Montana Maverick (Bear Grass Springs Book 3)

by Ramona Flightner

  Montana Maverick

  Bear Grass Springs, Book Three

  Ramona Flightner

  Grizzly Damsel Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Ramona Flightner

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, Ramona Flightner and Grizzly Damsel Publishing. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by this author included in this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan

  You’re my cheerleaders, my sounding board, my comrades in adventure. I would be lost without you, my wonderful friends!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Sneak Peek At Montana Renegade!

  Afterword

  Also by Ramona Flightner

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Montana Territory, September 1885

  Jessamine Phyllis McMahon, Bear Grass Springs’ recently arrived resident and reporter, nodded to a neighbor as she wiped down the windows of the newspaper office. The latest edition of her newspaper was on full display, and she wanted those passing by to easily read the headlines. However, “Delinquent Cow Wanders Main Street” proved of little interest. After another pair walked past with only a cursory glance at the paper in the window, she sighed.

  During her first week in town last month, she had published a newspaper daily to drum up interest. Now, a month after her arrival, she printed a twice-weekly paper, and this edition did little to elicit curiosity.

  Her print shop, located next to the bank, was often overlooked as people rushed to complete a transaction at the neighboring business. Or, she mused, the townsfolk were too eager to arrive at the Boudoir, the town’s whorehouse, which stood just past the bank and at the edge of town. She glanced across the dusty main thoroughfare—aptly named Main Street—to the town’s most popular saloon, the Stumble-Out. The man she had coined the town’s most disreputable gentleman was not among the men loitering outside, and she quickly lost interest in those wandering in and out of the saloon.

  After a final swipe to polish away an imaginary streak, she reentered her print shop. When she had first arrived, a year’s worth of old papers and notes had been stashed in corners and crannies of the one-story building. After collecting most of the excess paper, she decided to keep it on one side of the large room to use as fuel for her fire in the winter. She walked along the front of the shop, with its tall shelves and bookcases blocking the view of the back of the shop and forming a sense of a hallway. Her desk sat between two windows, and a large flat table sat opposite the press where she hand set the newspaper with metal letters.

  To the far side of the room, near one window, the press stood on a small raised dais. A lamp hung over the press for dark days or when she wanted to work at night. Covered buckets filled with ink sat near the press, and reams of paper were piled on the floor to one side of her desk. Long rows of wires, like multiple clotheslines, hung across the room for drying the paper after printing. Currently no papers were there, as they were stacked by the door, ready for purchase.

  She sat at her desk, pushing aside a stack of article ideas with corresponding research and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. On one side she made a column for what she considered a success in her newspaper so far, and in the other she wrote what she thought were challenges. For success, she wrote N&N. Her News and Noteworthy section that came out once a week garnered the most interest from the townsfolk. It made that edition of the newspaper outsell the others three to one.

  Her articles about national affairs and global events were rarely remarked upon. However, she always received letters to the editor about the N&N section, along with suggestions for the next edition. “I’ll expand that section to include it in every newspaper, and I’ll make it longer in each paper. I should have known to play to the townsfolk’s vanity and need for gossip,” she muttered.

  She tapped her pencil on the sheet of paper as she brainstormed other topics that would interest the residents in a small Montana town, with a mining camp in the mountains above and an expansive valley below filled with cattle and cattlemen. She left that thought for later and wrote it in the challenges column. Little interest in nonlocal affairs. No distribution network. Questionable literacy of townsfolk.

  She dropped her pencil and jerked around as the door burst open. She met the irate gaze of the man she had termed the town’s “most disreputable gentleman” since her arrival. “Hello, Mr. MacKinnon. It’s lovely to see you today.”

  Ewan MacKinnon strolled into her office with the grace of a panther. His blond hair with hints of red in it hung to his shoulders, and he was in need of a shave. In his anger, he forgot to doff his hat to her, and he took it off, tracing the brim between his long fingers. Irate brown eyes met her cognac-colored gaze, and his glare intensified as he saw her poorly concealed amusement. “Must ye write about me in every damn edition of yer newspaper?” he demanded.

  “You know as well as I do that an N&N isn’t in this paper,” she said with a triumphant smile.

  “Oh, ye act all coy. I ken what ye’re doin’. Ye’re tryin’ to make me out to be the town fool. But ye willna succeed. I promise ye that.” He took a deep breath. “How can ye write that the cow got the better of me and that I’m lookin’ for a rematch?”

  She giggled and looked away. “Forgive me. I thought that was what truly occurred. Did you or did you not interact with the cow? And did you not end up in the middle of a cow pie after it … nudged you with its behind?”

  He reddened. “Aye, that is what occurred. But ye dinna have to write about it and tell the entire world!”

