The boots shifted. The skirt swayed. “You’re in no condition.”
He rolled to his feet and forced his spine straight. The horse danced away from him, eyes wild and speculative. Joel jerked it closer. “We’re not done yet.”
Betsy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She stepped back and, with a sweeping arm motion, presented him the road on which to seriously injure himself.
He couldn’t let the pony win. Had to get back into the saddle. He winced at the thought but had no choice. No mountain pony would get the best of a Texan. It wasn’t in the natural order of things.
The horse tossed its head as he approached. Another tug on the reins to bring it around, and he got a foot in the stirrup. Quick as lightning he was astride it, but he took his time easing into the saddle. Completely focused now, Joel welded himself to the animal’s back and let it spend itself. It was mean. It was stubborn. But it didn’t have the strength of a full-sized equine, and he’d messed with a few of those.
Sides heaving, the pony began to break. Its head dropped forward. Its ears calmed. Resignation settled over it like a heavy dew.
Job done. Joel reached forward and patted its neck, murmuring soothing noises. He’d forgiven those who’d trespassed against him. He’d even turned the other cheek . . . in a manner of speaking. Not that he had any intention of keeping this pony, but they had to reach an understanding.
As for that woman . . .
“Where’d you get the horse?” she asked.
Watching that the beast didn’t pull any more foolishness, he dismounted. “By our contract, the city had to provide me with one.”
“Looks like they got it for half price. So much better than a mule.” With hands deep in her pockets, she pulled her coat tight around her back and tucked her chin into her scarf. The blue of the coat brought out the blue of her sparkling eyes. “Where are you going?” Flecks of dried leaves floated down and landed on her blond braids, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.
“I’m headed out to see Sheriff Taney.”
“And who gave you directions?”
“Some fellow named . . .” He looked right, then left. “They steered me wrong?” The town looked so innocent from here on the top of the hill.
“And those are the townsfolk. Once you get out in the woods, you’ll get shot before you get close enough to ask.”
The horse’s tail swished. Whatever truce they’d brokered was being rethunk even as he tarried. He might have to fight the beast again to prove himself, but he wouldn’t give in. And the woman seemed more stubborn than the pony.
“I came here to do a job. If I can’t ride outside of town by myself, how am I going to protect the womenfolk like you?”
He’d expected her to argue, but instead she beamed. Her eyes crinkled up, and he saw for the first time a dusting of freckles on her nose. “That was perfect,” she said. “Inspired and inspiring.”
Not the response he was expecting, but before Joel could comment, a scream pierced the air.
Joel turned toward the cry, surprised it came from beyond Mrs. Sanders’s house. Here the road turned rocky and wide, but before he could get on the pony, Betsy Huckabee took off without him.
“Come on!” she said. “That’s Katie Ellen. I’ll show you the way.”
She darted up the winding road, anticipating the dips and turns as they went. Another shout for help, and a child’s voice joined in.
“Katie Ellen, I’m coming,” Betsy belted in twice the voice Joel had ever heard a young lady of his acquaintance use.
He held himself out of the saddle by standing in the stirrups, which the pony didn’t appreciate, but it did seem content to follow Betsy. The road widened to expose a massive barn, probably an auction house, but no one was about. He slowed to evaluate the scene, but Betsy ignored the large doors in front and raced around the pens to the back. He didn’t like rushing in until he’d had time to make a plan. What if this was some sort of ambush? What if that gang of rowdies was waiting for him around the corner? No one outside of this town even knew he’d arrived safely. He should’ve sent a letter home as soon as he got off the train, just to let his parents know that if he failed to write at Christmas, they should put the responsibility for his death on the tab of the good folks of Pine Gap.
Too late now.
He hurried around the pens, but instead of being greeted by hooded marauders, he saw a pretty woman, heavy with child, dancing around a well with a baby on her hip. At her side, a young boy bent over the well, stretching his arms over the rim.
“Poor, poor baby. Hold on for a little longer.”
Betsy had the rope in her hand and was fishing it from side to side, lowering it and pulling it up tight. With dread in the pit of his stomach, Joel ran to the well, leaned over the rocky wall, and saw what was causing all the hubbub—a soaked, exhausted kitten.