Printer in Petticoats (6 page)

As a dried-up spinsterish twenty-two, she was shocked by her reaction. But she was too old to force her hands into fists and beat him up for upsetting her. And Lord knew she was too young to know anything about men and what went on inside them. Cole had smiled at her, but what did that mean? The truth was that Cole Sanders kept her feeling off balance.

And no matter what he said about the advantages of their newspaper competition, she would bet he was just waiting for her to make a dire mistake so he could force her
Sentinel
out of business.

She straightened her spine. Whatever it was Cole Sanders wanted, she would never let him have it.

Chapter Seven

“M
r. Sanders?”

Cole kept his gaze on the page proof spread out on his desk. “Hmm? What is it, Noralee?”

“How do you know when you fall in love?”

“What?” His head jerked up. “What did you say?”

Noralee scuffed her leather heels against the bottom rung of her stool. “I said,” she repeated, annoyance coloring her voice, “how do you know when you fall in love?”

Cole stared into his typesetter's guileless brown eyes. “Well, uh...”

“My sister, Edith, she's my twin, she says your head goes all fuzzy and your heart doesn't beat right.”

“She does, does she?”

“Yeah. And she says your hands shake and—”

“Noralee, you shouldn't believe everything your sister tells you. Just ask yourself, how would
she
know?”

“Oh, Edith says she knows everything.”

“You believe that?”

Noralee studied the type stick cradled in her palm. “I dunno. That's why I asked you.”

Cole studied the girl's earnest face, then let his gaze drift out the front window.
How
did
you know when you fall in love?
Talk about a punch straight into his gut. Oh, shoot, he didn't want to remember.

“Mr. Sanders?”

“Well, um...”

“And don't tell me you just
know
. That's what Ma always says, but I think she says that cuz
she
doesn't really know.”

“Why wouldn't your mother know? She married your father, didn't she?”

“Yeah, but... But I think she did it just cuz Pa kept askin' her. Not cuz she was in love. And that's what Pa thinks, too.”

“Noralee, usually when people get married they care about each other. It might not be all flutters and blushes, but it's real all the same.”

“How do you know, Mr. Sanders? You ever loved anybody?”

Cole shut his eyes. God yes, he'd loved somebody. And his heart had pounded and his head had gone fuzzy and all the rest. It had been the most earth-shaking thing that had ever happened to him, and he knew right down to the bottom of his boots that he would never, ever forget it.

Or her. He swallowed over a sharp rock lodged in his throat and opened his eyes.

“Well,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Well, I think that, um, you should be sure to take your pulse every morning to check your heartbeat and see if you can remember your multiplication tables to check your brain.”

“Oh.”

“You any good at math?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“Okay, figure me this—how many articles can you typeset in an hour?”

“Depends on how long the articles are.”

“Right. Now, about—”

“You gonna answer my question, Mr. Sanders?” She poked out her lower lip and swung her heel against the stool rung.

“Look, Noralee, I'm not going to lie to you. When you fall in love you'll feel it in every single part of you, your head, your heart, right down to your big toe. You won't be able to miss it.”

Her brown eyes widened. “Really? Really and truly?”

“Really and truly.”

“Does it ever go away?”

“No, honey, it doesn't ever go away. So be careful who you fall in love with, you hear?”

He had to clear his throat again, but it didn't help. He could see Maryann in that blue gingham dress he loved, coming through the apple orchard as she always did when he worked late on the newspaper, and a sharp ache knifed into his belly.

He wondered if he'd ever be able to think of her without feeling as if he'd been hit over the head with a spiked shovel. Two spiked shovels.

Probably not. But Noralee didn't need to know that love hurt like hell and you never got over it. Noralee was only what, eleven years old? Plenty of time to get her young heart trampled to bits.

“You fancy a sarsaparilla?” he asked.

“Sure, Mr. Sanders.”

“I'll bring one from the Golden Partridge.”

He bolted for the door and the shot of whiskey waiting to ease that damn pain in his gut.

