by With Heart
“She wants to see and do a lot of things before she settles down,” Hod had written. “She’s twenty-six years old. Guess she’s old enough to do as she pleases.”
She didn’t look to be that old, Johnny thought now. That would make her a year older than he was. She had looked to be about twenty-one or -two.
Tom had told Johnny that Duncan Dolan, the eldest of the Dolan boys, had gone to Montana when he was a youth and married a widow from Iowa. He’d had a fierce love for the woman and their child. Many of his letters were lovingly centered on his little girl whose red hair had been inherited from her mother. After Duncan was killed in an accident, his daughter and wife had gone back to Iowa to live with her parents, and for a while the Dolans had lost track of Kathleen. Several years ago she had written that her mother and grandparents were gone and she wanted to know her father’s family.
Johnny had not given her more than a thought or two . . . until today. Now he wondered if he could ever get her out of his mind. He chuckled as he watched the car disappear. Not many women would set out alone to drive more than two hundred miles across country. Miss Kathleen Dolan had spunk to go along with that red hair.
A sudden burst of happiness sent his heart galloping like a runaway horse.
• • •
Rawlings, Oklahoma, was like most other towns in 1938. Jobs were scarce, farm prices had risen only a little since the bottom price for wheat had been twenty-five cents a bushel, oats ten cents and cotton five cents a pound back in 1932. Most of the cotton farmers were allowing their fields to go to grass to keep the soil from blowing away in the dust storms and were trying to make a living raising cattle. Some of them were packing up and following Highway 66 to the “promised land” in California where fertile fields provided a better prospect of jobs.
A steady stream of hobos looking for work or a handout came through Rawlings daily, seeking the community soup kitchen. The town had survived partly because a hide-tanning plant had opened several years ago and now employed more than fifty people. Hides were shipped from the meatpacking plants in Oklahoma City and Wichita Falls.
There was dissatisfaction among some in town, however, because white men who needed jobs believed that too many Indians were working at the plant. Miss Vernon had written that the tanning plant was owned by an oil-rich Cherokee Indian, who was not only wealthy, but smart, and wouldn’t stand for any interference in the way he handed out jobs.
During the past two months, Kathleen had learned quite a bit about Rawlings, Oklahoma. Miss Vernon had sent her every issue of the Gazette since she had answered the advertisement for a business partner in the Oklahoma City paper. The first Gazette had been published in 1910, just three years after Oklahoma became a state. The family had held on to the paper during the worst years of the Great Depression. Now, without an heir to take over, it was in danger of being put to rest.
As Kathleen drove slowly along the street, her heart pounded with excitement. The town was quiet beneath the hot September sun. A dust devil danced down the middle of Main Street, where only a few cars were parked along the curb, and only a few people strolled along the walks.
She stopped at an intersection and sat there viewing the buildings that made up the business part of town. A number of them were vacant, but no more than in other towns she had passed through. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were new, no doubt paid for by President Roosevelt’s recovery program. The new school she had passed was another WPA project. Even the water tower had a fresh coat of paint. The district evidently had a hardworking congressman.
Most of the three thousand residents of Tillison County resided there in Rawlings, the county seat. The two-story, solid redbrick courthouse building sat in the middle of a square. An arch made of deer antlers and steer horns spanned the walk leading to the entrance. Kathleen smiled at that.
Her bright interested eyes took in everything. Rawlings was not as big as Liberal, but then she had been aware of that. It did have a good-sized business district because it was the only town of any size for fifty miles around. The Hughes department store was on the corner. Next to it was the Piggly-Wiggly grocery and at the end of the block the Tillison County Bank and Trust. “Bank and trust” she thought was kind of ironic when most folks had little trust in banks since so many had gone broke.
