Printer in Petticoats (8 page)

* * *

Jessamine looked up to see Rosie Greywolf glide past the front window of the
Sentinel
office, glance to her right, then left, and slip noiselessly through the front door. The Indian woman washed dishes at the restaurant and was raising her two boys in a tiny cabin just outside town.

“Psssst, missy!”

“Good morning, Rosie. What can I do for you?”

“Is what I can do for you, missy. You listen.”

“Yes?” Intrigued, Jessamine leaned forward. “I'm listening.”

Rosie studied Eli, seated on his stool, with suspicious black eyes. “That one safe?”

“Eli? Oh, yes, he is ‘safe.' Eli works for my newspaper.”

“No repeat?”

“Repeat what, Rosie? Tell me what you came to say.”

The woman twitched her long calico skirt. “I know something about Mr. Coffee Man.”

“You mean Mr. Arbuckle?”

“He big sneak. Have two wives.”

A snort erupted from Eli at the font case.

“Hush, Eli. Rosie, what makes you think Mr. Arbuckle has two wives?”

“I also work at hotel. Coffee man live at hotel.”

“And?”

“Live at hotel with one wife. Sleep in big house in town with other wife.”

“Ha!” Eli burst out. “Got hisself a wh—a fancy lady.”

Rosie nodded. “Hotel wife flat here.” She pointed to her ample bosom. “Other wife...” She made a curving gesture with both hands. “More like Rosie.”

Eli practically crowed. “Pretty juicy item, huh, Jess?”

“Eli, do be quiet.”

“You tell this in newspaper?” Rosie whispered.

“Rosie, I can't print this. It's hearsay.”

“No, missy. Is
see
-say. I see. You say.”

Jess sighed. She would dearly love to libel Mr. Arbuckle, but that was just what it would be, libel. As a responsible journalist she couldn't print a word of it. “Rosie, I am sorry. But thank you for keeping your eyes open.”

The Indian woman leaned closer. “Hear much at hotel. I keep watch for you.” With that, she slipped quietly out the door and moved past the front window and on down the boardwalk.

“Too bad ya cain't spread that all over page one, Jess. That'd fix Arbuckle's wagon good.”

“I've already fixed his wagon, Eli. You typeset my editorial about Mr. Arbuckle yesterday. I couldn't have been more pointed about that bloated—”

She broke off as Conway Arbuckle's bulky form barreled into her office. He stomped up to her desk and shook his pudgy fist in her face.

“You're gonna regret the day you wrote that tripe about me,” he yelled. He slapped yesterday's
Sentinel
editorial on her desk.

Slowly Jess forced herself to stand erect. If he was going to shoot her, he'd have a gun, wouldn't he?

“No, Mr. Arbuckle, I do not regret what I wrote. The public has every right to—”

“Don't you talk back to me, you little bitch!”

Before she could draw breath, Arbuckle pulled a shiny revolver out of his jacket pocket and aimed it straight at her heart.

“Eli,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on the weapon, “get down behind the press.”

Arbuckle's gun wavered. “Either you print a retraction or—”

“Or you will shoot me?” She didn't like the crazed look in his watery eyes, but she worked to keep her voice steady.

“Damn straight. Start writing!”

“I am afraid I c-cannot do that.”

He waved the weapon in her face, then dropped the barrel to point once more at her chest. “You can, and by God you will.”

Jess remembered the look on Miles's face when he had been shot, as if he was surprised. Lord have mercy, she would look just like that. All at once she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She wasn't surprised; she was terrified. She wanted to be a good journalist, but oh, God, she didn't want to die. She closed her eyes and tried to focus.

And then she heard Cole's voice. “Drop it, Arbuckle.”

He stood framed in the doorway, a rifle aimed at Arbuckle's spine. The man swung toward the door, but Cole stepped forward and knocked Arbuckle's gun arm upward. The revolver arced out of his grasp and clattered onto the floor. Cole kicked it away, then smashed the rifle butt into the man's jaw.

Jessamine yelped. Cole looked over to see her holding Eli's brass spittoon aloft. “Oh,” she said. And then “Oh,” again.

