“I contribute to the meal. More than my share. Besides, it’s not the food I’m after. It’s the delicious company.” If the people of Garber could see how he acted with Betsy, no one could accuse him of being in love with Mary Blount. As different as night and day.
Betsy bloomed a fetching pink while forcing her mouth into a pout. “If it’s my company you’re after, you should know that I’m pacing in this room nearly every hour of the day, fighting cabin fever. No reason to wait until suppertime.”
“Actually it wasn’t your company I had a hankering after. It’s those Hopkins sisters. They’re the real reason—”
But he didn’t finish before Betsy slugged him in the chest—just as he’d hoped, for it gave him an excuse to catch her by the waist and pull her to himself.
Silently they embraced, basking in the companionship, the possibility that just maybe they’d found someone who belonged solely to them. Betsy snuggled into his arms as if she didn’t want for anything else the world had to offer, and Joel prayed he’d be enough for her. She had ambition. She craved excitement. Would she be willing to sacrifice some of that for him? For a family?
She drew a long, contented breath and nearly purred. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind and decided you didn’t need me after all.”
His arms tightened. “I need you. I need you here for me to come home to. I can’t imagine ending my day without seeing you.”
Betsy looked up, puzzled by his urgency. “But you’ve been here.”
“Not here.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for staying out of this mess. More like than not it’s going to involve people you know. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Don’t forget,” she said, “I know how to take care of myself.”
“How about you let me take care of you?” Then, before she could rekindle the debate, he lifted a finger. “I told you that I need you, and with the sheriff talking, Fowler coming in, and the hunt for Bullard on, we might be close to a breakthrough.”
She stepped out of his arms. “Now that it’s just the two of us, why don’t you tell me why those men are here?”
Joel’s boots suddenly felt like they were pinching his toes. “Those men? I told you, they’re checking up on me.”
“But why? If they were concerned, why didn’t they come sooner, like when you arrived? Did they hear about Sheriff Taney getting shot?”
Joel turned and began to fiddle with the newspaper rack. “No. They hadn’t heard until they got here.”
“Did someone send for them?” she asked.
Joel’s chest squeezed tight. Oh, Betsy. He didn’t want to tell her. He couldn’t tell her. The shame would be too great. Without thinking, he picked up an out-of-state paper and set about tidying it. Someday she had to know. He just hadn’t figured on how to say it. Would she understand?
“What’s wrong, Joel? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Betsy reached for the paper he held, but before he could hand it over, something caught his eye. It was his name, printed on an inner page that had slipped out of place. He pulled the paper away from her. A quick scan revealed his name repeatedly in the column, but it wasn’t his name. Not exactly.
“Deputy Eduardo Pickett?” he asked.
Betsy’s lips went tight. Her blue eyes snapped with—what was it, fear? “What? Why would you say that?”
Joel scanned the column, not believing his eyes. “Deputy Eduardo Pickett of Pine Gap, Missouri.” He blinked, but the names didn’t change. “And it says here that Deputy Pickett is from Texas.”
“In the New Orleans paper?” Betsy’s hands were shaking as she wiped them against her skirt. “How odd.”
The lines of print wavered, and his voice sounded far away. “According to this, Deputy Pickett spends his time tracking a gang called the Bald Knobbers.”
“Obviously it’s not you,” Betsy said.
“‘. . . a dark Adonis breathing fire that inflamed the heart of any lady who witnessed his approach . . .’” Joel’s neck was red. His face was red. His mood was black. “‘. . . the envy of every man and the dream of every woman.’”
“Look how dark it is.” Betsy moved to the window. “When did it get so late?”
His supper soured his stomach. “When I first got here, you called me Eduardo, didn’t you? You made up some excuse, but that’s what you called me.”
She shrugged. “It’s a common enough name.”
“And then yesterday I was stopped by the girls at the schoolhouse, and I have a sneaking suspicion that they’ve read this.”
Her eyes darted to the cabin, where the Hopkins sisters were staying. “I don’t think they know how to read,” she said. “And I know they don’t get the New Orleans paper.”
“But they heard it somewhere. Is this why Mrs. Sanders asked me if I’d pulled a little girl from the well?”