Chapter Eight

“W
hat about it, Sanders?” Conway Arbuckle pounded his fist on Cole's desk, right on top of Jessamine's latest editorial. “You gonna let that stuck-up
Sentinel
woman get away with that tripe she wrote about me?”

Cole stood up and turned his head to one side to avoid the man's beery breath. “Nothing libelous about her words, Arbuckle. Just pointed.” He exhaled. “And blunt.”

“Blunt! She's like a poker banging into my hide. What are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing, yet. The
Lark
doesn't come out until Friday.”

“Nothing! Either you cut that she-witch down to size or I'll...”

Cole raised one eyebrow. “Don't threaten me, Arbuckle.”

The man snapped his mouth shut, pivoted and stomped out the door. Behind him, Noralee coughed politely.

“That man's still got really bad breath.”

Cole laughed. “You don't like Arbuckle much, do you, Noralee?”

“No. And it isn't just his breath. He's mean. What are you going to do, Mr. Sanders?”

Cole thought that one over. True, Jessamine's latest editorial had hit hard on Arbuckle's weak spots, his blustery attitude, his arrogance, his preference for insulting his opponent personally rather than engaging the sheriff on specific issues.

He scanned the editorial again. “Bombastic...barbarian...bully...” Seemed she preferred the
B
words this week. Made for poetic reading matter, but she was skating on thin ice.

Well, so what? Let her punch a hole in the ice and sink. In this business she had to learn to be not only smart but tough. If the intrepid young editor of the
Sentinel
wanted to take potshots at Arbuckle, let her. And let her pay the piper.

Anyway, two could play at that game. He picked up his pen.

* * *

Jessamine slept late, bone-tired after scrambling to get the Wednesday edition of the
Sentinel
written, printed, folded and stuffed into Teddy's saddlebags and Billy Rowell's over-the-shoulder sack and then studying the soprano vocal part for tonight's rehearsal.

Her small upstairs bedroom was freezing cold, and while she could hear Eli chunking wood into the potbellied stove downstairs in her office, she knew the heat wouldn't penetrate to the second floor for at least an hour. She snuggled down under the double layer of quilts and waited for the sun to hit the windows and warm up the room.

Oh, botheration! She'd have to get out of bed to raise the window shades to catch the morning sunshine. Clutching a quilt about her shivering body, she crept out of bed and across the room, snapped up both shades and peered out.

Oh, my stars!
Directly opposite her, framed in the window above the
Lark
office across the street, stood Cole Sanders. And mercy! He wore nothing but his— She tugged down the shade. Then she thoughtfully bit her lip. If she could see him, then he could see her! But she always closed her shades at night, so he couldn't possibly...

Oh, but he could. Each night she undressed by the light of her kerosene lamp, and that meant Cole was in a good position to see her naked body silhouetted against the window covering.

Why, that...that...no-account devil! Surely there was something in Sheriff Silver's law books about spying on a woman? Hurriedly she pulled on her drawers and camisole, tied her petticoat around her waist, and donned a dark green wool skirt and a clean shirtwaist.

Then she paused and swallowed hard. Before accusing him, she would have to check her facts. She would wait until he left his office for breakfast, then sneak across the street to the
Lark
office and check out the view from Mr. Sanders's upstairs window.
She was learning
.

At ten o'clock she watched Cole saunter off down the boardwalk toward the restaurant, and she grabbed her coat, sped across the street and made a beeline for the
Lark
office.

The room upstairs was a mirror image of hers except that the bed was on the opposite wall, and he used fruit crates for bookcases and his washbasin was tin, not china, like hers.

She advanced to his window. Just as she suspected; he could see directly into her bedroom across the way. She knew it! At night he would be able to see her shadow behind the drawn blinds and...

Downstairs the door clicked open, and every nerve and muscle in her body froze. Then the door closed and she heard the woodstove grate open, wood being chunked in, and Cole's voice humming. Clementine again.

She would wait it out. She tiptoed over to the narrow cot and very quietly sat down on the rumpled quilt.

An hour went by. Then two. More humming, and a chuckle or two. He must be writing articles for his newspaper.

