As he sat on his snow-white steed, he heard the sound of unholy merriment ricocheting off the hills. His blue eyes held the secrets of the prairie sky, changeable and dangerous, striking fear into the most reckless outlaw’s breast.
Were his eyes blue? Betsy started to chew the end of her pencil but met the jagged edge from last night’s break. She really didn’t remember his eyes, or maybe she hadn’t seen them clearly in the dark. Well, she’d see them today. Hopefully he’d play along and do something heroic. After seeing his response to Widow Sanders’s dilemma last night, she had full confidence that he’d dive right into the fire. But even if he didn’t, she’d take what she got and embellish it to fulfill every female hope and dream.
She needed to come up with a first name for him, though. It should be something good. Tex? Ulysses? Maybe something foreign sounding, like a Spanish landowner. Alejandro? Eduardo?
Through the door to the cabin, she could hear Sissy stirring in the kitchen. Betsy set aside her draft, then, after double-checking the curtains on the front of the building, she shed her cotton nightdress and pulled on her shirt. The air in the office was cold, but the morning promised a sunny day. Good thing, because there was no telling where the deputy would lead her. She stepped into her skirt, worked it over her drawers, and tucked in her shirttails. She didn’t dare miss his first meeting with the townspeople. The whole situation was ripe for conflict, and she wanted to be there for every moment of it.
She rolled her nightclothes up beneath her pillow and tidied the bed. The door creaked as she pushed out of the office and into the cabin. The babies must still be asleep, because Sissy put a finger to her lips as Scott came in carrying the firewood.
The scent of Uncle Fred’s shaving soap warred against the aroma of eggs and bacon. His razor paused at his neck, and he shot Betsy a glance in the mirror. “What’d you find out about the train?”
Sissy tsked. “She should be home in bed, not gallivanting about.”
Betsy stole a piece of bacon straight from the skillet and sat on the table. “I forgot about the train. Can you believe that? So much happened.”
“It’s not fair.” Scott dropped the armload of kindling in the wood box. From the bedroom, they heard a baby begin to fuss.
Uncle Fred shook his head at his noisy, unrepentant son, then turned to Betsy, his face still foamed with soap. “Well?”
“First off,” Betsy said around a crunchy bite of bacon, “the Bald Knobbers were riding. I saw them pass through town, and then it sounded like they went up on Dewey Bald.”
“Do you think they were after Miles Bullard?” Scott asked.
“They had the bundles of sticks with them to give a warning. Bullard is wanted for murder. That’s a piece past a warning. If they find him—”
“You stay away from them,” Sissy said. “Those men are dangerous.”
“Pshaw.” Betsy waved away her concern. “They wouldn’t hurt me. I figured out another one, Uncle Fred. Mr. Pritchard—”
“Betsy!” Sissy stomped her foot. “You will not name a single member of that gang in this house.”
“Can we go in the office?” Betsy asked.
“I figured Pritchard was involved,” Uncle Fred said.
“Fred . . .” Sissy warned.
Uncle Fred twisted his mouth to the side, and Betsy nearly laughed at his predicament. He knew he shouldn’t encourage her to spy on them, but he was as curious as she was. And one never knew when such information might lead to a story—although like as not, it was information that couldn’t be published.
“Listen to your aunt,” he said. “Your parents wouldn’t appreciate me letting you tangle with them.”
Betsy was a full-out adult, but there was no use in fussing over it with Sissy. Uncle Fred didn’t mean it anyway.
“But the Bald Knobbers aren’t the best of it, by half. Did you know Widow Sanders was married . . . is married? I supposed, being a widow, that there’d been a husband at some time, but he showed up last night. Nearly scared her to death, and I surely didn’t know what to do.”
“Mr. Sanders is alive?” Uncle Fred exchanged a worried glance with Aunt Sissy. “What did she say?”
“She screamed like she’d been doused with ice water. After a bit she calmed down, but she still looked none too pleased. I don’t have a good feeling about him, Uncle Fred.”
He turned to the mirror and thoughtfully scraped the last of the shaving soap off his face. “I’m trying to remember what I heard of him, but to tell the truth, everyone just assumed he’d died in the war. Widow Sanders never wore mourning, now that I think of it. And she never asked for any sympathy, either. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I guess we just forgot about him.”
“He doesn’t seem to be the type that likes to be forgotten. He ran us off before we could ask too many questions.”
“Us?” Uncle Fred dried his neck.
Betsy crunched the bacon. “Yep. Me and the new deputy.”
“I knew it!” Scott hopped out of his seat and Sissy waved him back down.
Uncle Fred smiled wide. “You were busy.”