Printer in Petticoats (2 page)

Chapter Two

“P
opgun press!” Jessamine screeched. “
Popgun?
Just who does this Cole Sanders think he is?”

Elijah Holst, her printer's devil, pushed his scruffy cap off his forehead with fingers stained black with ink and aimed a squirt of tobacco juice into the spittoon beside his stool.

“Fer as I kin tell, Miss Jessamine, he's the gent across the street with the fancy Ramage press.”

“Gent! He's no ‘gent,' Eli. He's an interloper. An opportunist. A muckraker.”

“No, he ain't. He's jest another newspaper editor, same as you.”

“He is not the same as me, not by a long shot. He's rude and uncouth and—”

“I hear tell he's hired the Ness girl to set type fer him.”

“What? Noralee? How
could
she?”

“Beggin' yer pardon, Jess, but you cain't blame the girl. When she wanted to come work for the
Sentinel
, you wouldn't hire her.”

* * *

Cole lowered his paintbrush, climbed down from the ladder and stepped backward across the street to admire his handiwork.

Crisp black lettering marched across the doorway of the bank building he'd rented, and the name he'd carefully stenciled sent a surge of satisfaction from his brain all the way into his belly. By golly, this was better than a perfectly grilled rare steak. Better than the sight of the snow-covered Rocky Mountains. Better even than sex.

Well, maybe not better than sex. Nothing was better than holding a woman in his arms, or undressing her slowly and...

Hell and damn. He could hardly stand remembering how it had been. He'd spent long, heated nights in Maryann's arms, stroking her body and thinking he was the luckiest son of a gun on the planet.

Oh, God, remembering it felt as if something were slicing into his gut. Never again, he swore. Never, never, never again.

He refocused on the name he'd chosen for his newspaper, the
Lake County Lark
. Then he climbed back up on the ladder and added his own name in smaller printing below, followed by the word
Editor
.

This called for a shot of something to celebrate. He plopped his brush in a half bucket of turpentine and strode down the boardwalk to the Golden Partridge.

The portly redheaded bartender gave him the once-over. “New in town, huh?”

“Yeah, you might say that.” He reached over the polished expanse of mahogany to offer his hand. “Cole Sanders. Just came in yesterday with my printing press and a couple bales of newsprint.”

The man's rust-colored eyebrows rose. “Already got a newspaper in Smoke River, Mr. Sanders. Guess nobody told you, huh?”

“Yeah, they told me. Decided to come anyway.”

“Care for a farewell drink?”

Cole laughed. “Sure. But make it a welcome-to-town shot of whiskey. I'm staying.”

“It's your funeral, mister. You met Jessamine Lassiter?”

“Jessamine, huh? Works at the
Sentinel
office?”

“
Owns
the
Sentinel
.” The barkeep moved away, sloshed liquor into a shot glass and slid it down to Cole. “Name's Tom O'Reilly, Mr. Sanders. I'd welcome you to town, but I figure you ain't gonna be here long.”

“Care to bet on that? I just finished painting the name on my newspaper office. Paint isn't even dry yet.”

Tom moved out from behind the bar, tramped over to the batwing doors and peered out. “
Lake County
Lark
, is it? Kinda fancy for a small town like this.”

“Maybe.” Cole sipped his whiskey.

“Gotta hand it to you, Mr. Sanders. Takes nerve to run a newspaper out West.”

“Not as much nerve as running a newspaper in Kansas. An
abolitionist
newspaper.” He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.

A tall gent, nattily dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and what looked like a new bowler hat, pushed through the doors and approached the bar. He nodded at O'Reilly. “The usual, Tom.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Arbuckle. You met the new editor of the
Lake County Lark
?”

Arbuckle swiveled toward Cole and slapped his hat onto the bar. “Did you say newspaper editor?”

Cole nodded. “Cole Sanders,” he volunteered.

“Conway Arbuckle. Next Lake County district judge. Election's in November. Can I count on your support?”

“Well, I—”

“The
Sentinel
's backing my opponent, Jericho Silver.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It's really no contest, the way I see it. Me, I've got a law degree, whereas I'd swear that half-breed sheriff never got past grade school. He's figuring on ‘reading law' to pass the bar exam. His wife got him a set of law books for a wedding present, see, but then she turned around and had twins last summer. Not gonna help him study law, I'm thinking.”