She passed the Rialto Theatre and saw that the movie Hell’s Angels with Jean Harlow would be shown on Wednesday and Saturday nights. Claude’s Hamburger Shack was across the street. Wilson’s Family Market had a choice location on the corner across from the bank, and next to it was Woolworth’s five-and-dime. Two grocery stores meant advertising money for the paper. Then, there it was near the end of the block between Corner Drugstore and Leroy’s Men’s Wear—the Gazette building, two-story redbrick, narrow, with one large window and two recessed doors; the second door led to a flight of stairs. RAWLINGS GAZETTE was painted in gold letters on the window.
Kathleen was not disappointed. Here she would invest her five hundred dollars and be part owner of a real live newspaper. Her duties would be gathering news and writing editorials for the weekly paper. Miss Vernon would take care of the society news, obituaries, and bookkeeping. Both would work on advertising. Kathleen’s only concern was that she might not have time for her other writing, the writing that didn’t bring in enough money for her to live on . . . yet.
She angle-parked the Nash in front of the building and sat for a few minutes to allow her heartbeat to slow. Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa Hansen, for making this possible for me. Several people passed while she sat there. An Indian woman with two black braids hanging over her ample bosom and moccasins on her feet came out of the Gazette office. The screen door banged shut behind her and she shuffled down the street.
Kathleen climbed out of her car. The late-September wind blew her hair across her face and wrapped her full skirt around her legs. She looked through the window before she entered and saw a heavy oak desk littered with papers. A typewriter sat on a pullout shelf at one end of the desk. The swivel chair was empty. Coming out of the bright sunlight, she waited beside the door to allow her eyes to adjust. The familiar clanking of a linotype machine came from the back room. No one was in sight.
The newspaper office had an odor she knew well: a combination of melting lead, ink, and paper. The clutter was also typical. As she wasn’t being observed, Kathleen let her eyes wander over the office. A few framed front pages of the Gazette hung on the wall: Armistice Day, November 11, 1918, the stock market crash in 1929, Roosevelt’s election in 1932.
The Gazette might be a weekly, she thought with owner’s pride, but it had style.
Between the well-scarred desks were two four-drawer filing cabinets. Along the opposite wall on a waist-high counter, a thick book of advertising illustrations lay open. Suspended on long rods from the high ceiling, two fans turned gently.
Then she noticed a leg and a foot jutting out from behind one of the desks. Shock kept her still for a second; then she rushed over to the woman who lay on the floor between the desk and the wall.
“What . . . in the world—?” Kathleen knelt down for a closer look. This must be Miss Vernon! There was blood on her forehead. “Help!” Kathleen yelled as she ran toward the back room and the clattering linotype machine. “Help! Come quick!”
The man who sat at the machine continued to type, then dropped the line of lead and started another. He appeared not to hear Kathleen’s call for help. She ran to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He jumped and turned. She backed away.
“Help me!” She took a few steps toward the front, then looked back. The big, shaggy-haired man was still standing beside the machine with a stupefied look on his face. “Can’t you understand? I need your help!” she screamed. Oh, dear Lord! He’s either deaf or he can’t hear me over the racket of that damn machine.
Kathleen turned, ran back to the office and grabbed the phone. She flipped the receiver holder several times when the operator didn’t answer immediately
.
“Hold your horses, Adelaide.” The voice came at last.
“Operator, we need help at the Gazette office,” Kathleen said breathlessly. “Miss Vernon’s had an accident.”
“Adelaide? What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s unconscious and has blood on her head.”
“Is she there in the office?”
“Yes, yes. Get a doctor.”
“I’ll see if I can find him.”
By the time she had hung up the telephone, the man from the back room, still wearing his heavy leather apron to protect him from the hot lead, was kneeling beside Miss Vernon. Kathleen hurried to a large tin sink she had seen in the printing area of the building. When she returned with a wet towel, he had lifted the woman out from behind the desk and was holding her head and shoulders off the floor. Kathleen pressed the towel into his hand. As he dabbed at the blood on the woman’s forehead, Kathleen got her first good look at her new partner.