  She laughed. “I doubt the world is interested in the meaningless antics of a cow in our little town of Bear Grass Springs, Mr. MacKinnon. From what I’ve heard, the rest of the world is busy mourning the death of P. T. Barnum’s giant elephant, Jumbo, in a train wreck. I’d be thankful you rate over the death of an elephant in the townsfolk’s estimation.”

  “Ye are a daft woman,” Ewan said as he rolled his eyes.

  “That may be, but, from what I heard, you had quite a cotillion of women eager to aid you as you struggled to rise.”

  He flushed red as he turned away from her.

  “It’s such a pity you pulled Miss Jameson onto your lap rather than allowing her to help you up.” She bit her lip as his back stiffened and his hold on his hat tightened. “I don’t know as her dress will ever recover.”

  After a moment, he spun to face her. “Yer articles, an’ the actions of women in this town who should ken better, will
na force me to marry a woman I dinna like.”

  She smiled. “Then I suggest you be more careful about whose hand you accept for aid.”

  “I could barely see!”

  She cleared her throat as though swallowing a chuckle. “Yes, I did hear about the unfortunate, uh, splatter that covered your face.”

  He ran a hand over his jaw but not before she saw a hint of a smile. “Ye enjoy this, do ye no’? The small-town antics that drive most of us insane?”

  She nodded. “It’s what keeps a small town going and knits everyone together. I have to say, it was a difficult article to write as the Jamesons will not speak with me, and the cow was more interested in chewing her cud. And you, well, I know better than to ask you for an interview. So I listened to others describe what they saw as I ate my meals at the café.”

  Ewan snorted. “Why should the Jamesons speak with ye when ye started speculatin’ about Helen’s respectability in one of yer first papers?” Any humor hidden in his gaze disappeared as he sobered. “Ye can write articles about me, an’ I will no’ be affected. I’m a man. But ye canna write about a lass. ’Tisn’t right, Miss McMahon.”

  “If she is acting outside the bounds of propriety, Helen is fair game for a reporter.”

  Ewan cocked his head to one side as he stared at her. The light glinting in through the windows cast a reddish tint to his dark blond hair. “Do ye no’ care what ye could do to that girl? Do ye not ken how hard her life already is, livin’ with her mother and brother?”

  Jessamine shrugged. “Life is hard, Mr. MacKinnon. It’s the one truth we should all understand and accept.”

  He took a step toward her as his gaze hardened. “Aye, ’tis. But that means ye should no’ go around attemptin’ to make it harder for those who canna defend themselves. Yer cow story is entertainin’ until the point ye make Helen a laughingstock. Then ye go too far. Ye always go too far.”

  His irate glare met her indignant, defiant stare, and then he spun on his heel and stormed away. The door rattled as it slammed shut behind him.

  She picked up her pencil from her desk and sighed. “You’re wrong, Mr. MacKinnon. I never go far enough.”

  That afternoon Jessamine locked the front door to her newspaper office and walked along the town’s boardwalk. The mid-September sun shone brightly, and she drew down her wide-brimmed hat to shield her eyes from the glare. It was a tactic she had learned in her early days as a journalist as it made her appear a meek woman, and many were willing to speak freely as she lingered in front of storefronts. She smiled as the strategy had proved as successful in Bear Grass Springs as in New York or Saint Louis. However, little of interest was to be learned as she walked past the bakery, café, and Watering Hole Saloon on her way to the General Store.

  She jumped out of the way as a patron was propelled from inside the saloon through the open door by two men. She frowned, as she knew them to be cardsharks and reticent to speak with a reporter, with or without her hat. She heard the man mumble about going to the barbershop farther down the boardwalk and next to the General Store, but he refused to say more after he saw her.

  She smiled and continued her journey to Tobias Sutton’s General Store, or the Merc, as the townsfolk called it. When the bell over the door jingled upon her arrival, she hid a contented smile. The Merc, the larger of the two mercantiles in town, had everything she could wish to purchase. Tobias was the only one of the two general store proprietors who had successfully ordered ink for her after the unfortunate spill by her former assistant. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin as she walked inside, her ochre satin skirt shining in the sunlight. She smiled at the other woman present, Ewan’s sister, Sorcha MacKinnon, ignoring the woman’s scorn.

  After Sorcha left, Jessamine walked with controlled grace to the front counter. Under the glass she saw delicate lace and a china teacup. “Are you hoping the townsfolk will invest in the finer things with their hard-earned money?”

  He met her mocking gaze with a scowl. “Miss McMahon. There is no reason that a respectable wife, living in a town such as ours, should not expect or deserve such beautiful refinements.”

  Jessamine laughed. “That’s not what makes a woman stay.” She raised an eyebrow. “As you well know.”