“You married, Mr. Arbuckle?”

“Me? Nah. Never met a woman I couldn't live without, know what I mean?”

Cole signaled for another shot. No, he did not know. He'd lost the only woman he couldn't live without, but he was still breathing in and out, so he guessed he was still alive. Some days it didn't feel like it, though.

He sucked in a deep breath. “On second thought, Tom, forget the refill. Gotta get back to the office. I'm training a new typesetter.”

Arbuckle frowned. “What about endorsing my candidacy, Sanders?”

Cole studied the man. Looked respectable, even with the shiny bald head under his new hat. Sounded halfway educated. Besides, a friendly rivalry between the two newspapers in town would boost his circulation. “Sure. Stop by the office tomorrow morning for an interview.”

On the way down the street, he strolled past the
Sentinel
office to admire his paint job from her vantage point. Jessamine, huh? Pretty name. Starchy girl. But at least she wasn't likely to burn down his press because he backed an unpopular cause.

* * *

At the sound of Eli's scratchy voice, Jessamine dropped her gaze to the lined notepad on her desk and drew in a lungful of hot-metal-scented air.

“You gonna hurry up and finish that editorial so's I kin git to work on it?” Eli queried.

She snatched the stub of her pencil from between her teeth and crossed out her last sentence. “In a minute, Eli.”

“Guess I'll eat my lunch, then.” He perched on his typesetting stool and unfolded a red gingham napkin to reveal four fat cookies and a shiny red apple.

“Whatcha starin' at out the window?”

“That man across the street. He's up on a ladder doing something suspicious.”

“Like what?” Eli rasped.

Jess pulled her attention away from the long legs on the fourth step of the ladder and studied instead the man's muscular shoulders and the tanned forearms that showed where he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I'd give a cookie to know what he's doing over there.”

“Want one of mine? Baked 'em myself. Brown sugar with raisins.”

Eli boarded with widowed Ilsa Rowell. Jess paid her son, Billy, twenty-five cents each week to deliver the
Sentinel
to the town subscribers, but even with Eli paying for his room and meals, Jess knew Ilsa was having a hard time. The MacAllister boy, Teddy, took the newspaper out to the ranchers in the valley on his horse; she was happy to pay Ilsa's son to do the town deliveries.

“Whyn'tcha go on over and ask him what he's doin', Jess?”

She jerked her eyes back to the article she was composing. “Don't be silly. A good reporter learns by watching what's going on.”

“And askin' questions,” he reminded her.

Aha! Now the man was climbing down off his ladder, and it looked as though he had a paint bucket in his hand. He walked backward into the street, and Jess got a good look at his handiwork.

“Oh, my goodness. The
Lake County Lark
? What kind of cockamamy name is
Lark
for a newspaper?”

“Sounds kinda ladyfied, don't it?”

“It does indeed, Eli. I think we won't worry about the
Lark
. It sounds too poetic for a newspaper out here in the West. And look! There's his name underneath. Coleridge Sanders. Coleridge! No doubt he fancies himself a writer of elegant prose.”

Eli crunched into his apple and Jess bent to finish the opening of her story about the new music academy in town. Maybe she'd also write an editorial about her rival newspaper in Smoke River.

Chapter Three

J
essamine waited impatiently beside the press as Eli swabbed the oily-smelling ink over the type and cranked out a proof copy. She snatched it off the press and with relish ran her gaze over her editorial.

New Editor Raises Questions

What red-blooded man would call his newspaper the
Lark
?

Is it because this editor, Mr. Sanders, intends to peck away like a bird at his competition, your long-established and well-regarded
Sentinel
?

Or is it because the man is just playing at the profession of journalism and has no intention of taking seriously the concerns of the Smoke River population?

Or could it be that the new editor, bearing the highfalutin name of Coleridge, an English Romantic poet, is just that—a romantic dreamer who lacks the manly strength to cope with the rough and ready Oregon West?

Jessamine Lassiter

Editor,
Smoke River Sentinel

The following afternoon another issue of the
Lark
was slipped under Jessamine's door.

