Uncle Fred’s old work gloves kept the splinters from the rough crates out of her hands but made handling the cans awkward. It wasn’t her chosen occupation, but it would provide for the family, so she couldn’t refuse. And since Walters was paying her in staples, her money would go even further. Probably the biggest hardship on Betsy and her independence was that she depended on Sissy and Uncle Fred for everything. How could she refuse to help out when they clothed and fed her?
Once she’d emptied every crate and shelved every tin can, Betsy tucked the work gloves into her waistband and lifted a burlap sack from the pile in the corner. She entered the store proper to find Walters standing amid the colorful bolts of fabric, picking his teeth with a knitting needle.
“I finished organizing the shelves,” she said. “How much did you say I could take?”
“I gathered you a pile there on the bar,” he said, wiping the knitting needle on his pant leg. “I appreciate the help. Every time I lift those rough crates, I just know I’m begging for another splinter.”
“Let me know if you need me again.” She took the sack and began loading it with the sorely needed edibles.
“Well, looky here,” Walters said as the door swung open and a gust of cold air swept past Betsy. “It’s that lawman again.”
Betsy froze with a can of sorghum in her hand. Joel would want to know what was in her telegram. Betsy didn’t favor broaching that subject. One question would lead to another, and next thing you knew, the nosy man would be reading about her Dashing Deputy, and that must never, ever happen.
“Mayor Walters, I need to buy . . .” His voice trailed off. Betsy hurried to sweep the canned goods into her sack. “I’m sorry,” Deputy Puckett said. “I’ll come back when you’re not busy.”
“Don’t hurry off. It’s just Betsy,” Walters said.
With a grunt Betsy slung the sack over her shoulder. No use pretending to be invisible now. She turned to face him. Joel lifted his eyebrows in unison with his shoulders, looking downright sheepish.
“Good afternoon, Deputy Puckett.” Funny how speaking formally only made her realize how familiar he’d become.
“Good afternoon, Miss Huckabee.” To hear him, you’d never guess he’d wrestled her over an envelope the day before. That hadn’t been her finest moment, either, so she’d let it pass. “If Mayor Walters isn’t busy, I came to ask his assistance with some wool fabric and directions to a seamstress. I find myself in need of an extra pair of trousers.”
Betsy bit back a smile. Why had she wanted to hide from him in the first place?
“That wouldn’t be the work of that pony, would it?” Walters rubbed his backside. “He took a hunk out of me unprovoked!”
“I am enjoying my horse. Thank you for asking,” Joel said.
“Laurel Hopkins sews up a storm,” Betsy said. “But she’d rather choose the material herself.”
Mayor Walters nodded. “She’s particular with what she sets her needle to. Tell her what you want, and she’ll whip it right up.”
Joel twisted a button on his double-breasted shirt. “I appreciate the advice.” His hand reached up to tip his hat but stopped at the brim. He looked at the sack Betsy had thrown over her shoulder. “Are you headed to home, ma’am?”
Wasn’t he acting just like a Dashing Deputy should? She smiled. “It’s not heavy.”
“Mayor Walters,” Joel said, “would you please round me up a sack with the same items as Miss Huckabee’s?”
Walters took the knitting needle out of his mouth and put it back on the shelf. In a matter of minutes he presented Joel with a sack of equal size.
“Sorry to make you wait,” Joel said to Betsy. He stepped to the side and held the door open for her. Betsy squeezed past him in the doorway. What was he doing? Had he read her serial, because he was acting like every woman’s dream. Even when he snatched the sack out of her hand and tossed it over his shoulder, he was chivalrous. He didn’t even wince when the tin cans thudded against his back. He untethered the horse and led it behind them.
“Are you planning on doing some cooking?” Betsy asked.
“I just realized that I need to contribute to the Murphys’ larder if I’m going to continue to dine with them.”
“You haven’t been at the table for a few days.” And definitely not since he’d got that letter.
“I’m getting hungry,” he said.
“Oh, that’s it.” Betsy narrowed her eyes. “I should’ve known you weren’t being friendly.”
“I am friendly, just not with young, single ladies.”
“I told you, I’m not young.”
His cheek made some creases that looked suspiciously like the beginning of a smile. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I’ve fought against the claim that I was too young to accomplish what I set out to do, so I should know better than to paint you with the same brush. Let me revise my statement. I’m not usually friendly with single ladies who happen to be chronologically hampered despite their intelligence and experience.”
She frowned. “I don’t know that I favor being called experienced. Most of the time that implies—”
Out of nowhere he took up whistling.
“You interrupted me,” she said.
“Looking for a change of subject.” His stride was easy and relaxed.
“Did you talk to Sanders?”
He sighed. “You’re right. He’s hiding something.”
Betsy stopped in her tracks. “I told you.”