Leaves scattered as the riders turned on the square and headed down toward the river. Whatever campaign they were on would be finished by the time she reached them. Following them was out of the question, but maybe she’d spot a few of them sneaking home after she checked on the train.
Shoving her hands into her pockets, Betsy started up over the hill toward the depot. Even she didn’t like to walk outside of town after dark, not on the road anyway. Come around the wrong bend, and you might see a fight commencing. You might see someone sneaking home after a night of carousing. But what was worse, someone bad might see you. Although Betsy had no enemies herself, outlaws of all persuasions found the heavily wooded Ozarks a good place to lie low, hide their loot, and live off the land . . . or at least live off whatever sundry goods they could appropriate from the locals. You didn’t want to stumble across those folks on a lonely trail. Even the sheriff found it safer to stay at the jailhouse or out at his cabin of a night.
But not Betsy. Once she got out of the safety of town, she’d take to the brush and cut through thick patches. Besides, the Bald Knobbers were riding tonight. They’d done a lot to quell the orneriness. If you didn’t mind their methods, you’d have to say Pine Gap was much improved by them.
Betsy reached the crossroads at the ridge. Straight ahead led to the depot. Take a left, and she’d end up at the sale barn. Instead of either of those options, she’d step off the road onto a rabbit trail and proceed from there. Aunt Sissy thought she was in danger, but once Betsy was in the shadows, no one would see her.
But she wasn’t in the shadows yet, and here came a stranger.
The man wore a rumpled suit, cheap shoes not made for walking, and a floppy hat so big you could bathe a pig in it. His nose was bulbous while his chin was meager. He came down the hill roughly, like his knees were popping out of control with every footstep.
He took her measure as he approached. Betsy waited calmly. If this was the new deputy from Texas, she wasn’t going to disgrace her fellow woodsmen by gawking over him.
Mustering all the poise she’d ever learned from her friend Abigail Calhoun, she lifted her chin and wiped every last sparkle of orneriness from her gaze. “Good evening, sir.” Her accent was Abigail’s, although slightly altered by her Ozark cadence.
He didn’t even give her a second glance. “I suppose I’m on the right road to get to Mrs. Sanders’s house.”
How she wished she had her slingshot, but he was the new deputy. Getting into his good graces could help her career immensely.
“The widow Sanders lives right here at the corner. Is that where you’re staying?”
The man ignored her and plowed past to the small cabin she’d indicated. Widow Sanders had the most ambitious garden in town. You couldn’t find a corner of the yard that wasn’t bedecked with the product of some bulb, flower, or vine. And the deputy strode through it like it was a field of nettles.
Betsy hesitated. Surely Widow Sanders knew he was coming. She’d self-designated her home as the town’s boardinghouse, so Betsy had to assume she was prepared. And yet it seemed unthoughtful to leave a single woman to meet a strange man alone. Betsy would think of some excuse to insert herself into the conversation.
The deputy had reached the front porch, but instead of knocking on the door, he burst right through. Betsy gasped. What was he thinking? It was straight-out evening, and he just busted plumb into a woman’s house? Was that how deputies in Texas operated? The hair on the back of her neck pricked up. Walking backwards, she found a spot beneath a cedar where no light reached. Maybe she’d just sit a spell and watch. If everything looked all right—
A scream sounded from inside. Betsy’s blood ran cold, then hot. She had to get help. She had to go—
Betsy sprinted from the trees, but before she could breach the widow’s property line, she plowed right into another man and ricocheted off his solid mass. She was falling, on her way to a sharp landing on the rocks, when he caught her by her arm.
“I don’t know what kind of place this is where men wear their clothes inside out and women fall out of trees,” he said.
The first thing she noticed was the low drawl of his voice. The second, since she was dangling just above the ground, the pointy toes of his boots. A cowboy?
Before she could form an opinion, he jerked her upright and removed her oversized hat. “At least I think you’re a woman. You could be another rabble-rouser in disguise.”
She finally caught a look at his face, and for the first time in her life, Betsy couldn’t speak. He was perfect. Not cute, not adorable, but strikingly handsome with enough power in his gaze to send a twinge of concern up her spine.
He was talking. Pointing to Widow Sanders’s house. She watched his lips move. A trim beard covered his cheeks and jaw, and those eyes—what color were they?