By noon she was so hungry her stomach began to growl loudly enough she was sure he would hear it. Could she open the window and climb out? Would a drop from the second floor kill her? Or just break her legs?

She twisted toward the window and accidentally knocked a book off one of the fruit crates beside the cot.

The humming downstairs stopped. Jessamine held her breath and clasped both arms over her belly to muffle the gurgling.
Please, Lord, rescue me from this embarrassing predicament.
Heavy footsteps sounded up the stairs, and in the next instant Cole Sanders loomed in his bedroom doorway.

“Jessamine! What the hell are you doing up here?”

Jess quailed at the outrage in his voice. What excuse could she possibly offer?

She could lie.

No, she couldn't.

She could cry.

No, she couldn't. Tears would be just as much a lie.

“I—I wanted to check what you could see from your window.”

He propped his hands on his hips. “Yeah? What
can
you see from my window?”

“I can see straight into
my
bedroom window.”

He nodded. “So, now you know.”

“I should think you would deny it,” she muttered.

“Not likely. You're intelligent. Observant. And curious. You'd have it figured out in a matter of seconds.”

“Well, yes, I did figure it out.”

“And you want me to apologize.”

“I want you to stop spying on me.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “It's a free country, Jessamine. You don't own the view from my window.”

“Well! You have a lot of nerve. I'll—I'll report you to Sheriff Silver.”

“Go ahead. Know what he'll say?”

She shook her head.

He laughed. “He'll tell you to undress in the dark.”

She couldn't look at him. Somehow her presence in his bedroom sent her pulse skittering. A heavy silence fell.

Cole took a single step into the room. “Jessamine, it's not illegal for a man to admire a woman's body.” He waited, but she said nothing.

“Don't undress in the dark, Jess. You're beautiful. I'm not going to apologize for noticing that.”

He moved another step into the room and reached one hand to touch her shoulder. “But you'd better get out of my bedroom. Might give Noralee the wrong idea.”

All the way down the stairs and out the front door she heard his rich, gentle laughter. It made her spine tingle.

* * *

Rita Sheltonberg planted her feet heavily in front of Jess's desk and leaned over the high rolltop. “Miss Jessamine, we gotta do something more for Johnny.”

“Johnny? Who is Johnny?”

“You know, Jericho. Sheriff Silver. When he decided to run for district judge, I volunteered to be his campaign manager, but I've plumb run out of things to do.”

Jessamine smiled at the still-handsome older woman. “Seems to me you're doing a good job of spreading the word, Rita. I've seen the posters you put up all over town.”

“Nice, aren't they? Kids at the schoolhouse made 'em for an art project. ‘Cast Your Vote for the Battle of Jericho.' Kinda catchy, isn't it?”

“Yes, catchy,” Jess agreed. “The trouble is, Mr. Arbuckle is putting up posters, too. ‘A Vote for Arbuckle Is a Vote for Good Government, Like Good Coffee.'”

“I don't get it,” the waitress blurted out.

“Mr. Arbuckle's grandfather is the founder of Arbuckle's Coffee.”

“Oh,
that
Arbuckle. I'll have to make sure the hotel restaurant changes brands right away.”

“There's money behind his campaign, Rita. And he's finagled the support of the
Lark
newspaper but— Wait a minute! I have an idea.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“Yes, a wonderful idea. Rita, you just leave everything to me.”

When Rita left to return to the restaurant, Jess grabbed her coat and scarf. Eli planted himself in her path.

“Hold on a minute, Jess. Last time you had a ‘wonderful idea,' the ranchers and the sheep men in this county 'bout came to gunplay.”

“This,” she said, patting his arm where he'd shoved up the sleeves of his baggy sweater, “is an even more wonderful idea.”

“Criminy,” he muttered as the office door slammed. “Guess I'd better mosey on down to the mercantile and get some more cartridges for my forty-four.”

* * *

Cole trotted Dancer alongside Teddy MacAllister's roan mare as they rode toward the Sorensen ranch. The minute they reached the edge of the spread, Cole reined up.

