Just Her Type

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Luke …”

  He cupped her elbows. “I don’t know what O’Grady said, but, if you need help, Mackenzie, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I—I—I’m fine,” she whispered.

  His hand curved along her cheek again. “All right, if you say so. I’m going to get some clean water.”

  Last night she had not wanted him to touch her, but today she had to fight to keep from shouting for him to come back and hold her. A temptation to trouble. Although she seldom agreed with Aaron, he was right. Luke was a temptation she must ignore.

  Looking up from the advertisements she was editing for the issue due out in two days, Mackenzie smiled. “Luke, you can’t expect me to listen to that prattle without comment.”

  “You never listen to anything without comment.” He put the broom by the stairs and yawned. They both had worked hard yesterday and today, and would again tomorrow.

  “How can you say that Wyoming women should be disenfranchised?”

  He sat on the half-wall and crossed his arms. “Why should the women here be allowed a right no other women in the United States have?”

  “You should ask why the rest of the women haven’t been given the rights we have.”

  His dark eyes crinkled. “Enlighten me, Mackenzie, as long as you don’t mind if I pass your comments on to the readers of the Independent. They should be amused by them.”

  She mirrored his nonchalant pose. “All right, but not now. You need to get back to work.”

  He crossed the room in a pair of steps. When he put one hand on the back of her chair and the other on her desk, his nose was only inches from hers. “Listen, Mackenzie, you’ve kept me so busy working for you, that I haven’t done any of the work I promised Carter.”

  “I’m your editor now.”

  “Not by my choice.”

  As she rose, she smiled coolly. “You’ve had your future, at least for the next few weeks, dictated to you without any consideration of your opinions. That makes you feel lousy, doesn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t try to twist my words to prove your point. Working for you has nothing to do with women’s suffrage.”

  “It doesn’t? You’re in a situation over which you have no control. Just like the women back east.”

  Putting his hand on her arm, he brought her to face him. “And your feminine wiles prove why our country is safer when women don’t vote. There’s enough corruption without allowing you to bring your unique charms to complicate the situation.” His voice deepened. “And you do have unique charms.”

  Peeling his fingers off her arm, she drew back. She had been a fool to let him kiss her once. “Deadline is looming.”

  “Mackenzie—”

  “Not now! We have to get this done.”

  “And after deadline?”

  She turned away. Her body yearned to succumb to his thrilling touch. Work would exhaust her. Then she could fall into her bed and sleep, despite the dreams of Luke that came to her.

  Mackenzie sat at her desk and watched dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Leaning her elbow on the desk, she rested her cheek against her palm. Last night had been a late one, for one of the toggles on the platen had stuck. Even with Luke’s help, it had taken more than an hour to fix. Once again, despite ridiculous odds, The Bentonville Bugle had met its deadline.

  More work needed to be finished before supper. News of the upcoming statehood must be posted everywhere in town. She also had agreed to print posters for a traveling theater group.

  Reaching for the poster she had been sent to copy, she saw something on top of it. Where had this slip of paper come from? Opening it, she did not dare to breathe as she read the crude note.

  No rite about cattel ruselers.

  Rite and Bugle be burnt again.

  Rite and boy die as Pa died.

  Mackenzie crumpled the page and threw it into the trash can. Vicious laughter rang through her head. She whirled. No one. Only her own terror.

  Pa would not have taken such a threat in silence. He would have expounded in great length in the Bugle about a man too cowardly to sign his name. She could do the same. She should … She looked out the window to see Douglas tossing a baseball and cheering. She would never risk her son.

  She folded her hands and leaned her forehead on them. How could she protect him? Or was this just a cruel joke? She sighed.

  “You sound as if you’re expecting the end of the world.”

  Glancing up, she gasped, “Luke, I thought you were playing ball with the boys.”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead as he bent to scoop a dipper of water from the pail. His shirt clung damply to him, announcing each motion of his muscular torso. “Something told me you needed me more than they did.”

  “Something?”

  “Remember your first lesson in working on a newspaper? A good reporter uses all his senses. I used my eyes.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “I came in to tell you that Douglas hit a home run, and I find you looking as if you’d had another visit from O’Grady.”

  “I’m fine.”

  His dark eyebrows rose. “Is that so? I’ve seen happier faces at a funeral.” When she winced, he put the ladle on her desk. “What’s wrong, Mackenzie?”

  It took all her strength to force her stiff shoulders to shrug. “Douglas hit a home run?” She stood and picked up a handful of papers. Stacking them on another pile, she smiled. “That’s great.”

  “What’s not great is your lying to me. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

  “You calling me that to begin with!” she snapped.

  He chuckled. “Sorry. I forget you’re O’Grady’s girl.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Talk.”

  “Whose?”

  His fingertip drew a random path along her arm beneath her short, puffed sleeve. “Lots of folks. Folks who are downright anxious that you might give the newspaper to O’Grady.”

  Her chin rose in defiance. “Tell them not to worry. I’m not Aaron’s girl.”

  “Now or in the future?”

  “Why this sudden interest in my romantic life? Jealous?”