  His gaze became arctic as he watched her. “You have no right to speak to me in such a manner.” He looked her over from head to toe. “You should be restricted to the whore’s hours for shopping.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “That’s rich, coming from a man who’s rarely at home at night because he’s so busy at the Boudoir.” She leaned forward, a light flush on her neck and cheeks enhancing the red of her hair. “I may be a reporter, but I have honor.”

  “As do I, miss.”

  She studied him. “I’ve recently learned differently. I wonder if your family believes the same?” She smiled as he stilled. “You shouldn’t cast aspersions when you are guilty of your own sins, Mr. Sutton.”

  He paled. “What would a woman like you know of such a situation?”

  She tapped her finger on the polished glass. “More than you could imagine. Treat me with respect, and your story stays buried. Don’t cross me, Tobias.” She watched as his eyes flared at the threat and the use of his first name.

  He stiffened and then nodded, his gaze flicking to the door as the bell overhead chimed. “What can I do for you today, Miss McMahon?” he asked in his most obsequious voice.

  She placed her order, her gaze filled with a warning and a promise for retribution if he attempted to cross her. He nodded his understanding and glared at her as she left the store.

  She walked to the nearby café for an early supper. Although she had a small kitchen in the rear of her print shop, she rarely ate there. She smiled at the locals already gathered for an evening meal and chose a table close to two men whose loud voices carried.

  Harold Tompkins, the husband half of the duo who ran the Sunflower Café, approached with a glass of water and a friendly smile. He accepted her order of fried trout, boiled potatoes, and pickled beets. He raised an eyebrow as she stared straight ahead as she listened to the conversations around her. After a moment, when she failed to engage in conversation with him, he sighed and entered the kitchen.

  Jessamine half smiled as the men behind her argued.

  One with a baritone voice said, “I tell you. I saw it again last night!”

  His friend, with a slightly higher-pitched voice, snorted. “It was the moonshine Herbert poured down yer gullet. That weren’t no ghost.”

  Baritone said, “You got no idea what I saw!”

  Her gaze jerked upward as a plate thunked in front of her. “Hello, Mrs. Tompkins.” She smiled as Irene Tompkins watched her with unveiled curiosity and waited for Jessamine to pick up her fork.

  “Hello, Miss McMahon. Nice of you to stop in here again.” She shook her head as the men behind Jessamine dug their heels in about what they had or had not seen. “Those two will argue until they’re dead an’ buried.” She nodded to Jessamine. “I wouldn’t look to them as a source for any of your stories. Neither of them knows east from west, and they barely know how to don pantaloons.”

  The sound of scraping wood sounded as Irene pulled out a chair and sat across from Jessamine. “You know, miss, I’ve always considered what I heard here as a sort of sacred confessional.” She stared hard at Jessamine when she snorted in disbelief. “You might think that a ridiculous comment, but it’s true. It’s none of my business what others discuss while they eat a meal, and I have no right to bandy it about town.”

  “That is because you are the proprietor of this fine establishment,” Jessamine said. “I, on the other hand, am a reporter. Nothing that is said in my presence is deemed sacred.”

  Irene huffed out an agitated breath. “You are wrong. However, that’s a lesson you must learn for yourself.” She paused a moment and then smiled as she watched her husband chat with a group of miners who had come to town for entertainment. They had arrived for an
evening meal after a barber’s visit as their beards were trimmed and their hair wet around the collar.

  “He seems a good man,” Jessamine murmured.

  Irene chuckled. “No need to sound so surprised. He is a good man, and I’m thankful he’s put up with me all these years. Many men wouldn’t have.”

  The reporter watched the older woman with frank curiosity. “Why? You are an astute businesswoman. I would think any man would value such a trait.”

  Irene sighed. “Perhaps that is an attribute valued here in the Territory. However, most men would want a docile woman, content to sit at home, knitting, cooking, and caring for a family. I always resented being excluded, and Harold understood.” Her knowing gaze met Jessamine’s guarded one. “If you are very fortunate, you will meet such a man one day.”

  Jessamine shook her head and laughed. “I highly doubt that. Few would celebrate a journalist in the family. And few men appreciate a woman with intelligence.”

  The older woman tapped Jessamine’s hand and rose. “If you weren’t so intent on showing all of us how superior you were, perhaps you’d have a better chance at forming friendships.” She moved away to the kitchen to prepare dinners as more diners entered the café.

  Jessamine sipped her coffee and ate her slice of cake, her thoughts distant as she was unable to shut out the echo of Irene’s words.

  The following day Ewan strode to Warren Clark’s office and, before he entered, scraped his boots on the boot cleaner outside the door bracketed by two windows. Warren was the town lawyer, and his office had a large front room with a desk along one wall where he conducted most of his business and a potbellied stove in the corner. A doorway led to a small back room that he used as a private office when discussing delicate or confidential aspects of a case.