Betsy balanced Eloise on her knee, heedless of the warm slobber the baby drooled across her left hand, and tried to pen a few more lines. It’d been a week since she’d sent in the first installment of her Dashing Deputy series. Two more submissions had followed. Naturally, the ill-tempered pony did not make an appearance. Instead it was magically transformed into a raging, strapping white steed that had never before been ridden. Only the steely-eyed lawman had been able to bend it to his will.
Betsy shivered. If only Deputy Puckett were as dashing as the man she’d created, but that was impossible. Besides, Deputy Eduardo was much more convenient. He didn’t order her about, say things she didn’t want to hear, or twist her words until they sounded unreasonable. She was her own boss, thank you—or at least she would be once she left Sissy’s cabin. If she was in charge, she’d be more focused on writing and less focused on keeping Eloise from drooling on her paper.
She handed Eloise the rag doll that Doctor Hopkins’s wife, Laurel, had made for her. If Betsy didn’t know better, she’d say the doll dove headfirst into Eloise’s mouth. Its rag body shook as Eloise gummed it mercilessly.
As if summoned, Sissy and Scott blustered through the door in a swirl of leaves. Scott dumped his armload of supplies on the table. The bag of beans fell over and nearly sent a canning jar of pickled okra off the edge. He dove to catch it. The family couldn’t spare a single bite of food, but by unspoken agreement, they welcomed the deputy to their table almost nightly. Uncle Fred, Scott, and Eduardo visited around the fire while the ladies cleaned the kitchen, but getting any specific news out of the deputy was as tough as scrubbing burnt potatoes out of the Dutch oven.
“Mama is home.” Sissy hurried to remove her scarf and coat as if every moment she didn’t have her hands on Eloise was a moment wasted.
Eloise kept her doll in her tight fist and allowed herself to fall forward into Sissy’s arms. Finally, Betsy could get some work done. “Amelia is still down for her nap.” She stood and gathered her pen and paper. With the family back, only the office offered the silence she needed.
“Not so fast,” Sissy said. “You’ve been holed up in that office all week. I need you to run to Walters’s store for me.”
“But you just came from there,” Betsy protested. “I have work to do.”
“Your first priority is to help this family. Supplies are short and we’ve still got a long winter ahead of us. I heard Mayor Walters complaining that his back storeroom is looking full of scatterment. We might be able to trade some of your labor for more flour and coffee.”
When Betsy wanted to go out, Sissy made her stay home. When she was of a mind to compose her thoughts on paper, Sissy found cause to send her out and about. Couldn’t Sissy understand that if Betsy was successful, they would all profit?
“Uncle Fred asked me to get the numbers from the sale barn for his market report. I’ll step out to get that—”
“—just as soon as you’re finished at Walters’s.” Sissy had her dead to rights.
Scott shot Betsy a sympathetic look as she gathered her papers to hide in the office. As she walked away from the fire, the chill crept through her thick woolen blouse. The little stove in the office stayed lit to keep the ink from freezing, but it wasn’t as warm as the family portion of the cabin. She’d better bundle up if it was that cold out.
Shutting the drawer on her dreamy hero, she hurried back into the cabin and grabbed the nearest clothes from the peg—this time it was Scott’s knitted sock cap and Sissy’s coat. She eased out the door with her hands shoved deep in her pockets. If Sissy knew how important her new story was . . . well, that was another reason she needed to move on out and get a place of her own.
A cold wind rolled the dead leaves down the hill to the town square. Mayor Walters’s store sat to the east, the last block before the steep incline made construction impossible. At the corner, in front of the bank, Doctor Hopkins’s wagon waited, full to the brim with feminine energy in the form of his youthful wife and two daughters. Laurel Hopkins and her girls waved Betsy over, barely able to contain their gossiping until she reached earshot.
“You should’ve seen Phoebe mooning over your cousin Scott,” Anna said. “She nearly toppled Mayor Walters’s canned milk display when he walked by.”
Phoebe covered her face with her mittened hands.
Her mother laughed. “If you want to see more of Scott, you don’t have to wait until you run into him in the store. Betsy here could come up with a reason for you to visit the Murphys.”
Skinny Scott was attracting the Hopkins girls’ attention? Betsy had to smile. “Come see me anytime, Phoebe. Bring taffy with you. It’s his favorite.”
“I’m not hankering after him,” Phoebe protested. “I just forgot to look where I was going.”