Her Dearly Unintended

by Regina Jennings

  Maybe she could write a sentimental story for the ladies’ page—some fictional piece that would put her name in the paper and some money under her mattress. It wouldn’t hurt to try. She needed to think of something to help her earn a place of her own. The current situation wasn’t conducive to her well-being.

  A whistle shrilled from outside. Was that the train? Betsy glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Eight o’clock, and there the whistle went again, probably to alert the town that some poor soul had been abandoned at the depot. She set the kettle on the table and wiped her hands on the checkered dishtowel. She might be hungry, but she couldn’t stir onions when there was a mystery afoot.

  “Uncle Fred? Did you hear the train?” Pushing open the door between the newspaper printing office and their living quarters, she found him leaning over the press, arranging a troublesome line of type.

  He brushed at his forehead. His stained sleeve protector branded a smudge of ink right above his glasses. “The train? It’s certainly late.”

  The door to the outside flew open and her fifteen-year-old cousin Scott burst in. “That was the train, Pa.” Even thin as he was, the way he wiggled, you’d think there was a whole litter of puppies beneath his shirt. He rushed to his pa, nearly bumping the typesetting tray onto the floor. “Do you reckon the new deputy was on that train?”

  Uncle Fred caught the tray by the corner and tugged it to the center of the desk. “Go tell Sissy that we’re coming in for supper. You aren’t going after a train.”

  Betsy waited until her cousin, arms dangling and lip protruding, sulked into the cabin. As soon as the door fell closed behind him, she turned to her uncle. “What about me? Am I going after a train?”

  Uncle Fred placed the quoin lock into the chase to lock down the print before stepping away from the press. “I am awfully curious about that new deputy from Texas.” He flashed his ready grin, then waved an inky palm back toward the kitchen.

  The family was already seated at the table. Sissy, or Aunt Sissy as she was to be called now, had finished feeding Baby Eloise and commenced to dishing out the squirrel and onions. Scott held his other half-sister Amelia on his knee, bouncing her and eliciting squeals of delight. Now that he was nearly grown and had a stepmother to look after him, Scott didn’t need his older cousin Betsy anymore. No matter how she helped in the newspaper office, her presence was a strain on the growing family—a strain that none of them would mention, but it troubled her sorely.

  Betsy took her plate from Sissy and dove in.

  “Sit down and eat with us for once, Betsy.” Sissy wasn’t that much older than Betsy, but she tried to make the gap feel wider with sternness. “Between the chores and the press, you’ve been on your feet all day.”

  Ignoring the sitting down part, Betsy shoveled in a few bites. The sun was going down, and that was when things started happening among the steep cliffs and dark hollows. She wouldn’t find a fantastic story sitting at the table with Uncle Fred and Aunt Sissy. Her destiny was bigger than that.

  Tossing her plate into the sink, Betsy planted a kiss on Amelia’s little cheek as she hurried past. She didn’t quite hear what Sissy was calling, so she waved a hand over her head as she entered the office and shouted back, “I’ll be careful.”

  She grabbed her cousin’s coat off its hook and pulled it over her calico dress. No clouds out tonight, so she’d be able to see well enough. Her desk rattled as she opened the drawer, removed the letter from her pocket and gently placed it alongside the other rejections she’d collected, and then she extinguished the lantern and snatched a hat of her uncle’s before heading outside.

  Pausing next to the house, she heard Sissy’s words through the window. “I know she’s always scuttled around unaccompanied, but it really isn’t fitting. She’s a young lady—”

  Betsy growled. Not true. She was no longer a young lady. She’d already weathered the painful season where everyone from the postmaster’s wife to the auctioneer tried to get her hitched to some yokel. That was behind her. They’d finally given up, leaving Betsy to live the life she enjoyed, free from having to justify her decision to any chaw-jaw who wanted to opine on the matter. She’d rejected every available man who was interested and since there was no one new to strike up speculation, she was safe.

  At the sound of thundering hooves, her heart sped. They were riding tonight. Where were they going? Had they found Miles Bullard? How she wished she could join them and see the action first hand.

