Joel tossed the burnt remains of his breakfast out the back of the jailhouse. No morning meal with the Murphys this morning. It would be more than he could bear.
He dropped the charred skillet on the stove and leaned his forehead against the bars of the cell. The cold iron felt soothing after the burning thoughts he’d wrestled with all night. He really did need to find a place to board. With the sheriff convalescing in one cell, Joel would have to sleep in his chair if they found Bullard.
Joel ran his hands through his hair and scruffed it up good, wishing he could rough all thoughts of Betsy out of his mind. Thinking on her had kept him up half the night, and now he was dragging around this morning. She was interfering with his work, even though she was nowhere near.
What was she thinking, writing about him like that? He reached beneath his hat on his desk and dragged the papers out now that it was light enough to read again. Where did she get her ideas? Turning the cat rescue into saving a child? Under her pen, Pritchard became a dangerous bushwhacker that he alone could rein in. And Fowler . . . well, she didn’t have to exaggerate about him any. He was a rival for any man. But surely she was mocking Joel. Knowing Betsy and her sarcasm, he could only imagine how she must have laughed while writing his supposed exploits.
The only things she got right were her descriptions of him—dark hair, brooding eyes, strong jaw. Although how could she make out his jawline from beneath his beard? The paper rustled as he tossed it back on his desk and made his way to the mirror above the washbasin. Joel ran his hand along his jaw. It’d probably be even more noticeable if he kept his beard trimmed shorter.
He jerked his hand away. Why was he standing around gawking at the same face that met him in the mirror every morning? He couldn’t let his vanity get the best of him.
His blood started boiling again. Why did she have to ruin everything? Maybe someday he’d forgive her, but he couldn’t trust her. If he got to keep his job, he’d have to keep her away. Maybe it was time for him to move on after all.
Bending over, he dunked into the basin and then shook his head, flinging water on the mirror. He scrubbed the water into his hair, enjoying the bracing cold on his scalp. He’d felt sorry for Betsy, a woman of her energy living with her uncle’s family, obviously longing for something more. He should be proud of her. With her writing, she’d achieved something remarkable.
In the beginning she’d assured him that matrimony wasn’t her aim. At least she’d told the truth then, but where did that leave him? If she didn’t have a story to write, would she want to spend time with him? Were her smiles really for him, or were they for Eduardo? And just as important, if they were to marry, what outlandish names would she come up with for their children? Eduardo? Really?
He’d better get moving before Sheriff Taney awoke and needed tending or before those detectives appeared. But before he’d finished, he heard voices. Brushing the water droplets from his shoulder, he buttoned up the bib on his cavalry shirt and stepped outside. Detective Cleveland and Officer Harrison came down the hill from the Sanderses’ boardinghouse, and just behind them was a small group of horsemen that included some friends of his.
“Good morning, Deputy,” Officer Harrison said. “Looks like you got company coming.”
Saddle leather creaked as Fred and Scott Murphy dismounted. Joel didn’t know Scott was back in town, or why Fred needed to be on horseback when he lived just down the street, but he looked like he’d ridden a piece already that morning. They conferenced with the rough mountaineer who’d arrived with them before coming up the steps.
Scott looked small between the two men, as if he’d shrunk inside himself since the last time Joel had seen him. He looked about as excited as a condemned man looking at a noose. Another look at Fred’s grim face, and Joel knew this wasn’t just a youngster being moody. The three of them stood before him, Fred with his hand on his son’s shoulder. The lines around his eyes had darkened, and his face looked like it’d weathered a storm overnight. Scott’s face had bleached as white as bones in the desert.
Fred avoided eye contact with Detective Cleveland and Officer Harrison. “Deputy Puckett, is there somewhere we can go to speak in private?”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. Officer Harrison harrumphed. “We are officers of the law, sir. We are obliged to listen to any dealings with this deputy.”