He yanked Arbuckle to his feet and pulled his red face up close to his. “If I ever see you in this office again, I'll kill you. You got that?”

“S-sure, Sanders. Just a little misunderstanding between the lady and—”

Before he could finish, Cole booted him out onto the boardwalk.

“You okay, Eli?” he called.

“Yo,” came a quavery voice.

Cole scooped up Arbuckle's gun and stepped behind the press. “Eli, can you handle a revolver?”

“Yep. Fought Indians one summer after the war, till I...well, I deserted. I keep a forty-four back of my font case, but I couldn't get to it in time.”

“Keep this one in your belt.” He laid the weapon in Eli's unsteady hand. Then he moved to a frozen Jess and lifted the spittoon out of her hands. “What were you going to do with this anyway?”

“H-hit him over the head. I was afraid he was going to sh-shoot you.”

He just looked at her.

“Thank you, Cole. Thank you.”

He nodded. “It was a good editorial, Jess.”

“Th-thank you,” she said again.

“Choir rehearsal again tonight,” he reminded her. “And don't forget,” he said with a smile, “no corset.”

Eli haw-hawed from his stool behind the press, and Jessamine started to bite her lips.

Cole sighed. “And for God's sake,” he murmured, “don't do that, Jess. Otherwise I'm going to have another damn long night.”

Chapter Ten

C
ole sat at his desk, staring down at nothing and tried to order his brain to behave. It got like this sometimes, especially when he was stirred up about something. He was more than a little surprised that it was Jessamine Lassiter that triggered his memory this time.

It had been a long, hot day, the kind of day Quantrill had favored for his raids. Only Quantrill came at night, when there was no moon and mothers and fathers had tucked their little ones in bed.

The man liked fire, liked setting them. Some said he liked watching them burn. And he liked the sound of women screaming.

Don't think about it. Don't remember.

He tried to even out his breathing, but he couldn't control the panic. The feeling of helplessness. And the impotent, searing rage that poured over him when he remembered how it had been.

Maryann. Maryann, I tried. I tried so hard.

On days like this he wished it had been him. He'd begged God to let it have been him.

But He had taken Maryann instead.

* * *

The next night, Cole stopped in at the Golden Partridge, ordered a shot of whiskey and nursed it while keeping his ears open to the talk going on around him. Often while lounging at the bar he uncovered a lead on a good story.

“Not much support for Conway Arbuckle after his debate with Sheriff Silver,” the stocky barkeep intoned while topping up his shot glass.

“What else do you hear?”

O'Reilly leaned over the polished wood bar. “Couple of sleazy-lookin' types behind you, talkin' kinda dirty about the
Sentinel
.”

“You know them?”

“Nope. Never seen 'em before.”

Cole studied the reflections of the two men in the mirror behind the bar. Unshaven. Sweat-soaked hats with brims curled up like dried orange peels. Filthy-looking leather vests. And, he noted with a jolt of alarm, both were packing revolvers.

As he watched, a third man pushed through the batwing doors and sauntered across the room to join the other two. One stuck out a dusty boot and shoved a chair toward the newcomer.

Something about the trio made the back of Cole's neck prickle. He tried to overhear their subdued conversation, but no luck. Their damn hats were tipped so low he couldn't even read their lips.

He motioned the bartender over. “How long have they been here, Tom?”

“Most of the night. Seemed like they were waitin' for that third one. I checked the horses tied out front earlier and they looked mighty played out.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, yeah. One of 'em keeps askin' for my dirty bar rags. Funny thing, though, none of them's cleaning their weapons or anything else.”

Cole swiveled to face the room, planted both elbows on the bar and hooked his boot heel over the brass rail. The third man had a bulge in his jacket pocket that Cole guessed was a concealed revolver.

His skin felt as if ants were crawling over his body. As he watched, the three men hunched close together over the table, talking low.

Cole turned back to Tom. “Think I'll pay a visit to Sheriff Silver.”

“Good idea. Don't want any trouble here, even if it
is
Saturday night.”

