She put the final touches on her latest Dashing Deputy column. Funny how different Joel was in real life than she’d first imagined him. Heroic, yes, but humble, caring, and a host of other attributes that Eduardo Pickett didn’t have time for—not when he was leaving behind as many broken hearts as captured criminals. Thank goodness Joel had more of a conscience.
She paused with the three pages of her latest story in hand. Joel wouldn’t like this. He was careful around her, careful around all women. Any similarities between Eduardo and him would trouble him greatly. She knew that now, but what was she supposed to do? Try to make Eduardo more like Joel so he wouldn’t be offended, or make the differences greater so he wouldn’t see the resemblance? If it wasn’t her job, her opportunity for independence, then maybe she’d do him a favor and quit, but she couldn’t afford to. Not yet. She was just getting started.
And she wouldn’t write anything that might hurt Joel. She wouldn’t write about him mistakenly allowing the Hopkinses’ house to burn. What kind of hero did that? Instead she had him rushing out to single-handedly save the house and barn, and she did include the bit about the lasso and the door. Josiah must have told that story three times yesterday at church. And then about her going to the jail afterward . . . well, maybe it was the Dashing Deputy who comforted the distraught young woman instead of the other way around, but it made for a good story, all the same.
After reading it over one last time, she carefully creased the paper and slid it into an envelope. She wasn’t na?ve enough to think that she held Joel’s heart. That kiss hadn’t changed anything. He was still apt to come talk to her, of course, but only if he had a compelling reason. Reasons like to tell her about his day—who he’d talked to, where he’d ridden to, what he suspected. But that didn’t mean he was sweet on her. For all she knew, he might board the next train to Texas and she’d never see him again. In the long run, her best bet would be these stories. She couldn’t count on siphoning off support from her family indefinitely.
Today was Monday—auction day. Isaac Ballentine would start the auctioneering in an hour or so. Uncle Fred would exchange his trays of type for an account book and help in the auction house office, and folks from all over the hills would come to trade their stock and share their news. Monday was always a busy day for Betsy, but she had to take care of her business first.
Knowing that no one must catch her with an outgoing envelope, she scurried to the post office as soon as she saw Postmaster Finley up and about that morning. He had just dumped the water bucket from yesterday into the flower bed and was pumping fresh water when she approached. He pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and dried his hands before taking her envelope. Then he whistled the same whistle he always did when she had a submission.
“Still stringing along that same beau?” He waved the envelope back and forth like a tipsy hypnotist.
Betsy forced a smile. How she’d love to tell him she’d sold a story, but no one could know. “I try to keep it quiet.”
“Or maybe you’re trying to be a writer like your uncle?” He slapped his knee. “Wouldn’t that be something? I’ll tell you what, if you sold something to a big city paper, you’d better believe I’m sending something in the next week. If they like you, then they’d be tickled pink to get my thoughts on the matter.”
“Why don’t you do that?” If that anger warming her neck was pride, she’d best get to talking to God about it, because it was running over her something fierce. Although why should she be mad? She always carried on like she was an irresponsible, untamable youth. She shouldn’t be so surprised when someone treated her like one.
“Betsy, I nearly forgot. Your uncle’s papers came in with the train last night—the whole mess of them.” With a toss of his head, Finley motioned her inside the post office. Betsy could barely stand still, waiting for him to pull the bundle of papers from beneath the cabinet. As soon as she could reach them, she snatched them from his hands.
“And a letter, too,” he called.
She found room for the letter in her waistband, because she needed both hands to flip through the newspapers. The St. Louis Post and Dispatch, the Philadelphia Record, the Boston Globe . . . the Kansas City Star! There it was.
Sticking the rest beneath her arm, she unfolded the paper and held it wide as she hurried toward the newspaper office. Nothing on the first page, of course, nor would there be anything in the news section. She flipped the paper over and greedily scanned the columns on the back page. Usually the women’s articles and the serial stories were near the back, and that was where she hoped to see her story, but it wasn’t there. Had it come out in this edition? She opened the back page and began to work her way forward. Nothing, nothing. Then there it was, on page two! And it had her pen name right there: E. M. Buckahee. So they’d decided to run it with the real news after all?