Mayor Walters was sorting through his pinto beans, separating out the bad ones. Behind the counter, he didn’t look that short, but it was on account of the ramp he’d built for times just like this, when he wanted to look his customers eye-to-eye. Or eye-to-shoulder, in this case.
“I came to get my horse.” Joel’s voice didn’t waver. With a start, Betsy realized that Deputy Puckett was a dangerous man doing a dangerous job. He carried a lot of responsibility and deserved to be treated with respect—even if he was wearing ripped trousers.
Mayor Walters’s hand dropped and scattered his pile of beans. “Are you sure? I thought since you’re likely unused to these hills, a surefooted pony might be just the—”
“I’m telling you,” Joel said. “Not asking. And I’d imagine that the saddle belongs to me as well.”
Walters leaned across the counter top. “No use in getting testy. I didn’t mean no harm. Take the horse and it’ll all be water beneath the bridge.” His round face was as white as the pie-dough masks Miss Abigail used to make. Leaning across the counter, Joel grasped him by the dimpled hand and gave him a hearty handshake.
Betsy covered her mouth as the mayor’s knees gave way. If it weren’t for the counter between them, he would’ve slid to the floor.
“I’m glad to know you’re on my side.” But Joel looked at the man with uncertainty as he squirmed to get out of Joel’s grasp.
“My hand,” he panted. “It hurts.”
With a shrug, Joel released the mayor to collapse against the table.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Huckabee,” Joel said. “I suppose I won’t be needing your assistance today after all.”
Betsy did want to see him on a worthy horse, but Postmaster Finley ruined her chance.
How he wanted to get in the saddle and ride, as if a few hours astride a good horse like that one could wash away all the humiliation the pony had brought.
But first the postmaster had waved at him from across the square, claiming to have mail for the both of them, so Joel and Betsy found themselves at the post office, giving everyone in town another shot at seeing his ripped britches.
“I’m glad I caught you.” Postmaster Finley moved slow, as if testing his joints as he went. His soft boots scuffed against the dirt floor as he ambled to a wall covered in roughly hewn bins. “It’s about time someone did something about those ruffians.”
“Excuse me?” Joel asked.
“You brought Pritchard in, didn’t you? It’s a good start. His father stole our plow back in ’47. We never caught him, mind you, but we knew it just the same. And then look at Bo. Like begets like, and that’s a fact. But Pritchard rides with Fowler, so no one can touch him. Well, enough of that. It’s about time you lock those Bald Knobbers up for good.”
“No one is locked up. Pritchard has an appointment with the judge, but—”
“You let him go?” Finley steadied himself against the bins. “What in tarnation would make you do that?”
“The law. Can’t keep a man locked up unless he’s sentenced or a danger.”
“What’s the law got to do with it? You caught him in a mask, right?”
Joel had a perfectly good horse outside, and he had to have this conversation now? “Do you have mail for me?”
Finley wasn’t pleased, but the reminder of his duty seemed to do the trick. “I’ve got a letter for the deputy and a telegram for you, Betsy.”
Betsy stepped sideways, putting some space between them. “The deputy has important business,” she said. “No use making him wait on me. Give him his first, then he can be on his way.”
Finley didn’t seem to hear her; he lifted a stack of envelopes from a bin and thumbed through them, licking his thumb every third one or so. Who could the letter be from? Joel sure didn’t want to read it in front of Betsy.
“Here it is.” Finley held a yellow slip of paper at arm’s length and squinted at the letters. “This one’s for Betsy, wired in from Kansas City.”
Curiosity hit Joel like a barn owl hit a field mouse. “Do you have family in Kansas City?” he asked.
Betsy bit her lip. She yanked off her stocking cap and crammed the paper inside it without even looking at the return address. With a tug she pulled the cap back over her mussed hair. “It’s nothing important,” she said.
That girl never did do what he expected. “I’m sure people often send you unimportant telegrams,” he said.
“She won’t never tell me why she’s writing them,” Finley said. “Usually it’s letters back and forth. This is the first telegram I remember.” Then he leaned across the counter, close enough that Joel got a whiff of onions on his breath. “I think she’s got some beau working in that office there. Someone she’s sweet on. She probably writes letters like she’s a fine, genteel lady and has him fooled.”