“What’s this?” Sissy stabbed her needle into the fabric with finality. Amelia clutched at her skirt. As Uncle Fred explained, Sissy covered Amelia’s ears with her hands. “You aren’t writing about the Bald Knobbers, are you? We’ve already got too many strangers concerning themselves with our business. We certainly don’t need more.”
Uncle Fred was reading the telegram for the third time. What did it say exactly? Did it mention the deputy?
Betsy knelt to flick Amelia’s upturned nose. “What I’m writing is more than half concoctions of my own imagination. Uncle Fred can tell you the stories after page twelve are more sensationalized serials than true reporting.”
“I still don’t like it,” Sissy replied.
“Pshaw!” Uncle Fred blurted. “I’m proud as punch of her. To think my own niece has been accepted by a big Kansas City paper. It’s incredible.”
There was nothing as sweet as an accomplishment shared with people who only wanted what was best for you. Even though Betsy’s aim was to afford her own abode, she didn’t mean it as a slight to Uncle Fred. Not one bit. She’d spent as much time with Uncle Fred as with her own pa, but times were tough. She was in the way.
As hard as it’d be to say good-bye, it’d be best for everyone.
Chapter 17
The sun hadn’t dipped behind the mountain yet, but Joel’s day was feeling darker than ever. He propped his stockinged feet up against the crossbar of the cell and stretched his hands to rest behind his head on the cot.
Why was she still hounding him?
He should have ripped up Mary Blount’s letter immediately and not taken a chance on anyone in Hart County reading it. How had it even reached him? Who had forwarded it? Sheriff Green? Obviously, from the address on the envelope, Miss Blount didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. And from her threats, if she had known where he was, she’d ruin his life.
Again.
Joel studied the weak shadows thrown on the wall by the bars. The door to the cell stood open, but he still felt trapped. When Mary Blount first made her accusations, he’d been told the only alternative to marrying her was to go quietly. Running had given him this job, but it hadn’t ended her threats. Obsessed with making him pay for her failed plans, she wanted her treacherous lies to live on. Even worse, she seemed hungry to know where he was . . . as if that knowledge in some way constituted a relationship between them. Joel shivered. What did a gentleman do against a ruthless woman? In so many ways, his hands were tied.
Swinging his legs down, he padded to the hall tree. Then, as if a sudden movement might release a dangerous plague on the town, he carefully removed the piece of paper from the pocket of his coat.
. . . no matter where you roam, you will never outrun the shame of what you put me through. I, who had your best interest at heart. I, who wanted nothing more than to bring you happiness and domestic felicity. Didn’t my efforts to get you alone that night prove that I deserve you more than anyone? But how did you reward my toil? You ruined my reputation and failed to do your duty. . . .
He crumpled the paper, tossed it into the trash bin, and wished that his troubles could be thrust aside that easily. He begged God to release him from the anger, the bitterness, but most days it felt like the best he could do was to try to forget. Immersing himself in his job here helped, but always waiting at the edge of his thoughts, ready to drag him under again, was the memory of the injustice leveled against him.
“I am free,” he whispered. “I am blameless.” Joel spoke the truth. Surely if he repeated the words enough, even he would believe them. He waited until the roar of injustice in his head died down. He had a job to do, and it started by visiting a man who’d arrived the same night he had and who seemed to be hiding something. Just like him.
The thought of saddling up his horse raised Joel’s spirits considerably. No one had read his letter. No one knew who had written it or why, and no one from Garber would tell the Blounts where he was. The one benefit to living on the edge of civilization was that he was out of Mary’s reach.
Joel sighed once he made it past the Murphys’ cabin without being detected. Betsy was unlike any woman he’d ever known before. She wasn’t fussy and particular like his sisters, nor was she merely concerned with roping a man. He was learning to enjoy Betsy’s company, and that scared him. Had he let his guard slip? Was she safe? It was too soon to tell.
He reached the Sanderses’ house at the crossroads and tied his horse at the fence. From the outside, everything looked peaceful and well kept. A knock on the door brought a bustling middle-aged lady forward. She swiped at a stray lock of hair with a quick hand and eyed him suspiciously.
“What do you want?” she asked. She reminded him of some of the ranchers’ wives back in Garber—those who hadn’t come into money and still worked the cattle alongside their husbands, doing a man’s job of a day and then going back inside to cook dinner and clean house of an evening.
“Mrs. Sanders, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Deputy Puckett. Is Mr. Sanders around?” If he were, Joel almost certainly would be able to see him, since there weren’t too many places to hide in the tiny house.