  Betsy jogged to the corner of the town square so she could better see them as they passed. She began her mental tally of whom she suspected and who she’d cleared. Down the street Postmaster Finley was pulling his shutters closed on his family rooms above the post office. She hadn’t expected that the shady postmaster was one, especially since his family usually fell on the wrong side of the law. What about Doc Hopkins? He’d been to town earlier. Had he had time to get decked out in his ruckus-raising clothes?

  Here they came, shouting excitedly and waving their bundles of sticks over their heads. They looked a fright, but Betsy wasn’t scared of them. They were all local men, most of them quite decent and law-abiding until the law failed them. As much as she liked Sheriff Taney, he had let them down. If he couldn’t handle everything on his own, then they were lucky someone was willing to step in.

  She watched as they streamed by and tried to memorize the various masks and disguises. Clive Fowler was easy to recognize. Couldn’t hide size under a burlap sack. Besides him, she couldn’t positively identify anyone. They streamed by, whooping it up, but one seemed less gleeful. He rode a fine horse that she suspected as being from the Calhouns’ farm. He wasn’t Jeremiah…

  “Hey, Mr. Pritchard,” she called.

  It was a shot in the dark, but it struck the bull’s eye. The mask turned to her. She couldn’t see his expression, but she did note the long hair emerging from the bottom of his hood. Yep, another Bald Knobber identified.

  He raised his branches and shook them at her. A warning, but Betsy smiled. She didn’t mean any harm, and Mr. Pritchard knew it. She just couldn’t stand to leave a mystery be. Not if there was a chance on her figuring it out.

  Leaves scattered as the riders turned on the square and headed down toward the river. Whatever campaign they were on would be finished by the time she reached them. Following them was out of the question, but maybe she’d spot a few of them sneaking home after she checked on the train.

  Shoving her hands into her pockets, Betsy started up over the hill toward the depot. Even she didn’t like to walk outside of town after dark, not on the road anyway. Come around the wrong bend, and you might see a fight commencing. You might see someone sneaking home after a night of carousing. But what was worse, someone bad might see you. Although Betsy had no enemies herself, outlaws of all persuasions found the heavily-wooded Ozarks a good place to lay low, hide their loot, and live off the land… or at least off of whatever sundry goods they could appropriate from the locals. You didn’t want to stumble across those folks on a lonely trail. Even the sheriff found it safer to stay at the jailhouse and shoot the bull.

  But not Betsy. Once she got out of the safety of town, she’d take to the brush and cut through thick patches. Besides, the Bald Knobbers were riding tonight. They’d done a lot to quell the orneriness. If you didn’t mind their methods, you’d have to say Pine Gap was much improved by them.

  Betsy reached the crossroads at the ridge. Straight ahead led to the depot. Take a left and she’d end up at the sale barn. Instead of either of those options, she’d step off the road onto a rabbit trail and proceed from there. Aunt Sissy thought she was in danger, but once she was in the shadows, no one would see her.

  But she wasn’t in the shadows yet, and here came a stranger.

  The man wore a rumpled suit, cheap shoes not made for walking, and a floppy hat so big you could bathe a pig in it. His nose was bulbous while his chin was meager. He came down the hill roughly, like his knees were popping out of co
ntrol with every footstep.

  He took her measure as he approached. Betsy waited calmly. If this was the new deputy from Texas, she wasn’t going to disgrace her fellow woodsmen by gawking over him. Mustering all the poise she’d ever learned from her friend Abigail Calhoun, she lifted her chin and wiped every last sparkle of orneriness from her gaze.

  “Good evening, sir.” Her accent was Abigail’s, although slightly altered by her Ozark cadence.

  He didn’t even give her a second glance. “I suppose I’m on the right road to get to Mrs. Sanders’ house.”

  How she wished she had her slingshot, but he was the new deputy. Getting into his good graces could help her career immensely.

  “The widow Sanders lives right here at the corner. Is this where you’re staying?”

  The man ignored her and plowed past to the small cabin she’d indicated. Widow Sanders had the most ambitious garden in town. You couldn’t find a corner of the yard that wasn’t bedecked with the product of some bulb, flower, or vine. And the deputy strode through it like it was a field of nettles.

