Jan. 3 Guest Blog Donna Schlachter
Double
Jeopardy – Lessons learned – with Giveaway
By Donna Schlachter
Life is a series of lessons
learned. Some come easy, like learning to like ice cream. Others come more
harshly, like learning to trust again once your heart is broken. Or figuring
out how to tie your shoes.
Lessons learned always require
change, and that always requires a decision. Many times folks might try to say,
“I messed up because of one bad choice.” But that isn’t true. A series of bad
choices, each one more serious and life-impacting than the previous, brings us
to our “bad end.”
Or our “good outcome.”
In Double Jeopardy, Becky and Zeke learn some important life lessons:
- Trust the person more
than the lies in your head: as with most romances, both characters like
the other person, but they get their communication mixed up several times
and begin to distrust each other. But if we really stop and remember the
good in the other person, the lies will fade away.
- Be willing to forgive
quickly: We all mess up. And Becky and Zeke are no different. They are
imperfect. But being willing to forgive quickly allows doors of
reconciliation to be opened.
- Talk it out: Miscommunication
has killed more relationships than anything else. Whether the fault lies
in misremembering the words, misunderstanding their meaning and context,
or simply words misspoken, just like Becky and Zeke, we must be willing to
apologize and ask for clarification.
It’s never too soon to establish a
firm foundation for an upcoming marriage, and it’s never too late to repair
cracks in the foundations of our existing relationships.
I hope you enjoy this excerpt. Keep
reading to see how you can enter to win a free ebook.
Excerpt:
Double Jeopardy
Chapter
1
1880 Silver Valley, Colorado
Dead. Dead as her dreams and her
hopes.
Dead as a doornail, as her mother would say.
Just thinking about the woman drove
a steel rod through Becky Campbell’s slumping back. Perched on a chair in the
sheriff’s office, she drew a deep breath, lifted her shoulders, and raised her
chin a notch. She would not be like the woman who birthed her. Pretty and
pampered. A silly socialite finding nothing better to do with her days than tea
with the mayor’s spinster daughter or bridge with the banker’s wife.
No, she’d much rather be like her
father. Adventuresome. Charismatic. Always on the lookout for the next big
thing.
Now her breath came in a shudder,
and down went her shoulders again. She tied her fingers into knots before
looking up at the grizzled lawman across the desk from her. “There’s no chance
there’s been a mistake in identification, is there?”
He slid open the top drawer of
his desk and pulled out a pocket watch, a lapel pin, and a fountain pen, which
he pushed across the desk to her. “He was pretty well-known around here. I’m
really sorry, miss.”
Becky picked up the timepiece and
flicked open the cover. Inside was a photograph of her family, taken about ten
years earlier when she was a mere child of eight and Father stayed around long
enough to sit still for the portrait. Her mother, petite and somber, and she,
all ringlets and ribbons. She rubbed a finger across the engraving. To R. Love M. Always.
Yes, this was his.
And the lapel pin, a tiny silver
basket designed to hold a sprig of baby’s breath or a miniature rosebud—a
wedding gift from her mother twenty years before.
She looked up at the sheriff,
tears blurring her vision. “And his ring?”
The lawman shook his head. “No
ring. Not on his body or in his shack.”
“But he always wore it. Never
took it off.”
He shrugged. “Maybe he lost it.
Or sold it.”
“I doubt he’d do either. My
mother gave it to him when I was born.”
She peered at him. Had he stolen
her father’s ring?
Or maybe Sheriff Freemont was
correct. Maybe something as important as her birth hadn’t meant much to her
father. Maybe she didn’t either. Was that why he left?
Because surely his absences
couldn’t be explained by any rift between her parents.
Although, what Matilda Applewhite
saw in Robert Campbell—Robbie to his friends and family—Becky had never
understood. Her mother, who ran in the same circles as the Rockefellers and the
Astors, with presidents and admirals—yet much to the consternation of her
family, chose a ne’er-do-well like Becky’s father.
