Uncle Fred pulled on his ear. “So you decided to work for my competition?” But the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “Who are they, anyway?”
“The Kansas City Star. Oh, I can’t open it.” She crammed it into his hands but clutched at his wrist, knowing she couldn’t completely let it go. “You do it. You tell me what it says.”
Fred’s eyes softened. “You know what, Betsy? If this is what I think it is, then you’ve just beat me to a dream that I’ve always been too fearful to try. This is your moment, and I’m not going to interfere. I’ll keep Sissy busy while you get your news.”
He pulled her hands off his wrist and placed the envelope in them. Then, with a kiss on the forehead, he left her standing alone to go back into the house.
Once when Betsy was little, she and her big brother, Josiah, had held a contest to see who could hold their breath the longest underwater. Determined to win, she’d wedged her arm beneath a root to anchor herself to the bottom of the river so she wouldn’t float up. That did the trick until she could stand it no longer and wanted up, only then realizing her arm was hung. As she pulled against the root, nearly skinning the hide off her arm, she became aware of a pillar of fire inside her chest. She couldn’t release her air, for there’d be nothing to replace it, but if she didn’t expel it, she would explode.
That was how she felt right now.
She went to her cot. It squeaked as she dropped onto it, the straw tick expelling a burst of air. If they didn’t want her story, she could always try again, but even being as realistic as she knew how, this was a very good sign.
Her fingers shook as she lifted the unglued flap of the envelope and pulled out the cream-colored paper. Sender was listed as the Kansas City Star, and the telegram read:
We will purchase your two submissions on the developing situation and request subsequent articles be sent without delay. Terms have been mailed to you and will arrive soon.
That was it? Betsy lowered the telegram to her lap. There wasn’t any eloquent rhapsodizing over the exciting story where the Dashing Deputy pulled the girl out of the well? She felt slighted. But they must have liked it if they wanted to buy it, right? And they wanted her to send more.
Slowly the magnitude of what had occurred began to dawn on her. A newspaper in Kansas City was going to publish her stories. And they were going to pay her, to boot.
If that didn’t beat all.
But what did it mean, the developing situation? They didn’t think the stories were one hundred percent true, did they? Her submission had been clear—these stories were for the ladies’ section. Fictionalized serials. Not to be taken seriously. Should she say something?
Betsy held the telegram against her heart. What was the worst that could happen? Some readers in far-off Kansas City would think that a child fell down a well when it was only a kitten? What harm could that do? They’d probably be placed in the middle of the ladies’ section, anyway. On the other hand, if she raised a stink about them placing her stories in the wrong column, they might not want any more. Was she willing to risk that?
More stories were already in the mail, chugging their way toward the office in Kansas City. Now that the ball was rolling, she couldn’t afford to mess it up. The stories were mostly true. It wasn’t her fault if they’d misunderstood.
She had to organize her hurriedly jotted notes and ideas and get the Kansas City newspaper men something else while they were interested. Hopefully Joel’s interview with Mr. Sanders would make a good story. If Miles Bullard had returned to harass Doctor Hopkins, that’d fill some pages, but she didn’t want anyone to get hurt. The important part was that the Dashing Deputy rode in and saved the day. That was what would sell papers.
And she wasn’t using real names anyway. Not that it mattered. No one in Pine Gap or Texas would be reading that paper. Uncle Fred was the only one in town who subscribed to the Kansas City paper. She’d just have to make sure that his copy got used to wrap fish or line the rabbit cage before anyone had a chance to come in the newspaper office and borrow it.
Speaking of Uncle Fred . . .
Betsy bounded off her cot and rushed into the kitchen. As she expected, Uncle Fred was standing by the table, every bit as impatient as she was.
One look at her, and his face lifted and wrinkled into a thousand happy lines. “I didn’t even know you’d sent something to them.”
There were several reasons for that, but she’d start with the simplest. “I was afraid they’d say no, and then what would be the point?”
“You have to let me read what you wrote.”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing really. Just a story based on life here in Pine Gap. Nothing special.”