Betsy was smart, but Sissy now occupied the head position in the cabin. Once Sissy and Uncle Fred started adding to their family, Betsy’s cot was moved to the office, and no matter how much they tried to ease the situation, she couldn’t help but feel in the way.
Sitting at the desk, Betsy found her pencil and notepad. She supposed that most every child had a maiden aunt to dote on them and fill the gaps when Mother wouldn’t suffice, but she hadn’t reckoned on filling that position once her little cousins had grown. One by one, the boys left home to get married and live on their own homesteads, leaving only Scott and Betsy behind.
What did she want? She wanted to be out of Uncle Fred and Sissy’s way, but she didn’t know how. God had put her amid good friends and family, but she hadn’t found her place here. Like getting a stiff new pair of winter boots, her toes were getting pinched every time she barged into the kitchen, which used to be her domain, and found Sissy at the stove. But after living in town, going home to live at her parents’ farm seemed a banishment.
Uncle Fred’s little newspaper didn’t make enough to allow him to pay her much. Not enough for her to buy a cabin on her own. She’d have to write for a bigger paper for that, which was exactly what she’d been attempting.
Week after week, Betsy reported on the vigilante groups that protected the hills, but similar reports were coming in from all over southwestern Missouri. Whether they called themselves the Bald Knobbers, the Anti-Horse-Thief Association, the Regulators, or the Honest Men’s League, they all operated in much the same way, and Kansas City wasn’t buying any reports from a novice like her.
Now with the governor appointing a new deputy to end the Bald Knobbers’ reign, there’d be even less to write about.
Unless . . .
She chewed on the end of her pencil. Her submissions before had reported the facts. She’d described the various crimes, expounded on the fears of the citizens, and detailed the activity of the bad guys, but the stories weren’t that unusual. She had to do something different. Instead of reporting only the dry, indisputable facts, Betsy would write a serial fiction piece just like Dickens did, but not as wordy. She would craft articles for the ladies’ section of the paper and fill it with characters that they found fascinating.
And the inspiration for her most important character had just dropped into town like a gift from heaven.
Clive Fowler did an able job as leader of the Bald Knobbers, but he wasn’t hero material. What would keep the ladies waiting for the next installment of the newspaper would be reading about one man against the gang, one lone lawman from Texas who spoke with a slow drawl and wore a double-breasted cavalry shirt, tall boots, and a shiny star. She’d be careful what she said about him in the stories—she’d even give him an alias—and if her story ever saw the light of day, it’d be in faraway Kansas City. No one from Pine Gap would ever know.
Naturally, the deputy must never find out. The memory of his stern brow caused her a moment’s unease. He wouldn’t appreciate the interference, but he wasn’t the only one with a job to do. There was no reason that they couldn’t both accomplish their objectives without troubling his handsome face. Betsy smiled. She wouldn’t have to exaggerate his looks, that was for certain. As long as he was brave and capable, she’d have plenty to work with. He needed to love the Lord, keep his neck clean, be good with children—that always wrung the hearts of the female readers—and be respectful of his elders, polite, charming. Let one smile of his send the ladies into vapors—
Snap! Betsy’s pencil broke in her mouth. She’d gotten carried away. She spat the pieces into her hand, picked a splinter of wood out from between her teeth, then with a frown flicked it away. The sharp end still functioned.
Time to get to work.
Chapter 4
By dawn’s light, Betsy was scrambling through the printing office, searching for another blank tablet. After working half the night, she’d gone to bed thinking about the deputy—or the idea of him, anyway—and now she was itching to get the rest of her nocturnal musing on paper.
This man, in which all the attributes of manliness since Adam were assembled, surveyed the sleepy village in the valley. It would be his domain, under his protection. He would guard her as a jealous lover, and woe to the man who dared trifle with her. But although he’d determined that her care was his life’s work, he had yet to win her heart. First he had to pry her away from the destructive hold the evil one had on her and woo her to himself.