Becky set the two items side by
side on the scarred wooden desk, next to the fountain pen. The same one he’d
used to write his letters to her. Signing them, Give your mother all my love too. Your devoted father. She needed
no more information. No more proof.
Dead.
Not what she hoped for when she
left New York a month prior, against her mother’s wishes, with little else to
direct her steps than a ticket to Silver Valley and her father’s last letter.
Written a year before, but as full of life, promises, hopes, and wishes as
ever.
She collected the only three
material evidences of her father’s existence and dropped them into her reticule
then stood. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff. I appreciate my father’s death
must be a difficult business for you.”
He stood and dipped his head.
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you know how he died?”
He cleared his throat, not
meeting her gaze. “Still investigatin’, miss. Lots of things to look into.”
She bit back a groan. Unlike in
the city, where manpower and resources seemed limitless, out here, there was
just the sheriff and sometimes a deputy. “Thank you again. Please keep me
updated.” She turned to leave. “Where is he buried?”
“Over by the church. Just ask the
preacher. He can show you.”
Not like she was in any rush to
see her father’s final resting place. She stepped outside and scanned the
street. Surely the man who was more gypsy than family man would hate to think
of his physical body buried beneath the dust of any one place.
A morose sense of humor invaded
her. At least it was a way to get him to stay in one place longer than it took
to eat a meal.
Sheriff Fremont joined her on the
front step. “You’ll likely be returning home now, I ’spect.”
She looked up past his dimpled
chin, his bushy mustache, his aquiline nose, into eyes as dark as coal. “No,
sir. I have no plans to return.”
“What will you do?”
“Do?”
She blinked several times as she
pondered the question, which was a very good one indeed. She’d not thought
beyond the ache building in her bosom for the father she’d never see again. At
least when he went off on yet another adventure, she had the unspoken promise
of his return at some point, in the distant future. And always a letter. Or a postcard.
Never many words on either, but confirmation he was alive and she was still
important to him.
At least, important enough to sit
a few minutes and pen a few words.
She stared at the dusty mining
town. More tents than wooden structures. More mules than horses. More assay
offices than churches.
Two men tumbled onto the
boardwalk opposite her, rolled down the two steps to the street level, and lay
prone in the dirt littered with horse apples. The barkeep, a barrel-chested
man, his formerly white apron now stained beyond redemption and a dingy cloth
slung over his arm, burst through the swinging doors. “And don’t come back
here. We don’t need the likes of you in here bothering our customers.”
The man turned on his heel and
disappeared back into the saloon. Within ten seconds, the tinny notes of a
piano filtered to her ears.
The two in the street lay still.
Had he killed them?
A pack of boys ran from a nearby
alley, grabbed a hat from one the men’s heads, and raced down the street,
jabbering and hollering like their britches were on fire. Three mongrels loped
after them, tongues lolling and tails held high.
She turned back to the sheriff.
“Is there a decent boarding house in town?”
One eye squinted as he peered at
her for a long moment before nodding slowly. “So, you’re going to stay?”
“I have no reason to return.”
She glanced at the two men in the
street. One climbed to his feet, swaying unsteadily, while the other puked into
the dust without even lifting his head. The acrid odor wafted across to her,
and she wrinkled her nose, breathing through her mouth. Until the smell coated
her tongue. Then she snapped her mouth shut.
Maybe this wasn’t the town for
her …
No. She would never give her
mother opportunity to say I told you so.
“Well, we got us a hotel above
the saloon over yonder, and just about every drinking establishment in town
rents out rooms, but I wouldn’t recommend those places. Mrs. Hicks over at
number fourteen Front Street rents out a few rooms in her house. Tell her I
sent you.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” She took a
couple of steps, her drawstring bag banging against her thigh. “I’ll also need
directions to my father’s claim so I can get that transferred into my name. As
his next of kin.”