Whoa, Nelly!

Is the editor of the
Smoke River Sentinel
questioning the masculinity of a rival newspaper editor based on his choice of
Lark
for a name and his parents' choice of Coleridge as his given name?

While this is not libelous, it is of questionable judgment for a supposedly unbiased journalist. This editor refuses to cast aspersions on the femaleness of Miss Lassiter. However, he does question the lady's good manners. In such a personal attack I perceive a tendency toward biased news reporting. I would expect better of a good journalist.

And I also expect an apology.

Coleridge Sanders

Editor,
Lake County Lark

That very afternoon Eli Holst marched across the street and handed Cole a copy of the latest edition of the
Sentinel
.

“Read the editorial page first,” Eli hinted with a grin.

Mea Culpa...

To the editor of the
Lake County Lark
: I sincerely apologize for any inappropriate personal remarks made in the previous issue of this newspaper regarding Mr. Sanders's masculinity.

Jessamine Lassiter

Editor, the
Sentinel

Cole settled into the chair at the corner table in the restaurant, stretched his long legs out to one side and picked up the menu. Rita bustled over, her notepad and pencil ready.

He had opened his mouth to order steak and fried potatoes when he spied someone in the opposite corner, hidden behind a copy of his afternoon edition of the
Lark
.

Well, well, well. Jessamine Lassiter. He recognized her dark green skirt bunched up under the table. Mighty flattering to find her reading
his
newspaper at supper.

Before he could stop himself he was on his feet and striding over to her table. He reached out his hand and pressed down the page of newsprint she held in front of her face until her eyes appeared.

“Interesting reading?” he inquired.

“Very interesting,” she said, her voice cool. But her cheeks pinked and thick dark lashes fluttered down over her gray-green eyes.

Cole signaled Rita and reseated himself at the table next to Jessamine's. “Like I said, Rita, I'll have steak and fried potatoes.”

The waitress flipped over her notepad and turned toward Jessamine. “And for you, Miss Jessamine?”

“She's having a big helping of humble pie tonight,” Cole drawled. It might be the last time he'd get the best of his sharp-tongued competitor, so he figured he'd better strike while he could.

Miss Lassiter gave him a look so frosty it sent a shiver up the back of his neck, and then she raised the newspaper to hide her face.

“Chicken,” came her voice from behind the page.

“Roasted or fried?” Rita asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“It was a comment, not a supper choice,” Jessamine said. “On second thought, I'm no longer hungry.”

Cole was on his feet before she could move, and once again he pressed down the newspaper she held aloft. “Truce, okay? You should eat supper.”

“What concern is that of yours, may I ask?”

“None. Just thought it would clear the air.”

She leaned forward and pinned him with a look. “Nothing will ever ‘clear the air' between us, Mr. Sanders.”

Cole sat down and leaned back in his chair. “How come? A war doesn't last forever. Even Bluebellies and Confederate soldiers have buried the hatchet.” Ostentatiously he shook out his copy of her latest
Sentinel
edition and propped it in front of his face.

They both read in silence until Rita returned with their dinners. “Steak for you, sir.” She set the sizzling platter before Cole. “And chicken for the lady.”

Jessamine huffed out an exasperated breath. “I didn't order—”

“Want to trade?” Cole interrupted. He lifted away her plate of fried chicken and slid his steak platter in its place.

“Well, I—”

Rita propped both hands on her ample hips. “Oh, go on, Miss Jessamine. He's right, ya gotta eat.”

Jess wanted to crawl under the dining table and bury her head in her hands. How could she have stooped to such low journalistic ethics?
How could she?

She knew better. Her father had set a better example than that. And Miles! Her brother had lost his life defending the
Sentinel
's policy of responsible journalism. The least she could do to honor his memory was play by the rules.

What had she been thinking?

She stole a glance at the rugged, suntanned face at the next table. It was
his
fault. That man had pushed her over the edge. His newspaper made her nervous. His presence rattled her. He had self-confidence, something she dearly wished she had more of. He was unflappable. Arrogant.

And he was laughing at her.

