Just Her Type

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Just Her Type

  A Novel

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  For Oreste P. D’Arconte

  Rusty, thanks for the support

  of the Attleboro Sun-Chronicle

  over the years.

  And thanks for telling me about turtles!

  ONE

  “Bentonville. Next stop Bentonville, Wyoming Territory.”

  Luke Bradfield tipped his hat back and shifted on the uncomfortable train seat. Finally! He had started to think Bentonville was always going to be just beyond the sunset.

  Standing, he stretched muscles that were tired from days of sitting. He reached for his satchel and peered out the window. Mountains rose in the distance, and the sun was setting right over them. He grinned. Maybe he had traveled to the sunset.

  The train jerked to a stop. After all the stops between Albany, New York, and here, he barely noticed the clank of the cars. When the door was thrown open by the conductor, Luke took a deep breath of the dry air that swirled through the car. The Wild West. Here he was, ready to find out what made it wild.

  Luke paused as he was about to step off the train. Carter had warned him Bentonville was a one-horse town. Luke had laughed, thinking his newspaper editor was joking. Now he wondered if the joke was on him. Bentonville looked too small to support even one horse, although Luke saw a dozen in the midday sun.

  At least, none of Bentonville’s buildings was tumbling down. Most of the ten or so storefronts had been stripped of paint by constant sun and wind, but they seemed in good repair. Windows glared back at the Big Horn Mountains, where the uncompromising landscape with its sharp outcrops of rock was softened slightly by the stands of birch and pine.

  Grumbling, Luke jumped down to the wooden platform. Dust billowed. The shine vanished from his shoes, and dirt outlined every fiber of his wool trousers and plaid coat. He cursed. When he heard laughter, he turned to see condescending grins at the far corner of the platform.

  Cowpokes. The name came instantly. The two men wore denim trousers and cotton shirts that were gray with grime. Their pistols were strapped on with casual indifference. Shouldn’t such colorful characters, who peppered every newspaper report from the west, be working their herds?

  One, a redhead, swaggered toward him. “Lost, stranger? Chicago’s that way.” He hooked a thumb and chortled.

  Luke knew the man would not be fooled by his smile. “I am looking for The Bentonville Bugle. I assume it’s on the main street here.”

  “The Bugle? You came out here for a copy of Mackenzie’s rag? If—” The cowboy whirled and sprinted toward a private car which had been attached to the train in Cheyenne. The garishly painted car, with each window edged in gilt, was being disconnected on a siding.

  Curiosity teased Luke. Fear had tightened the cowboy’s face. Who inspired such terror? Wiping his shoes on the backs of his trousers, he watched as the cowboy assisted a slender woman down. She was pretty in a cheap way, but the man behind her, in a dark suit, a silk top hat covering his graying hair, looked like a wealthy businessman. The cowpokes were falling over each other kowtowing to him.

  When the man offered his arm to the young woman, Luke smiled at her high-pitched giggles. He never had understood how any intelligent man could not see through the posturings of a whore. Or maybe the man was not so smart. Luke had to find out. He crossed the platform, cutting off the rich man. They nearly bumped. One of the cowboys leaped forward. The rich man raised a hand which sparkled with gold, and the cowpokes froze.

  “Excuse their enthusiasm, sir,” the rich man said, his voice betraying his working-class origins. “It’s their responsibility to keep undesirables away. They sometimes overreact.”

  Luke smiled again. “No problem, Mr.…?”

  “Connolly. Forsythe Connolly.” He did not introduce the simpering blonde on his arm, but Luke did not expect him to. “Are you staying long in Bentonville, Mr.…?”

  “I’m not sure.” Ignoring the obvious attempt to gain his name, Luke watched Connolly frown. “Could you point out the office of The Bentonville Bugle?”

  Connolly’s eyes slitted under bushy eyebrows. “The Bugle?”

  “The local newspaper. It’s run by Mackenzie Smith.”