In her letters to Kathleen, Miss Vernon had not mentioned her age. Her dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and the creases fanned out from the corners of her eyes. She was slender; almost fragile. Kathleen judged her to be in her middle or late forties.
Little moaning noises came from the man holding her. He was in anguish. He wasn’t her husband; Miss Vernon had said she had never married. Kathleen couldn’t see his face, but her first impression when she had seen him in the back room, was of a big, strong man, considerably younger than Miss Vernon.
The screen door slammed behind a large woman in a white nurse’s uniform. A starched white cap was perched on top of her head. She was six feet tall or more and she looked to be a no-nonsense person who would be able to handle almost any situation. The nurse dropped a bag on the floor and knelt.
“What the hell has Adelaide done to herself now?” Her voice was loud and brisk. “Move over, Paul. Let me have a look.”
The man lowered Adelaide gently to the floor and stepped back. As he looked up from the woman on the floor, Kathleen was startled by beautiful amber-colored eyes deeply set in his worried, homely face. His dark lashes were thick and long, his brows smooth and straight. The large nose looked as if it had been flattened in a hundred barroom brawls. A deep scar in his upper lip extended almost to his right nostril. He was broad-shouldered and thick-necked. His arms were heavily muscled. He reminded her of a gentle gorilla, if there was such a thing.
“Wake up, Adelaide.” The nurse waved an open vial of smelling salts beneath Miss Vernon’s nose. Adelaide sputtered and rolled her head. “Wake up,” the nurse commanded briskly. “You’re all right. You’ve just had a little crack on the head.”
“Maybe not,” Kathleen said. “She may have had a stroke . . . or something.” The quelling glance the nurse gave her would have sent a more timid person running. Not Kathleen. She looked the nurse in the eye and said, “Shouldn’t she be examined by a doctor?”
“Who are you? Her long-lost daughter?”
“No, but—”
“She’s awake,” the nurse said, ignoring Kathleen. “Help her into the chair, Paul.”
With his hands beneath Adelaide’s armpits, Paul easily lifted her into the chair. Her eyes were glazed as she tried to focus on the man kneeling beside her. She flinched when the nurse dabbed at the cut on her forehead with a pad saturated in alcohol.
“You’ll not need any stitches if I put a tight tape on it. What happened, Adelaide? Did you drink a little too much of that rotgut whiskey and fall out of the chair?”
Kathleen could tell by the snort that came from Paul that he didn’t like the nurse’s comment. Kathleen didn’t like it either. She thought it very unprofessional. Adelaide continued to try to focus on Paul and said nothing.
“Don’t get so huffy, big fellow,” the nurse continued. “You know as well as I do that Adelaide is fond of the bottle.”
“I didn’t smell anything,” Kathleen said.
“Who are you?” the nurse demanded again.
She was a very intimidating figure when she stood up, almost a foot taller than Kathleen and big, rangy big, like a roustabout who handled heavy machinery. Bangs, cut straight across, hung to the middle of her forehead and straight, henna-colored hair formed loose swirls, Clara Bow style, on her cheeks. Arched high above lashes, heavy with mascara, her brows were a thin line drawn by a reddish brown pencil. She had applied lipstick to her small mouth to make her lips appear fuller. It was smeared at the corners.
“Kathleen Dolan.”
“You’re new in town.” Strong, quick fingers pressed the tape in place on Adelaide’s forehead.
“You might say that.”
“How long are you staying?”
“A long time.”
“I see. Then you’re the one who is taking over the paper.”
“No. I’ll be working with Miss Vernon on our paper.”
“Here in Rawlings we don’t butt into other people’s business. You’ve got a lot to learn, girl.” The nurse picked up her bag. “And for your sake, I hope you learn it fast.” With that, she left the office, letting the screen door slam behind her.
Watching her leave, Kathleen had the feeling that she had just met an enemy. She was certain of it when she looked down to see the scowl on Paul’s face.
