But Joel recognized stubborn, especially stubborn from the Murphy and Huckabee lines. Fred wouldn’t be doing any talking with these men present. Just last night Joel had declared himself a suitor for Betsy. Even if things had changed, he could draw on that connection to give Fred the time he sought.
“Gentlemen,” said Joel, “this conversation is of a personal nature. The lady I’m courting, Miss Betsy Huckabee, is of this family. This here is her uncle and her cousin.” Then he pointed at the grizzled mountain man who was giving him the stink eye. “And this gentleman is . . .”
“Betsy’s pa,” he growled, startling blue eyes pinning Joel from beneath a black floppy hat.
Joel shrank back a step. Maybe claiming kinship with the Murphys wasn’t such a good idea. “Yes, this is Betsy’s pa, so this is a family discussion.”
But at the detective’s surprised look, Joel realized that an unexpected visit from a stern father might not swing their opinion in his favor. Come to think of it, what if Mr. Huckabee was here to dress him down over something Betsy had told him? Well, Joel would just have to take it, but not in front of the government men.
The detective sidled up to Joel. “You say this Miss Huckabee is a friend of yours? Where could we find her?”
No way in the world was Joel about to give up Betsy’s location, especially considering three of her blood kin were staring him down.
The detective took in the general attitude of the crew and motioned to Officer Harrison. “I think we’ll do fine on our own. Let’s go.”
Mr. Huckabee and Fred stepped aside to let them pass, and once they were gone, Fred nudged Scott forward. Scott walked like a hundred-year-old man, probably the only time Joel had ever seen Scott not excited to see him.
“I’m here, Deputy Puckett, to turn myself in.” Scott fiddled with a rough kerchief tied around his neck. “For killing a Bald Knobber.”
Chapter 35
“Here comes the constables,” Josiah said. “Don’t we have enough trouble on our hands?”
And they were turning in at the printing office. Josiah swung the door open before the men could knock, giving Betsy little time to compose herself.
“Good morning, fellas. How can I help you?” Josiah asked.
The stout officer in front sized Josiah up, but his partner looked right past him to Betsy. Why hadn’t she gone inside the cabin? She was in no mood to visit with another lawman at the moment.
“I’m Officer Harrison. I understand this is the newspaper office.” He stood with one broad shoulder angled into the door, as if ready to hold it open should Josiah decide to close it in his face. And his face looked like it might have had many doors slammed on it already.
Josiah looked pointedly at the printing press, the trays of type, and the newspaper racks. “What do you know? It is the newspaper office,” he exclaimed. Her brother was a born antagonist, and the years had only strengthened the inclination.
Holding her skirts tight to her knees and making herself as small as possible, Betsy edged to the wall as the other man introduced himself as Detective Cleveland. He hadn’t overlooked her like the officer had. As the officer droned on with small talk about the weather, the detective watched her. From her mussed hair, to her inky apron, to her blackened fingers, then to her desk—he’d placed her. He seemed to have already figured out what no one else in Pine Gap had—that Betsy did more than report to Uncle Fred and set type.
Why hadn’t she dived into the cabin while she still had the chance?
The detective raised his hand and silenced Officer Harrison. When he spoke it was to Josiah, although he kept his eyes on her. “You wouldn’t know a Miss E. M. Buckahee, would you?”
Josiah’s mouth twisted, and the bluffing face he always wore when dared to do the impossible slipped on. “I don’t know anyone of that name. Honest. There are no Buckahees in Pine Gap.” But that story would only buy them a little time. No use in delaying the inevitable.
Gripping her apron, Betsy spoke up. “There are no Buckahees here, but I am a Huckabee. You must be referring to my pen name.”
“She’s not done anything wrong.” Josiah stepped between them. “If you hadn’t wanted us to poke fun at that deputy, then you shouldn’t have sent him here. He’s a fish out of water—”
“Miss Huckabee is in no trouble. Actually we’re very impressed with her work and want to know more. Much more.” The detective pulled a stool out and set it in front of Betsy. Sitting with one boot heel hooked on the brace and his arms crossed in front of his chest, he shifted a bit to find a comfortable spot before asking, “So tell me, Miss Huckabee, how much of your stories are true?”
Her throat jogged. “My stories? Well, I didn’t put them on the second page of the Kansas City paper. I submitted them for the serial portion, which is fiction.”
“Kansas City? I’m sure the Kansas City readers are impressed, but it’s the out-of-state readers who’ve rattled our chain.”
“Rattled? What do you mean?”
“Your articles have brought a dangerous situation to our attention,” the officer said. “We came here to investigate, and I’m sorry to say, we find it even worse than you described.”