She couldn't stand being laughed at. Her father had laughed at her. From the time she was a baby, Ebenezer Lassiter had disparaged everything she had ever done, from making mud pies in the backyard of their Boston home to writing her first heartfelt poem to...well, just about everything she'd ever tried to do.

It was a wonder she'd grown up at all with his belittling and not withered away to a husk. If it hadn't been for her mother and her brother, Miles, she would never have survived.

Sometimes she wondered if she
had
survived. Certainly she lacked confidence in everything she'd ever tried to do, and now she found herself saddled with running a newspaper, of all things. How Papa would have laughed!

But Papa was no longer here to criticize her until she dissolved in tears. She squared her shoulders. She had not wept in over a year.

* * *

The next afternoon Jess looked up from her desk to see a figure racing past the front window, then another and another. The pounding on the boardwalk outside the
Sentinel
office sounded like thunder before a storm.

She frowned and sank her teeth into her pencil. Where was everyone going in such a rush? Then she grabbed up her notepad and bolted for the door. Her nose for news, as Miles had described it, was twitching as if it smelled something burning on a hot stove. Whatever it was, she'd break speed records to report it before Cole Sanders heard about it.

The crowd swept her along to the railroad station, where townspeople were milling about the platform. The train from the East had just pulled in. Pooh, that wasn't newsworthy unless someone important was on it. Governor Morse? General Custer? Maybe Jenny Lind? She elbowed her way to the front.

No one got off the train. Instead the engine rolled forward two car lengths to reveal the cattle car. Oh, for heaven's sake, everyone in the county had cows! There was nothing newsworthy in that unless one of them had two heads.

The crowd oohed and aahed and fell back to reveal the most beautiful horse Jess had ever laid eyes on, a handsome chocolate-colored mare. The animal stepped daintily down the loading ramp and Jess caught her breath. The horse was led by That Man. Cole Sanders.

“That's a purebred Arabian,” someone yelped.

“Damn right,” That Man said. He caressed the animal's sleek head, then leaned forward and said something she couldn't hear into the creature's silky ear. She could swear the horse nodded.

“How come ya didn't ride her out here?” an elderly man shouted.

Cole looked up. “Would you hitch a thousand-dollar horse to a freight wagon?” he yelled.

“Guess not,” the man admitted.

Was there a news story in this? Jess wondered. Maybe. Something glimmered at the edge of her mind, something about a man called Coleridge playing nursemaid to a horse.

She fished her pencil out of her skirt pocket, plopped onto a bench in the shade and began to scribble.

* * *

Cole watched the kid load newspapers into a saddlebag and ride out of town on his roan mare. He took his time saddling up Dancer, then cantered after the boy. Wasn't hard to catch up; the kid stopped at every ranch along the road to Gillette Springs.

Finally he trotted Dancer out in front of the roan and signaled. “Hold up, son.”

The boy reined in. “Something wrong, mister?”

“Nope. Just doing a little reconnaissance, you might say.” He leaned over to offer a handshake. “Name's Cole Sanders. Editor of the new paper in town.”

“I'm Teddy, uh, Ted MacAllister. I'm delivering the Wednesday edition of the
Sentinel
for Miss Jessamine.”

“Mind if I ride along? I'm new to this part of the country.”

“No, I don't mind.”

“Might have a man-to-man discussion with you about your subscribers.”

Teddy's chest visibly swelled. “Sure. Gosh, that's a fine-lookin' horse you got, mister.”

“She's an Arabian. Name's Dancer. Like to ride her?”

The kid's face lit up like Christmas. “Could I? Really?”

Cole reined up and dismounted. “Sure. Let's trade for a few miles.”

The boy slid off his roan so fast Cole thought his britches must be burning. He held Dancer's bridle while Teddy mounted, then hoisted himself into the roan's saddle.

“Hot-diggety, a real live Arabian!”

Cole laughed and fell in beside him. Kinda reminded him of himself at that age, young and green and working hard to hide it.

Well, he wasn't green now, and he had a score to settle. Not only had Jessamine Lassiter impugned his manhood in her editorial; she had implied he wasn't a real journalist, that he lacked both concern for Smoke River and the strength to take on the rough Oregon West.

No one, especially not a snip of a girl with a stubby pencil in her hand, said he wasn't a professional journalist.