“You’ll need to check with the
Land and Assay Office, two doors up from the mercantile. But I don’t know what
kind of a title he bought. Some can be transferred, but most who come out here
can’t think past their next pay lode, so they don’t spend the money to buy that
kind.”
She tipped her head. “You mean I
might need to buy my own father’s property?”
He shrugged. “Not that I know
much, but that’s what I’ve heard. I wish you luck, miss. You’ll need it if you
plan to stay here.” He tipped his hat to her before closing his door.
Becky drew in a breath of the
warm May afternoon then released it in a sigh. First the cost of the train
ticket, then her meals and occasional hotel rooms along the way. And now this.
Was there no end to the ways her dwindling cache of gold coins could disappear
like snow in July?
First things first—a proper place
to stay tonight. She picked up her carpetbag waiting on the bench outside the
sheriff’s office and walked in the direction the lawman had indicated toward
the home of Mrs. Hicks. Her heels beat a rhythm like a drum corps in a parade.
She nodded to women and couples she passed but averted her eyes from the
solitary men.
And there were many. Of all sizes
and shapes, ages, and deportment. Several ogled her from the chairs they
occupied outside the six—no, seven—saloons she passed, and that was only on her
side of the street. A lone barber lounged in one of his three chairs, not a
customer in sight, testifying to the fact that the men hereabouts were more
interested in cards, booze, and loose women than in personal hygiene.
A fact she confirmed when one
lout stood his ground and refused to let her pass. Cheap perfume, rotgut
whiskey, and sweat mingled to create an odor that made her eyes water.
Another man stepped up behind the
drunk. “Micky, are you troubling this young lady?”
Micky swayed in place, twisting
the brim of his hat in gnarled fingers. “She one of your flock?”
“Doesn’t matter. Apologize and
move on.”
The drunk tipped his hat to her
in apology and stepped back against the building, allowing her to continue. The
preacher, his collar white against the severe black suit, nodded, and she
acknowledged his courtesy with a tiny smile. “Thank you. Reverend?”
The clergyman dipped his head.
“Obermeyer, Pastor Obermeyer.”
She held out her hand. “I’m Becky
Campbell.”
He blinked a couple of times then
his brow raised. “Oh, you’re—”
“Yes. Robbie Campbell’s
daughter.” She glanced over her shoulder. “The sheriff told me you could show
me where my father is buried.”
He held her hand and sandwiched
it between his own. “Please accept my condolences on your loss, Miss Campbell.”
“Thank you.” That now
too-familiar ache swelled in her bosom. Would it never ease? “If I may call on
you another time? I’m off to find lodging.”
He tipped his head to one side.
“Oh, you’re staying?”
Why did everybody think that
because her father was dead, she would leave?
Or was this wishful thinking on
their part?
If so, why?
She nodded. “I am.”
He shook himself like a hound dog
awakening from a nap. Had he stretched and yawned, she would not have been
surprised. “Good. Good.” He pointed down the street. “The church is there. The
parsonage is the tiny house behind. I’m in my study most days. Come any time.”
He tipped his hat. “Perhaps I’ll see you in church tomorrow?”
“We shall see. Thank you for
rescuing me from that horrible man.”
His shoulders slumped. “So many
have too much time and money on their hands.” He quirked his chin toward the
others walking along the street. “Many work all week then come into town and
spend it on a Saturday, only to go back and repeat the same cycle next week.”
Sounded like a hopeless cycle.
But what could she do about it? Nothing. If she wanted to make it on her own
here, she had her work cut out to stay out of the poorhouse. She surely
wouldn’t ask her rich-as-Midas mother for assistance. Maybe once she got on her
feet … “Thank you again. Good day.”
She gripped her carpetbag and
continued on her way, pleased that at least two men in this town—the sheriff
and the parson—were raised by genteel women. She should count herself lucky
she’d met both today. Having even one on her side might come in handy at some
point. And having two—well, that was just downright serendipitous.
