "It's not going to matter." Her stark voice echoed in the small room.

  "Humor me," Art answered in reply.

  With a deep sigh, Minnie began, "My husband was murdered. No one has been arrested. The police suspect me but weren't able to prove it. The judge eventually ordered them to let me come back to Larkspur on the condition that I remain under the watchful eye of the local sheriff."

  "I'm sorry for your loss."

  ****

  Minnie, shocked by his words, lifted her eyes from where they had been examining her toes. No one had said that to her before. Everyone in San Francisco was aware of what a reprobate her husband had been. Art didn't know yet. If he did, he, too, would suspect her.

  Hardening her heart a
gainst the disappointment she knew she'd see in his eyes, she said, "Thank you. Please read the letter now."

  She watched as he opened the envelope with care and scanned the contents of the page within. He looked over the single page once, and she searched his eyes as they again went to the top of the page to read it a second time. Minnie steeled herself against the judgment she knew she'd see on his face.

  Arty folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, which he then tucked into a pocket on the inside of his vest behind where his shiny sheriff's badge was pinned. "So let me see if I understand this," he said, watching her closely. "Your husband was murdered. The police don't know yet who killed him. You are one of their suspects, but they have decided to let you return to Larkspur." When Minnie nodded, he went on, "I am to telegraph the detective each week and let him know that you remain here in Larkspur, and I am to telegraph him immediately if you ever leave the town without my knowledge or approval."

  Minnie again nodded.

  "It's a bit unorthodox, Minnie, but it was good of them to let you return home." She didn't understand. He was supposed to be suspicious, scandalized, or at least offended by her presence in his town. Then, hitting her with one of the questions she'd dreaded, he asked, "Why are you so afraid?"

  How could she explain it to him? What could she say that would not further implicate her in William's death? Did she even know if she could trust him? Hoping he would be satisfied, she said, "If word of this gets out, my father's career could be ruined. I don't want my shame to paint a black mark across the lives of my family and friends. They don't deserve that."