Another crash, and Betsy’s concern overcame her discomfort. Her fist thudded against the door. “Mrs. Sanders, are you in there? What’s going on?”
Low voices murmured and then steps sounded at the door. Betsy stepped back. What was she going to say to Mr. Sanders? Usually the Bald Knobbers took care of situations like this. She was only a lone woman, and who knew what this Sanders character was capable of?
The door creaked open so quickly that it sucked a gust of wind in around her. Widow Sanders appeared, cheeks flaming. “Betsy? What do you want?”
Peering over the widow’s shoulder, all Betsy could see was an overturned kitchen chair. “I thought I heard someone call for help. Are you all right?”
The woman rolled down her sleeves. “Of course, child. Just being clumsy. That’s all.”
Clumsy? Like Bullard’s wife? But besides being out of breath, Mrs. Sanders looked none the worse for wear.
“That Mr. Sanders, he’s your husband?”
“I thought he’d died when he didn’t come home from the war. Guess I was mistaken. Now, get on with you. I’m kind of busy.” Widow Sanders—er, Mrs. Sanders shut the door in her face.
Betsy’s heart twisted. The widow was one of the strongest women she knew. She’d managed her small house all alone throughout the war and Reconstruction. She’d taken in boarders to make ends meet and hold together. Then here came a man waltzing into the life she’d made for herself, and next thing you know her crockery was getting smashed against the log walls.
Word would get out. There were those who made it their business to right wrongs, and Betsy would see that they got the message.
Betsy stopped in her tracks. If she suspected someone was breaking the law, shouldn’t she go to the deputy instead of Fowler? It stood to reason that Eduardo was the one responsible. But whom did she trust more? Fowler would come out with twenty men at his back and surround Mr. Sanders. With their masks on, they wouldn’t be afraid to tell him that they knew of his evil deeds. They wouldn’t have to cower like she was.
But the deputy . . . well, something told her that he wouldn’t cower, either. No, he’d march up to the Sanders porch and make the exact same speech, even with no one to back him up. Even with his face uncovered and all the world knowing who he was.
She couldn’t let him do that. Fowler would be the safer choice. Deputy Puckett didn’t have the sense to keep himself out of danger—a charge he was likely to level against her, as well.
Joel had waited nearly a week for Pritchard to follow through on his promise. A week had been wasted with a temperamental pony not big enough for a child. Finally he would be rid of the thing.
He and the ill-tempered pony stood at the crossroads as far from each other as the stretched reins would allow. Hopefully Calhoun would let him trade in the nuisance. Otherwise he might have to buy a real horse on credit. He hadn’t come to the Ozarks expecting to need that amount of finances.
His eyes traveled up and down the road, not certain from which direction his help was arriving. He’d assumed it was someone from the mountains outside of town, since they’d chosen this meeting place, but no one was on the road in that direction. Not seeing anyone, he turned back around to face a startling apparition.
It was Betsy Huckabee standing not a fishing-pole’s length from him. He startled and staggered backwards, putting more distance between himself and her, moving closer to the pony.
“Stop sneaking up on me,” he said. “It isn’t safe.”
Her eyes rolled, barely visible beneath the sock hat that was pushed down over her forehead. “Are you talking about my safety or yours?”
He took another step backwards before composing himself. “Be on your way, Miss Huckabee. I’ve got important business to tend to.”
“Well, so do I. Like showing some tenderfoot how to get to the Calhouns’ farm.” She pushed her hat back so her smug expression was easily visible.
“I don’t know who told you where I’m going—”
“Mr. Pritchard said you asked for my help specifically.”
His head jerked to an angle. “Would that be the Mr. Pritchard I recently arrested? The one who’d be motivated to make my life miserable?” Joel crossed his arms. “I’d say he’s bit off more than he can chew.”
And at that moment, a sharp pain flashed through his backside, causing him to tuck tail and bolt forward, nearly landing on Betsy’s toes.
With a bracing hand against his chest, she forced some space between them. “You don’t scare me. Get back!”
Pushing her hand away, Joel spun around to face the mean pony whose flared nostrils and bared teeth left no question about what had happened. Joel rubbed his hindquarters, trying to chase away the sting.
“Durned horse bit me,” he managed by way of explanation.
“I see that.” Her laughter had everything to do with the rip he’d just located in his britches.
Seeing how keeping his back to her was now impossible, he had to face her. “Thank goodness for long drawers,” he said.