  When the woman snickered, Connolly glowered at her. “Last building on the left,” he said. “You’ll see the sign out front.” He waited for Luke to do more than nod his thanks, then growled, “Come on, Gloria.”

  Luke watched with amusement as the foursome paraded toward the street. Seeing the frustration on the cowpokes’ faces, he’d wanted to laugh, but decided he had better be cautious until he found out how Connolly controlled his people … and why.

  Hefting his leather satchel, he strolled along the lopsided boardwalk. When he saw others walking in the street, he did the same.

  Passing a large building topped by a sign proclaiming Benton House in large, green letters, he peered at the menu painted by the door. The hotel served three meals as well as offering rooms for a dollar a day. Things were not cheap out here.

  The saloon across the street from the general store was doing a much better business. Gaudy music and laughter burst from the double doors. Reluctantly he walked past. Business first. His new employer was sure to understand his professional interest in visiting the saloon later.

  Luke chuckled. Professional interest? He wanted to discover whether the entertainments in such saloons were fact or exaggeration. He owed it to his readers, and to himself, to investigate.

  The incongruity of a small church, kitty-corner from the saloon, made him smile. Beyond it was a building with doors marked Boys and Girls. The schoolhouse. Virtue and vice mingled in Bentonville.

  As he tipped his hat to a woman, he grinned. Bentonville was going to provide him with plenty of material. From the hitching rails to the buildings’ false fronts, this was the perfect cow town. Poking his nose into a few corners, he might find stories others had ignored. Then Carter would have to promote him.

  At the end of the street was a rough, two-story building which would have been labeled a shack in Albany. Printers—Mackenzie Smith and Son read the sign. Smaller words touted The Bentonville Bugle. He switched his satchel into his other hand and opened the door.

  Familiar scents sucked him in. The pungent aroma of ink overpowered every other odor. When he did not hear a printing press, he walked to the half-wall dividing the room. His eyes widened in astonishment.

  The antiquated press had a platform nearly five feet long to hold the bed of type. Almost as tall as it was long, it had cast-iron supports shaped like an arch. A Washington Printing Press! He had seen one in Albany, gathering spiderwebs after it had been usurped by linotype machines.

  Luke heard a clank, then a curse. Someone crouched behind the press. A hammer skidded across the floor toward the wall.

  “All right! That should fix you!”

  In disbelief, he watched a woman emerge from behind the press. His gaze swept from her caramel brown hair and blue eyes to the enticing curves beneath her simple shirtwaist and skirt that were splotched with ink. Her slender waist was accented by her stained apron, and her cheeks were bright with pink fire.

  Leaning his hands on the wall, he smiled. “How do you do, miss?”

  “I’d do better if this blasted press wouldn’t keep breaking down.”

  Luke wondered what this pretty woman was doing working in Mackenzie Smith’s shop. His wife? Luke hoped not. She was far too beguiling to be married to a man who must be as old as Carter.

  “Can I help you?” she continued.

  “I’m looking for Mackenzie Smith.”

  The hand she used to push a strand of hair back from her forehead was streaked with ink. “You’ve found me.”

  “You? Yo
u’re Mackenzie Smith?” Luke wavered between the impulse to laugh and to curse.

  Her eyes narrowed. He stared back, not surprised when her eyes did not lower. The women of this territory were a queer lot. Nearly as odd as their menfolk who had been foolish enough to grant them suffrage.

  “I know who I am,” she said. “Who are you?”

  Luke drew out the letter from his editor. When he placed it on her palm, he smiled. He could not imagine those delicate hands manipulating the obsolete press.

  She pulled away quickly. He smiled again. Could she have sensed the pulse of warmth when his hand brushed hers? Whoever this woman was, he was going to have to get to know her better before he left Bentonville.

  “Must you stare?” she asked as she unfolded the letter.

  Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed at her upturned nose. “Black ink flatters you, miss.”