At the sheriff's office, Jericho Silver listened carefully but said little until Cole finished describing the three strangers who'd apparently just drifted into town.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Cole, but I can't lock up somebody just because he looks suspicious. And it's not illegal to carry a weapon. It's only illegal if he uses it.”

“I see.” The sheriff's explanation didn't satisfy Cole, but there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

The lawman stood up and donned his black Stetson. “I'll walk the streets twice more tonight, just to check things out.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

Even after a juicy steak and some apple pie at the restaurant, Cole couldn't stop thinking about those three disreputable-looking men. Couldn't shake the bad feeling down deep in his gut, either.

Back at the
Lark
office he finished writing his editorial for the Tuesday edition, then paced back and forth across the plank floor trying to shake the feeling of foreboding that hung over him. Finally he stuffed his pencils in the desk drawer and went up the stairs to his bedroom.

Not one chance in a thousand Jessamine would keep her lamp on while she undressed tonight, he reasoned. Made him wish she'd never found out.

He shucked his boots and stretched out on the cot without undressing, then lay staring out his uncurtained window to watch the moonlight sift through the clouds.

He must have dozed off, and then suddenly he was wide-awake. He lay still, listening. He could hear the wind singing through the trees, and a lone night owl
tuwhooed
from someone's rooftop.

Increasingly uneasy, he moved across to the window and quietly raised the sash. Must have been past midnight; the moon was just setting. From the saloon down the street came the faint sound of male laughter and someone plucking a banjo.

He leaned farther out the window, scanned the main street from one end to the other, then studied the
Sentinel
building across the way. Smoke curled out the metal stovepipe venting the potbellied stove in Jessamine's office. But something...

He narrowed his eyes. God, it wasn't just smoke. Flames were flickering behind the
Sentinel
's front windows!

Fire.
The
Sentinel
building was burning!

He jammed on his boots and clattered down the stairs.

Before he was out the front door and onto the boardwalk he started yelling. “Jess! Jess!”

He burst through the unlocked front door and was instantly enveloped in smoke. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, but he could hear the hungry growl of the flames. He stumbled against Jessamine's rolltop desk, then clawed his way past the printing press. Flames licked at his knees, but he found the staircase and groped his way upward through the billowing smoke one agonizingly slow step at a time.

At the top of the stairs, he ran smack into her bedroom door. He kicked it open and plunged through the smoke until he stumbled blindly against the bed.

“Jess, wake up!”

He groped for her arm and yanked hard. “Get up! Quick!”

She moaned and gave a throaty cough. He shoved one hand under her shoulders and pulled her upright. “Stand up, Jess. Now!”

She managed to get her feet onto the floor and tried to rise, but she stumbled against him. He scooped her up, felt his way to the windows and jammed one elbow through the glass. Gulping in a lungful of fresh air, he knocked out the remaining pieces of jagged glass, then dipped his knees to force her head through.

“Take a big breath,” he ordered. He heard her drag in a wheezy lungful. “Another!”

She obeyed. “Now hold your breath,” he shouted. He tightened his hold on her and lurched down the stairs. Her office was engulfed in flames.

“Shut your eyes,” he yelled. He drew in a huge gulp of smoke-laden air and held it, then dashed into the smoke. Man, it felt like the fires of hell.

He burst out the front door and gulped in cold, clean air.

Jessamine clung to him. “My press!” she cried. “My printing press, all Eli's font cases, even...” She coughed and sobbed all at once. “Even his spittoon,” she wept.

The sound tore into his gut. “It's all right, Jess. You're all right. You're safe. I'm taking you over to the
Lark
office.”

A group of locals had gathered and were starting to tackle the flames. Cole stopped a bystander passing buckets of water to the blaze and asked him to let the sheriff know what had happened. But he said nothing else until he climbed the stairs up to his bedroom and pushed open the door. “I've got nowhere else to take you, Jess, so I hope you understand.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. He set her down in front of the window overlooking the street, and together they watched tongues of flame lick away at the inside of the
Sentinel
building.

“My newspaper,” she sobbed. “Everything I've worked for is gone. What will I do now?”

