Still holding her arm, he shook her a little. “Of all the cotton-picking—” He dropped her arm, smashed her hat back on her head, and ran to the house.
Now she looked at the rest of him. Taller than she was by a good half a foot and well built. Dressed for traveling with a red cavalry-style shirt beneath his leather vest and coat. Where had he come from? To just show up at night in the middle of nowhere—
Another scream rang out. Betsy blinked. Good thing the new man hadn’t forgotten Widow Sanders, because Betsy was slap out of smarts. Quickly she followed.
“Widow Sanders,” Betsy called to the open door. “Widow Sanders!”
The cowboy stopped at the door and turned back to her. “Do you know the man who just walked in there?”
“He’s the new deputy,” Betsy answered.
He frowned—which was very attractive as far as frowns went. “Something ain’t right.”
“Betsy? Is that you?” Widow Sanders came to the door carrying a candle with shaking hands. Her face looked like it’d been whitewashed. The deputy appeared behind her. He’d ignored Betsy before, but now he was grinning like she was his best friend.
“Betsy? It’s not Betsy Huckabee, is it? You were still a baby when I left.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Mr. Sanders, finally home.”
Betsy looked to Widow Sanders, usually a well of competency, but she’d shrunk as if drained. “Mr. Sanders? I thought you were dead.”
Widow Sanders’s eyes widened. “I never said that. I never told anyone he died. He was just gone . . . for a very long time.”
Betsy wanted to pry, but the fear in the woman’s eyes stopped her.
“You weren’t on the train,” the cowboy said. “How’d you get here?”
Still reeling from the notion that Mr. Sanders was alive, Betsy could only now stop to wonder about the handsome one. Who was he?
“I walked clear from Indian Territory,” Mr. Sanders said. “But if you’uns don’t mind, it’s getting late, and my wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.” He stepped forward, directing them away from the house.
The cowboy’s jaw hardened. His gaze caught Widow Sanders dead to rights. Betsy shivered at the pent-up strength. “As long as you’re all right, Mrs. Sanders. I can stay if you’d rather.”
Betsy’s jaw dropped open. This man had just stepped out of the bushes, and here he was acting like it was his job to protect Widow—Mrs.—Sanders. The nerve.
The former-widow Mrs. Sanders watched her husband—Betsy couldn’t quite wrap her mind around that word—with wary eyes, then nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
The words thank you hadn’t left her mouth before the door shut, throwing Betsy and the stranger into the shadows.
They stood side by side, looking at the closed door. Already Betsy was running through her mind the conversation she’d have with Uncle Fred. Imagine, Widow Sanders had a husband! But maybe Uncle Fred knew already. Was this one of those things adults didn’t discuss in front of the children and then forgot to tell them once they grew up?
“What made you think he was the deputy?” the cowboy asked, obviously unconcerned with the very important internal discussion going on in Betsy’s head.
She looked him over again. On occasion, Betsy was known to overindulge on candy and sweets, then later have a bellyache and wish she hadn’t gorged so. That was what she feared now, studying him. Tomorrow she’d need some coffee and jerky to chase away all the fluff.
Only then did she notice the pistols gleaming from his gun belt. Another look at his cowboy hat and fancy boots, and a piece of information surfaced . . . a deputy from Texas. A handsome, young deputy from Texas.
The inspiration for her story had just arrived.
Chapter 3
If the train had arrived on time, Joel would have met with the town fathers and would already be in his room, turning in for the night. Instead he’d stumbled into a bewildering maze of crooked trails, dense forests, and strange characters marauding through the night. He’d been told that another deputy had already arrived and then found that man involved in terrorizing a widow. Even worse, it looked like his best hope for an introduction to town was this starry-eyed miss. And Joel had sworn off starry-eyed misses.
She threw him a sidelong glance, watching him through a stray lock of blond hair that danced in the breeze. A coy smile played about her lips. Uh-oh. She was fixin’ to be cute.
“I just figured he was the deputy because he was slightly overweight, dull-witted, and smelled like he’d been sleeping in a vat of pickles.”
Joel was tired, it was late, and he really didn’t have time for this. “You must be very observant,” he said. “So I reckon you could direct me to the nearest boardinghouse?”
“Without introductions? I don’t know how it’s done in Texas—”
“Who said anything about Texas?”
He’d caught her off guard. She waved her hand before her face. “Did I say Texas? I meant—”