  Turning away again, she looked at the letter. He had read it so many times on the way west that he had memorized every word.

  Dear Mackenzie,

  Luke Bradfield has been working as an investigative reporter on the Independent, but he is itching for more excitement. Take him on for a few months. He can work for you while he sends reports to tantalize my readers about Wyoming Territory as it becomes a state. Give him a try, but do not take his guff. He expects a strong hand. I know that you have one.

  Carter Sanders

  Editor, The Albany Independent

  “There’s been some sort of mistake,” she said. “I don’t know a Carter Sanders.”

  “Now see—”

  “Although I have heard of the Independent. My father worked there years ago. This letter must have been meant for him.”

  “Your father?”

  “His name was also Mackenzie Smith.” Mackenzie turned and chuckled. “Pa always considered it his best joke to have a daughter named after him.”

  “His name was Mackenzie Smith?”

  “My father died about a year ago.” When Luke Bradfield frowned at her, her fingers tightened on the page.

  “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Smith.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradfield. I shall write a letter to Mr. Sanders, for it is clear he and Pa were friends. Will you deliver it for me?”

  “I don’t intend to be traveling back soon.” He tapped the letter. “I’m working for you now, Miss Smith.”

  She looked at him in amazement. Her gaze was caught by his brown eyes. A flush flowed through her, discomforting and pleasurable at the same time. His dandified clothes could not hide his muscular build. Something about him was different. It was the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her.

  When he sat on the half-wall, the motion jolted her. He smiled and folded his arms over his chest. “You aren’t what I expected.”

  His sarcasm was like a slap in the face. “I really have no idea what you expected. If you’ll excuse me …”

  “Excuse you?” He grasped her arm, which was covered with a fake sleeve to protect her blouse. “This conversation isn’t over. I am here to work for you and—”

  “It will have to wait. I’m on deadline, sir.”

  “Deadline? What do your readers care if the—What do you call your paper?”

  “The Bentonville Bugle,” she retorted, “as the sign out front says.”

  “What do they care if The Bentonville Bugle is a few minutes late?”

  She pulled out of his grip. “Mr. Bradfield, my readers expect the Bugle to be out at midday on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Some of them ride miles to get their copy. If you will excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

  “And that’s that?”

  Glancing back at him, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  He dropped his satchel on her side of the half-wall. Unbuttoning his coat, he slipped it off and draped it over the swinging door. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “Let’s get to work.”

  “No.” She was not going to let some fast-talking Easterner take over her shop. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mr. Bradfield, and I appreciate your efforts.”

  “Is that so?” He took another step toward her. “I like the idea of a boss who appreciates me, and I appreciate having such a pretty boss.”

  She did not move, and amazement flickered through his eyes. “Even if I could afford to pay your wages, which I’m sure I can’t, I don’t need you.”

  When he continued toward her, Mackenzie resisted the temptation to back away. Without that absurd plaid coat, his shoulders appeared even wider. His hair was as black as the strong emotions in his eyes.

  “Miss smith, my wages are being paid by the Independent. I am here to find true Western flavor. What can be more genuinely authentic than a one-man”—he grinned as his gaze raked down her—“or one-woman printing shop? Can’t you imagine Eastern ladies delighting over Miss Mackenzie Smith struggling to maintain the freedom of the press while she wears black ink?”

  She swatted at his hand when he tapped her nose. “Out here, ladies are treated with respect.”

  “I’m willing to treat you with respect. All I want is a job.”

  “I don’t need your help.” She went to the press.

  Luke looked around the shop. Bundles of clean newsprint were set by a much smaller pile of printed papers by the half-wall. Cans of powdered ink sat on trays holding type. By the back door, a desk was covered with handwritten papers and a page set in type.

  “I’ve never been in such a tiny print shop,” he mused aloud. “How many issues do you print?”

  “Fifty,” she said without looking at him.