Three blocks through the business
section, then a right for two blocks, and she soon found the house she sought.
Narrow but well-kept flower gardens lined both sides of the walkway. She
unlatched the gate, headed for the door, and knocked. Her gloved hands
sweating, she longed for a cool drink of lemonade or sweet tea. As she raised
her hand to knock again, the door swung open and a tall, thin woman of
indeterminate age peered down at her.
Becky tossed her a smile and
introduced herself. “The sheriff said you might have a room for rent?”
“How long?”
“I’m not certain. I plan to stay
until I settle my father’s estate, at least. Possibly longer.”
The stern look on the woman’s
face eased. “Sorry for your troubles. Four dollars a week including meals.” She
peered past Becky. “And I only take respectable women. No children. No men. My
name is Joan Hicks.”
While the amount seemed high,
Becky had little choice. “My name is Becky Campbell.”
“Oh, you’d be—”
Becky sighed. Either her father
was famous, or infamous. The former, she hoped. “Yes. His daughter. And yes,
I’m staying in town until I get his claim sorted out.”
The wrinkles around the
landlady’s eyes deepened, and her mouth lifted in a smile. “Actually, my next
question was if you want dinner tonight?”
“I would. Thank you. What time?”
“Dinner’s at five. Perhaps you’d
like to see your room and freshen up.”
She was going to like this
obviously kindly, no-nonsense woman. So unlike her own mother. “Thank you.”
The interior of the house was
dark but cool, and Becky followed Mrs. Hicks up two flights of stairs to one of
three doors that opened off the top landing. The landlady stood aside and held
out her hand, palm up. “Payment due in advance. Pot roast for dinner.”
Becky dug the four coins from her
reticule and handed them over. “Thank you.”
“No keys for any of the rooms. I
got the right to inspect the room with an hour’s notice. No cooking or smoking
in the rooms. Privy is out the back door.”
Becky swallowed back a lump of
disappointment. She’d expected indoor plumbing, just as she enjoyed in New
York, but the modern conveniences hadn’t made their way this far west.
Or at least, not to this house in
Silver Valley.
She entered what would be her
home for at least the next week, longer if she could figure out how to make her
remaining money stretch further. She set her bag on a dressing table, and then
she closed the door. When she sank onto the bed, the springs creaked beneath
her weight. She sighed.
A pang of—of what? Homesickness?
Missing her father? Wishing things were different?—caught her off guard,
spreading through her like a flooding river, threatening to wash away all hope.
So much for her dreams of prospecting with her father in the mountains of
Colorado. Of catching up on all the years they’d missed.
Rather, that she had missed.
She doubted her father had lacked
any adventures or excitement.
His life had been so different
from her own.
She dumped the contents of her
drawstring bag onto the bed and sorted through them. Sixty-three dollars which,
along with the hundred or so in her carpetbag, should tide her over for a
while. If she didn’t have to buy her father’s claim. If she didn’t have to pay
top dollar for every single thing she needed.
Because if there was one thing
still alive in her, it was the desire to understand her father. To understand
what drove him to leave the comforts of home and travel to this remote place.
Was it the lure of silver? Was he simply tired of his refined life? Of his
wife?
Of her?
I will randomly draw one name from
all who leave a comment for a free ebook of Double
Jeopardy.
About Donna:
Donna lives in Denver with husband
Patrick. As a hybrid author, she writes historical suspense under her own name,
and contemporary suspense under her alter ego of Leeann Betts, and has been
published more than 30 times in novellas and full-length novels. She is a
member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Writers on the Rock, Sisters In
Crime, and Christian Authors Network; facilitates a critique group; and teaches
writing classes online and in person. Donna also ghostwrites, edits, and judges
in writing contests. She loves history and research, and travels extensively
for both. Donna is
represented by Terrie Wolf of AKA Literary Management.