  He stood and grinned at her. “I’d rather bed down with a grizzly than with you, sweetheart. At least, then I’d know where to look for claw marks.”

  She opened the door to the stairs. As she put her foot on the first riser, she said, “I’m sure we can arrange a way to satisfy your perverted tastes.” His laughter followed her up the stairs, easing, for a few more seconds, the fear.

  The relief did not last through supper. As Mackenzie watched her son joking with Luke, the crude note played through her head. She should—if she had an iota of sense—close the Bugle. The most stubborn part of her refused.

  Mackenzie lost herself in habit. Making sure Douglas had his schoolwork finished, sending him to bed with a kiss, washing the dishes.

  When she finished drying the dishes, she hung the towel by the stove. She drew two cups off the shelf and, taking up the coffeepot, filled them. She set them on the table where Luke had been working since she had cleared the supper dishes. “Didn’t you just send the Independent an article?”

  “I promised Carter one every other day.” He grinned. “Why don’t you sit and help this coffee keep me awake?”

  “Such pretty talk is sure to turn my head.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt that.” As she sat across from him, he asked, “Are you ready to tell me what upset you so much this afternoon?”

  Although Mackenzie longed to be honest, Luke understood too little about the folks here. To keep him from asking more questions she had no intention of answering, she tapped the page in front of him. “What are you writing about?”

  “Nothing.” Lowering his cup to the table, he sighed. “I’m waiting for an idea.”

  “With all the things you find fascinating here, you can’t think of anything to write?”

  “The Independent is different from the Bugle. Our readers don’t know each other.
They care about meaty issues.”

  “That’s a shame … for you. There’s a family feeling here I wouldn’t trade for your big-city anonymity.”

  “And like all families, the patriarchs of Bentonville wrestle for control?”

  “I wouldn’t call the Terrible Trio a family.” Resting her arms on the table, she glanced past him to Cameron’s picture and away. “You need to understand a few things. The cattle barons have set themselves up as feudal lords. They prey on each other, but, unlike the lords of old, they offer no protection to those who do their dirty deeds. Instead they watch while their henchmen are sent to hang. When the hanging is done, they count their profits, for gold and power are the only two gods they idolize.” She laughed as she saw he was writing. “Are you listening to me?”

  He looked up. “Sorry. Inspiration struck in the middle of your diatribe.”

  “Inspiration?”

  “Just something you said.”

  “About what?”

  He blocked her view of his handwriting. “Don’t you think I find everything you say engrossing?”

  “No, for you were rather perturbed when we were talking about women’s suffrage.” When he grimaced, she laughed.

  “I won’t argue about that anymore.” He scooped up the pages and tossed them on the sofa. “It’s stuffy in here, Mackenzie. What do you say to a walk?”

  Rising, she reached for her bonnet. This was just the excuse she needed to be certain no one was lurking out there tonight. “Going for a walk sounds wonderful, but, Luke, just out to the barn and back.”

  “Are you scared of some beast?” he teased as she tied on her poke bonnet. Taking her crocheted shawl, he draped it over her shoulders.

  Again she wanted to be honest about the note, but said, “I don’t want to have Douglas wake and find us gone.”

  He took her hand as they walked down the stairs. Although her toes knew each board, she needed his touch to remind her she was not alone. When they stepped into the refreshing night, she put her hand on his arm.

  In silence, they turned their backs on the hubbub of the saloon down the street. Tufts of grass caught at her skirt, but she ignored it with the ease of years of living at the edge of the range. Moonlight etched the landscape, creating shadows against the gray. The rough edges of the mountains were smoothed by the dim light.

  A lonesome sound climbed into the night, and Luke cursed. “What was that?”

  “Timber wolves by the sound. The cowboys shoot as many as they can, but the sheepmen suffer more losses on top of what they lose to—to the other dangers of the range.”

  Luke stopped. “What other dangers?”

  “Weather, lack of grass and water, things like that.”

  “Those are conditions, not dangers. There must be something to the stories I’ve been hearing at Stub’s saloon about rivalry between the cattlemen and the sheepmen.”

  When she stepped away, he brought her back against him. “Luke …”

  “Just let me look at you,” he whispered. “That’s been my only pleasure since I started slaving for you.”

  “I work as hard as you do.”

  “No one could deny that, but we aren’t working now, Madam Editor. You’re a lovely woman alone on the far side of a barn with a man who enjoys looking at the sapphire skies reflected in your eyes each morning.”

  The image of seeing him closer each dawn erupted into her head. His head on her pillow, her hair covering his bare shoulders, and his mouth only a wish away from hers. No! I must not be thinking like this.

  “Luke, we ought to be returning …” His fingertip stroked her lips. As gentle as the breeze, it sent a fierce yearning through her.

  “Not yet, sweetheart.” He reached for the ribbons beneath her chin. When he let the bonnet fall to the ground, a quiver ran along her, a quiver of anticipation and of a longing she had tried to forget.