  He fought not to smile. Fifty papers! The Independent would go broke with so few readers. “How many pages?”

  “Four.” She walked around the press, her fingers brushing it gently. “When this old press is working, it goes pretty well. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”

  “And you press two hundred pages by yourself every week?”

  “Twice that. The Bugle’s printed twice a week, and, of course, I also do other printing work.”

  “Incredible!”

  “Just long hours and lots of hard work.” She pointed to the chair by the desk. “If you aren’t going to leave, Mr. Bradfield, would you please get out of my way?”

  He sighed as he sat. Stretching out his legs, he relaxed. Although he wished Miss Smith would offer him something to wash the dust from his mouth, he understood. Deadlines were vital at a newspaper, even at one like this.

  A smile tilted his lips when he saw how she stood on tiptoe to force the cast-iron platen down on the page. She guided the pages in and out and replenished the ink as the clank of iron and type filled the room.

  “Do you write it all yourself?” Luke asked.

  “Most of it.” By the way she spit out each syllable, he guessed her teeth were gritted with effort.

  “Amazing.”

  “Only to a man used to such specialization that he’s a—What kind of reporter?” Her condescension matched his.

  “Investigative,” he supplied, refusing to be baited by her eyes that were now as hard as faceted sapphires. “I check into government corruption and illegal business.”

  She lifted the platen. “Do that out here, Mr. Bradfield, and you’ll be shipped back east in a pine box. People like to do things their way, whether it’s legal or not.”

  “Because the press is afraid to interfere?”

  Pointing to the desk, she retorted, “Read the editorial on page three of last Saturday’s paper.”

  He picked up the page and smiled as he saw Bentonville Bugle in ornate script. Perhaps there was a fanciful side to this lady, after all. His smile faded as he opened the folded sheet and began to read. He did not hurry as he savored the flow of language. The suggestion that the cattle barons band together to stop rustlers seemed reasonable, and he could not understand why it required an editorial until he reached the last paragraph.

  Why haven’t these rational measures been instituted by those who have the power to halt
the faceless bandits? Those who could halt them have no interest in doing so. Why? To put smaller cattlemen out of business or to force homesteaders off their land? Or are there more immediate profits to be made? It behooves those who lament to find out if those rustlers are on someone’s payroll and if the missing cattle have been rebranded. Only when those who point a finger take a share of the blame will there be peace on the high ranges.

  Slowly he lowered the paper. “I assume you wrote this, Miss Smith.”

  “Call me Mackenzie. Everyone does.” She glanced over her shoulder, and fatigue edged her expressive eyes. “I write all the editorials.”

  “This is good.” He rose and crossed the room to where she was withdrawing the bed of type. “You aren’t afraid of what sounds like a potentially potent subject.”

  “‘Potentially potent?’ You’ve got a gift for understatement, Mr. Bradfield.”

  “Call me Luke. Everyone does.” He grinned. “At least, people who aren’t furious at me.”

  “And what do those folks call you?”

  “Nothing a lady should hear.” When she did not answer, as she lifted aside the metal tympan where the paper was held, he added, “Let me help you with that.”

  “I can manage.”

  He smiled as he drew her hands from the ink-covered bed. He folded them between his. Her fingers curled into fists, tickling his palms. Her skin was soft and supple, like the strand of hair slipping along her throat. When she pulled away, he resisted reaching for her hands again. It was not going to be easy working with this woman whose luscious voice made him think of investigating the warm contours of her lips.

  “I’m not here just to send articles to the Independent,” he said before she turned away again. “I’m here to learn, Mackenzie.”

  “I suppose you’re accustomed to a linotype machine,” she retorted with sudden frigidity.

  “I’m not accustomed to any machine. I write my article, give it to my editor, and read it in the morning edition.”

  She shot him a superior smile. “Then it’s about time you learned, but not in those clothes. That fancy suit probably cost more than my press. Why don’t you go out back and wash the ink off your hands and change?”