“This thing doesn’t put out much heat,” he said. “And you sleep in here?”
“It’s not bad. I wear . . .” She had time to consider maybe talking about her nightclothes wasn’t ladylike, but she didn’t want him to blame her family for the hardship. “It’s the best Uncle Fred and Sissy can do.”
He caught her gaze, and the way he looked at her made her heart feel full. Just like when he was holding Amelia.
“I’m proud of you,” he said at last.
Proud? If she were writing his lines, that wasn’t what she would’ve chosen.
“I don’t understand.”
“Others might complain. Might feel slighted. But you choose to think the best of your family.”
Betsy frowned. “How could I not?”
But he was done talking about it. He was plowing ahead to a new subject.
“I have a confession to make.” He studied the flames. The shadows danced on his hero-worthy profile. “Here I am in Pine Gap saying how I’m going to work without prejudice, how everyone gets a clean slate, yet I’m judging you based on the actions of another member of the fair sex. I apologize.”
This kind of talk, about him and her and whatever their relationship was, felt strangely exciting, but at the same time, a twinge of guilt began to form. When she’d started writing about the Texas deputy, he was a stranger. But what if Joel became her friend? Betsy looked at her desk, then breathed easier when she saw her tablet had been hidden.
“I accept your apology,” she said at last. “So when you said you’d rather fall on a cactus than listen to a woman talk, you weren’t speaking about me?”
“I said that?” He winced as Betsy nodded. “I’ve known some fairly comfortable cacti, but I’d rather converse with you than take a tumble into any of them.”
That was the nicest thing anyone had said to her in a long time. Which reflected poorly on her kin, but they weren’t of the sentimental ilk. She, on the other hand, was growing more sentimental by the heartbeat.
“Besides,” he said, “seeing how you know everyone and everything going on, you might prove helpful to my job. That’s the true benefit.”
And then, just like that, he had to wipe away any notion she had that he might be partial to her. Well, if he expected her to help him with his profession, she should have no qualms about using him to further hers.
“If there’s any way I can serve my community, Deputy.”
“There is one other thing that concerns me, besides you being a woman and all, and that’s your involvement with the newspaper. You see, my assignment here isn’t generally known back home. I don’t know how far your uncle’s paper is distributed . . .”
“Not out of Hart County,” she said. “And Uncle Fred doesn’t print anything controversial.” But Joel’s questions only led to more questions. Who was he hiding from? Could her Dashing Deputy have a darker side? Was his name really Joel Puckett?
“So you’re saying that nothing I say or do will end up in your uncle’s paper?” he asked.
Betsy smiled. As much as Uncle Fred enjoyed hearing her reports, he adamantly refused to print anything of interest. That was why she’d had to send her stories all the way to Kansas City. And Kansas City was a long, long way from Pine Gap.
“The only way your name will show up in the Pine Gap newspaper would be if your pickled peppers won a prize at the fair or if you attend one of Mrs. Rinehart’s teas.” Betsy held up her palm in a pledge. “Besides that, your name will not grace a page printed in Pine Gap, and a page printed in Pine Gap will never reach Texas.”
He drew in a deep breath. “Then I think we might be able to help each other after all.”
Now he was talking. “When are you going to tell me about Mr. Sanders?” she asked. “I’m being very patient.”
“He didn’t speak a word all the way to the jailhouse.”
“But you kept him?”
“He came willing. Seemed resigned.”
The door between the office and the cabin popped open. Uncle Fred’s eyebrows lowered and hid somewhere behind his spectacles. “Deputy Puckett? Isn’t it late for you to be calling?”
Betsy choked down a laugh. The handsome Deputy Puckett would never come calling on her.
But Joel wasn’t laughing. His face had gone grave. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Murphy. I was walking by and . . .”
What could he say? That she had rushed outside and dragged him in by the coat sleeve?
“. . . I saw the light on.”
Uncle Fred nodded slowly. “If it’s after dark, come through the cabin, please.”
“Yes, sir!” He all but saluted.
“Mrs. Sanders came looking for you, but I assured her you weren’t here.”
Mrs. Sanders? Betsy rushed to the outside door, flung it open, and raced to the street. “Mrs. Sanders,” she called. “Mrs. Sanders!”
A small figure bundled in a blanket stopped and then turned to come back down the hill.