  Betsy hesitated. Surely Widow Sanders knew he was coming. She’d self-designated her home as the town’s boardinghouse, so Betsy had to assume she was prepared. And yet it seemed unthoughtful to leave a single woman to meet a strange man alone. Betsy would think of some excuse to insert herself into the conversation.

  He’d reached the front porch, but instead of knocking on the door, he burst right through. Betsy gasped. What was he thinking? It was straight-out evening and he just busted plumb into a woman’s house? Was that how deputies in Texas operated? The hair on the back of her neck pricked up. Walking backwards, she found a spot beneath a cedar where no light reached. Maybe she’d just sit a spell and watch. If everything looked alright—

  A scream sounded from inside. Betsy’s blood ran cold, then hot. She had to get help. She had to go—

  Betsy sprinted from the trees, but before she could breach the property line, she plowed right into a man and ricocheted off his solid mass. She was falling, on her way to a sharp landing on the rocks, when he caught her by her arm.

  “I don’t know what kind of place this is where men wear their clothes inside out and women fall out of trees,” he said.

  The first thing she noticed was the low drawl of his voice. The second, since she was dangling above the ground, the pointy toes of his boots. A cowboy? But before she could form an opinion, he jerked her upright and removed her oversized hat. “At least I think you’re a woman. You could be another rabble-rouser in disguise.”

  She finally caught a look at his face, and for the first time in her life, Betsy couldn’t speak. He was perfect. Not cute, not adorable, but strikingly handsome with enough power in his gaze to send a twinge of concern up her spine.

  He was talking. Pointing to Widow Sanders’ house. She watched his lips move. A trim beard covered his cheeks and jaw, and those eyes—what color were they?

  Still holding her arm, he shook her a little. “Of all the cotton-picking…” He dropped her arm, smashed her hat back on her head, and ran to the house.

  Now she looked at the rest of him. Taller than she was by a good half a foot and well-built. Dressed for traveling with a red cavalry-style shirt beneath his leather vest and coat. Where had he come from? To just show up at night in the middle of nowhere…

  Another scream rang out. Betsy blinked. Good thing that man hadn’t forgotten Widow Sanders, because she was slap-out of smarts. Quickly she followed.

  “Widow Sanders,” Betsy called to the open door. “Widow Sanders.”

  The cowboy stopped at the door and turned back to her. “Do you know the man who just walked in there?”

  “He’s the new deputy,” Betsy answered.

  He frowned—which was very attractive as far as frowns went. “Something ain’t right.”

  “Betsy? Is that you?” Widow Sanders came to the door carrying a candle with shaking hands. Her face looked like it’d been whitewashed. The deputy appeared behind her. He’d ignored Betsy before, but now he was grinning like she was his best friend.

  “Betsy? It’s not Betsy Huckabee, is it? You were still a baby when I left.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m Mr. Sanders, finally home.”

  Betsy looked to Widow Sanders, usually a well of competency, but she’d shrunk as if drained. “Mr. Sanders? I thought you were dead.”

  Widow Sanders’ eyes widened. “I never said that. I never told anyone he died. He was just gone…for a very long time.”

  Betsy wanted to pry, but the fear in Widow Sanders’ eyes stopped her.

  “You weren’t on the train,” the cowboy said. “How’d you get here?”

  Still reeling from the notion that Mr. Sanders was alive, Betsy could only now stop to wonder about the handsome one. Who was he?

  “I walked clear from Indian Territory,” Mr. Sanders said. “But if you’uns don’t mind, it’s getting late, and my wife and I have a lot of catching up to do.” He stepped forward, directing them away from the house.

  The cowboy’s jaw hardened. His gaze caught Widow Sanders dead to rights. Betsy shivered at the pent-up strength. “As long as you’re alright, Mrs. Sanders. I can stay if you’d rather.”

  Betsy’s jaw dropped open. This man had just stepped out of the bushes, and here he was acting like it was his job to protect Widow—Mrs.—Sanders. The nerve.