“What put a bee in her bonnet?”
“She doesn’t like Adelaide.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks that Adelaide may know too much.” Paul spoke very softly and smoothed the hair back from Adelaide’s face with ink-stained fingers.
“Too much about what?”
“’Bout that clinic she and Doc run.”
“Paul!” Adelaide tried to look up without turning her head. “Shhh . . .”
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “She’s the one from Kansas.”
“You sure?” she whispered.
“Looks like the picture she sent.”
“Kathleen Dolan?” Adelaide turned her head slowly and painfully so that she could see Kathleen.
“Yes, I’m Kathleen. I just got here.”
“Oh, Kathleen, I’ve been thinking that . . . that bringing you here may be the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Why is that, Miss Vernon? Are you doubting my ability to help you run the paper?”
“No! No, it isn’t that. It’s just that—”
“—You can tell her later,” Paul said. “Come on upstairs and lie down. You’ve got a partner now. She’ll handle things down here for a while.”
Chapter Two
Kathleen was sure that she would never forget this day for as long as she lived. Being hijacked was frightening enough without being thrust into the position of having to take over the office. She had no more than said hello and good-bye to her new partner when Paul took Adelaide up the back stairs to her rooms, leaving Kathleen with the explanation that maybe Adelaide had fallen out of her chair and with an apology for needing to leave her to cope alone.
Within an hour she had answered a dozen questions from curious townspeople about why the nurse had been there, taken a classified ad and several items for Adelaide’s “Back Fence” column.
“Miss Jeraldine Smothers of Randlett spent Sunday afternoon with her aunt, Miss Earlene Smothers. They attended church and had dinner at the home of Miss Earlene Smothers’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Willard F. Smothers.” Kathleen read aloud the item she had written, based on the information given to her by the woman who had come panting into the office.
“Be sure you spell Jeraldine with a J. Jeraldine hates it when her name is spelled with a G. Oh, my!” She fanned herself with her handkerchief. “I had to hurry. I was afraid the office would be closed.”
“I’ll be sure to spell Jeraldine with a J.”
“You’re new here. Where is Adelaide?”
“She’s upstairs resting.”
“I heard that Louise Munday was here this afternoon.”
“The nurse? She didn’t mention her name.”
&n
bsp; “Why should she? Everyone knows Louise. Anything serious?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ll give the item to Adelaide for her column.”
“Did she hurt herself?”
“She got a little bump on the head.”
“Bullfoot. Must have been more than a little bump if Louise was needed.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You sure do have red hair.”
“I can’t argue with you about that.”
“Well—” The woman waited for Kathleen to say more. When she didn’t, she said, “That boy better bring my paper before four-thirty. If not, he’ll hear from me. I pay extra for delivery, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Last week it was almost five o’clock.”
“The sign on the window says that the papers are available at four on Wednesdays. That doesn’t give him much time.”
“P’shaw! That boy dawdles around and don’t pay attention to what he’s hired to do. He’s lucky he’s got a job when men are walking the streets every day, looking for work.”
“I’ll ask him to get it to you as soon as he can.”
When the woman left, Kathleen pressed her fingertips to her temples. A few more like that one and she would have a splitting headache.
The next person to come into the office was the owner of the men’s store. He was quite proper and introduced himself as Leroy Grandon, president of the Chamber of Commerce. He was aware that she was Adelaide’s partner and invited her to a Chamber meeting. Kathleen sold him a two-column-by-three-inch display ad. She quickly sketched the ad for his shoe sale. At the top she printed, WALK IN MY SHOES. He was pleased and decided to run it in the next two editions. He lingered in the office until a woman came in with another item for the “Back Fence” column.
By six o’clock Kathleen was tired and hungry. She still had to find a place to spend the night. In her correspondence, Miss Vernon had said that there were several good boardinghouses in town. Paul was still at the linotype machine. If she could get him to turn it off, she’d ask him to direct her to one.