Cole stood at her back, holding her shuddering body against his chest. “Rebuild,” he said after a long minute. “In the meantime, you can use my press to print your newspaper.”

Something exploded inside the flaming building across the street, and in that instant Cole knew what had caused the fire.

“What was that noise?” Jessamine choked out.

Cole groaned. “That was a crude incendiary device. In Kansas we called them Quantrill Cookies. They're made out of whiskey bottles and rags.”

She looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

“I know. Quantrill burned down my house in Kansas City. My wife died in the fire.”

“Oh, my God.” Her knees buckled. “That's horrible!”

“Yeah,” he said shortly. “It was.”

She peered again out his window. “I can't believe this is happening. I just can't believe it.” Tears sheened her cheeks.

“Those bastards,” he muttered under his breath. “Probably working for Arbuckle. Should have shot them when I had the chance.”

An ache lodged deep in his chest. He walked her over to his cot, sat her down and lifted her legs onto the quilt. She wore nothing but a long white nightgown, and he wrapped the blanket about her shoulders and eased her back until she lay quietly on his bed. Then he stretched out full length beside her.

“I want you to stay here tonight.”

She nodded without speaking.

“Don't think about it anymore, Jess. Try to get some sleep.” He wrapped his arms around her and tugged a second quilt over them. “In the morning we'll look at the damage.”

This was a damn sorry way to take a woman to bed, he thought irrationally. A familiar pain bloomed under his breastbone and he tried not to think about Maryann.

In the morning, Cole left Jess sound asleep, curled up on her side with one hand folded under her chin, and slipped downstairs to the sheriff's office. He sure hoped Jericho Silver would catch up with whoever did this. Arbuckle was probably behind it. The sheriff agreed but said he needed proof.

Back in front of the still-smoking
Sentinel
office, Cole found Eli pacing up and down on the boardwalk, disbelief on his lined face.

“What the hell happened?” the old man asked.

“Place was firebombed,” Cole answered.

“Huh? Why'd anybody wanna do that?”

“Revenge, maybe.”

Eli snapped his bearded jaw shut.

When the old man dragged himself off to the restaurant for some coffee, Cole scrabbled through the burned-out debris and found Eli's font case, melted into a blob of twisted metal. To his surprise Jessamine's once shiny Adams press was soot-stained but intact.

The staircase was partially burned away, but he picked his way carefully up the steps to her bedroom. Maybe he could find some of her books or a dress or two. Smoke blackened the painted walls, and everything smelled so bad he gave up the idea. The books were scorched, and the clothes...she'd never wear them again.

At the mercantile he talked Carl Ness out of half a dozen apple crates, loaded up the contents of Jess's scorched file cabinet and lugged them across the street to his office. Then he arranged for Eli to work at the
Lark
office, where he could set type for Jessamine's
Sentinel
stories alongside Noralee.

That afternoon the ashen-faced editor of his rival newspaper went to stay at Ilsa Rowell's boardinghouse, and the next morning Jessamine arranged with Ike Bruhn at the sawmill for a carpenter and enough wood to make repairs. With steely resolve she forbade herself to think about the fire, or the possible reason for it, and focused instead on salvaging what she could of her shattered life.

On Friday morning Cole's
Lark
newspaper came out, and on Saturday, Jessamine's
Sentinel
was typeset, printed on Cole's Ramage press and distributed as usual by Billy Rowell and Teddy MacAllister.

Jess tried hard not to think any further than one day ahead. She tried even harder to forget about the night she'd spent on Cole's bed, wrapped in his arms while she wept. He'd offered to sleep on the floor, but she had clung to him. She'd needed his strength that night, and even now, despite the impropriety of the situation, she wasn't sorry.

That night she'd sensed his own fear as well as hers. She wondered if Cole had been shaken at the thought of losing her in the same way he had lost his wife back in Kansas.

On Sunday, Sheriff Silver rode back into town, and the jail had three new inmates. That same afternoon Cole went looking for Conway Arbuckle.

He found the man cowering in his hotel room behind his wife's chifforobe. Without a second thought, Cole laid him flat with one punch.