  The former-widow Mrs. Sanders watched her husband—Betsy couldn’t quite wrap her mind around that word—with wary eyes, then nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  The words thank you hadn’t left her mouth before the door shut, throwing Betsy and the stranger into the shadows.

  They stood side by side, looking at the closed door. Already Betsy was running through her mind the conversation she’d have with Uncle Fred. Imagine, Widow Sanders had a husband! But maybe Uncle Fred knew already. Was this one of those things adults didn’t discuss in front of the children and then forgot to tell you once you grew up?

  “What made you think he was the deputy?” the cowboy asked, obviously unconcerned with the very important internal discussion going on in Betsy’s head.

  She looked him over again. On occasion, Betsy was known to overindulge on candy and sweets, then later have a bellyache and wish she hadn’t gorged so. That was what she feared now, studying him. Tomorrow she’d need some coffee and jerky to chase away all the fluff.

  Only then did she notice the pistols gleaming from his gun belt. Another look at his cowboy hat and fancy boots, and a piece of information surfaced…a deputy from Texas. A handsome, young deputy from Texas.

  The inspiration for her story had just arrived.

  Chapter Three

  If the train had arrived on time, Joel would’ve met with the town fathers and would already be in his room, turning in for the night. Instead he’d stumbled into a bewildering maze of crooked trails, dense forests, and strange characters marauding through the night. He’d been told that another deputy had already arrived and then found that man involved in terrorizing a widow. Even worse, it looked like his best hope for an introduction to town was this starry-eyed miss. And Joel had sworn off starry-eyed misses.

  She kept throwing him sidelong glances, watching him through a stray lock of blond hair that danced in the breeze. A coy smile played about her lips. Uh-oh. She was fixin’ to be cute.

  “I just figured he was the deputy because he was slightly overweight, dull-witted, and smelled like he’d been sleeping in a vat of pickles.”

  Whatever surprise had rendered her speechless earlier had clearly lost its effect. Joel was tired, it was late, and he didn’t have time for this. “You must be very observant,” he said. “So I reckon you could direct me to the nearest boardinghouse?”

  “Without introductions? I don’t know how it’s done in Texas—”

  “Who said anything about Texas?”

  He’d caught her off guard. She waved her hand before her face. “Did I say Texas? I m
eant—”

  “And if you know I’m from Texas, then you’ve already figured out I’m the new deputy. You can call me Deputy Puckett. And you are…?”

  She paused just long enough to give weight to her words. “Going home.” She flashed a devastating smile and spun on her heel. “Good night,” she called over her shoulder, “and good luck.”

  He hadn’t seen that coming. But she was disappearing down the hill, her sure steps never faltering on the uneven terrain, and if he had any hope of finding a roof for his head, he couldn’t let her get away.

  “Wait a minute.” He jogged to catch up with her. She walked with the easy stride of young boy but with the prickly attitude of a railroad baron’s daughter. “The boardinghouse, if you don’t mind.”

  “Behind us. Widow Sanders is the only one who takes in boarders, but I doubt she’s looking to take anyone in tonight.”

  They’d reached a small hamlet. A few houses dotted the lane while lights shone between the trees, evidence of more buildings ahead. The lady had slowed, seemed to be listening for something, and then he heard it. An echo, a cry, surely the ruffians he’d seen at the train station. Why hadn’t he insisted on bringing his horse?

  Holding onto her hat, the young woman tilted her head back, almost like a wolf sniffing the air. The moonlight fell on her face. Quick eyes, intelligent brow, and a mouth designed for mischief. Did she have connections with the gang? She could’ve been sent to keep an eye on him while they conducted their devilment.

  “Where can I find Sheriff Taney? Surely he’ll help me make arrangements,” he said.

  “Sheriff Taney lives out past Dewey Bald. You won’t want to walk out there tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s where the gang is right now.”

  “Where the sheriff is? Then he’ll need my help.”

  “To do what?” she asked. “Sit by the fire and pretend he doesn’t hear them? I’d say he’s doing that well enough alone.”

  “Then I’ll go by myself.”

  “It’s not safe.”