“Want to trade mounts, Teddy? I mean Ted?” The boy was trying so hard to grow up it made Cole's insides hurt.

“Sure do, Mr. Sanders.” The boy slipped off his roan and clambered up onto Cole's Arabian. They rode in companionable silence for a mile before Teddy spoke.

“Kin I ask you something, Mr. Sanders?”

“What about?”

“Girls.”

Cole disguised his surprise with a cough. First Noralee and now Teddy. Guess he was the “go-to” source for youngsters wondering what life was all about. “Fire away, son.”

Teddy thought for a long minute. “Well, uh, how do you know when a girl likes you?”

Cole coughed again. “Most times you don't. You have some particular girl in mind?”

“Um, yeah. Her name's Manette Nicolet. She's French. Talks foreign words all the time.”

“And what do you do?”

“Aw, I can't talk French. Sometimes I bring her bugs 'n' stuff.”

“Bugs?”

“Yeah. She likes crawly things. Insects, you know?”

Cole rolled his eyes. “Interesting female.”

“Yeah, and she's real pretty, too.”

“Figures,” Cole said under his breath.

“So, how do I know if she likes me?”

Cole pulled the roan into an even slower walk and sucked in a gulp of air. “You don't, Ted. You might never know how she feels about you. But if you're smart, you'll treat her real special, no matter what.”

Teddy thought for a few minutes. “Is that what you do?”

“Well, yeah. If I get the chance, that is.”

“Miss Jessamine's kinda temperamental, huh?”

Cole barked out a laugh. “Kinda.” God, was it that obvious he was attracted to the
Sentinel
's prim and proper editor?

“My advice,” Teddy said with a conspiratorial wink, “is to bring her some bugs.”

When Cole rode back into town with the boy, he couldn't help glancing at the front window of the
Sentinel
office. Bugs, huh? He'd have to give Teddy's suggestion some thought.

He reined his sleek Arabian to a stop and approached the hitching rail just as Jessamine stepped out of her office and hailed him.

“Cole, I need to talk to you.”

“What's up?” he asked carefully.

“I have an idea.”

Cole rolled his eyes. “Not another one. Eli told me about the Sheepmen's Summit meeting last spring.”

“Eli talks entirely too much. Get down off your horse and listen for a minute.”

He swung down and stood with the reins in one hand. “Okay, I'm listening.”

Jess tried not to watch his supple fingers holding the leather lines. “Your candidate and my candidate are just trading insults in your newspaper and mine. What if they met face-to-face and argued in person?”

“A debate, you mean?”

“Exactly. What do you think?”

“Good idea,” he said with a nod. “When? The election's getting close.”

“Next Monday night? At the church meeting hall. We could—”

“Arrange for a moderator,” he finished for her. “Someone—”

“Like Matt Johnson, Ellie's husband,” Jess interrupted. “He's a federal marshal, and—”

“He'd be armed,” Cole inserted. “Nobody would dare speak out of turn.”

“I'll talk it up in the
Sentinel
and—”

“I'll do the same in the
Lark
,” he finished. He removed his black Stetson and held it over his heart. “Great minds—”

“Are never at a loss. Oh, Cole, it will be fun!”

“And a challenge,” he added. “Once Arbuckle gets going, he's hard to shut up.”

“Jericho Silver can shut him up,” she said smugly. “Just you wait and see.”

* * *

Just before the next chorus rehearsal, winter struck with a vengeance. All afternoon rain spit against the front window of the
Lark
office, and by suppertime the sky had turned black and hail was bouncing off the boardwalk.

At the restaurant, Cole downed a bowl of hot chili and a slab of apple pie, then snugged up his jacket and started off for the music school rehearsal room. Halfway down the boardwalk, he spied Jessamine trudging along ahead of him.

“Can't hardly sing if our teeth are chattering,” he remarked from three paces behind her.

“‘Can't hardly'? Heavens, such grammar!” She turned toward him and teetered on the hail-spattered planks. Just as she lost her balance, he snaked out an arm, caught her shoulder and held on while she righted herself.