  With a soft groan, he seized her, bringing her mouth to his. Her hands rose to his shoulders. When she touched him, his kiss deepened. Savoring the pure pleasure, she answered with her own desire. As his lips skimmed her face, he kissed the curve of her jaw before letting his lips spiral along the responsive skin of her throat. Unable to control the rapture weakening her knees, she clung to him.

  He whispered, “Tell me what’s chasing you into my arms.” His hand under her chin brought her eyes up. “You’re scared. Of what?”

  “Is this why you kissed me?”

  His voice deepened into a growl. “If you think I kissed you only to seduce the truth from you, you’re wrong. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than lean you back in the grass and make love with you until the sun rises.”

  Her eyes widened. “You presume too much from a few kisses.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Why not? I can’t tell you what’s frightening me because there’s nothing to tell.” Her voice cracked, and she had to fight not to blurt out the truth.

  For a long minute, he said nothing. Then he put his arm around her. “All right, sweetheart. We’ll pretend everything is perfect, but, just remember, if you need me, I’m here. We newspaper people stick together, right?”

  “Right,” she agreed, surprised at the solace of the single word. She leaned her head against his shoulder as the terror rose like a phantom from the ebony shadows. She hoped it would not strike tonight. She needed time to figure out a way to best it.

  FIVE

  “Mrs. McCraven?”

  Mackenzie glanced up from where she was laying out pages for the next edition. Few people in Bentonville called her by her married name.

  She smiled at the man who stood by the half-wall. Looping the top of his ivory cane over his wrist, Jamison Rutherford returned her smile. His teeth were bright in his weathered face. Though his hair was gray, a black mustache emphasized his smile which, unlike his rivals’, glowed in his eyes as well as on his lips. He pulled off his gloves.

  “Mr. Rutherford, please come in.”

  He stepped over the pages she had spread across the floor. She motioned for him to be seated in the extra chair. Wishing Luke were here to see that all the cattle ranchers were not thieves pretending to be gentlemen, she sat.

  “I see you enjoyed the postcard I sent you,” he said in his high-pitched voice.

  “I admit I’ve dreamed of visiting Paris.”

  “You’d enjoy it. Maybe someday.”

  Embarrassment burned inside her. He knew as well as she did that traveling about the world was only a dream for her. Every part of her life was enmeshed with the Bugle and Bentonville.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Rutherford?”

  “I want to put an advertisement in the paper.”

  “Let me get a notepad.” She withdrew a piece of paper from the scraps on her desk and found a pencil. “Go ahead.”

  “This is for page one.”

  “You know the Bugle does not print advertisements on the front page.”

  “Most papers do.”

  “I realize that, but this is my policy. Only news.”

  “You may consider this newsworthy.” When she said nothing, he began to dictate, “For information leading to the arrest of the rustlers who stole one hundred head of cattle from the Lazy Bar R Ranch last night, a reward of ten thousand dollars is offered.”

  Her pencil faltered. “Did you say the reward is ten thousand dollars?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Men will turn in their own mothers for that kind of money, Mr. Rutherford.”

  He smiled and rolled his cane between his fingers. “Exactly. Now will you print it?”

  “Yes, but not on page one.”

  “Mrs. McCraven, if it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay extra. I want everyone to see this.”

  She folded the paper and put it in her apron pocket. “You don’t need to worry about anyone missing it. Once the word is out that you’re offering that amount of money, you won’t need the Bugle. Page two, column two, next to the masthead, the
usual rates.”

  “You’re a hard woman to deal with. It’s too bad I’m not a few years younger, Mrs. McCraven. I might make you an offer of marriage instead of just business.” He pulled on his gloves and tapped his hat into place. “Perhaps, when this trouble is cleared up, you will allow me to play host to you and your son. I understand that Douglas wants to learn more about working the ranges.”

  Despite herself, she frowned. She had no intention of letting Douglas become a low-paid, overworked cowpuncher. “Douglas will be taking over the paper, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Does that mean you won’t pay me a visit?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” He tightened his hand around the cane. “If that reward doesn’t get me those rustlers, I’m not sure what else I can do.”

  Mackenzie dampened her lips. Mr. Rutherford treated her with respect. If she was too outspoken, she might lose that. Even so, she said, “Mr. Rutherford, if you could convince Aaron O’Grady and Forsythe Connolly to work with you—”

  “I’ve spoken with both of them.” His black eyes drilled her. “Connolly can’t see past the tip of his nose, and if you can’t convince O’Grady to see reason, how can I? Those two fools think they are better off losing a few calves here and there than to be obligated in any way to each other.”

  “Even if you capture these rustlers, there will be others who learn how to rebrand a calf.”

  He nodded. “You have an excellent grasp of the problem, Mrs. McCraven. I look forward to discussing this again soon.”

  Mackenzie smiled. If she was able to convince even one of the Terrible Trio to listen, there might be hope for establishing a truce. The rustlers would be halted along with her need to write about them. That would put an end to the threat to Douglas. “Anytime when the Bugle allows me a few free hours.”

  “Wonderful. I …”

  When she saw his brows knit together, she followed his gaze to where Luke was closing the door. A softness oozed through her. During the night, her dreams had been filled with memories of the delight she had found in his arms.