Printer in Petticoats

by Lynna Banning

  Subscriptions to the Lark trickled in. Cole visited every farm and rancher from here to Gillette Springs to drum up business; he even paid Teddy MacAllister an extra twenty-five cents to deliver one free copy of the Lark to each Sentinel customer on his route.

  Billy Rowell, the young lad who covered the town circulation, perked right up at his offer of the same for including the Lark on his rounds. Jessamine Lassiter wouldn’t like it one bit, but the kid confided that his pa had been killed in a mining accident last year and his momma, Ilsa Rowell, was taking in washing to make ends meet. Cole promised to increase Billy’s take when the Lark subscriptions exceeded those of the Sentinel.

  He pushed away from his desk and rolled his chair over to where Noralee Ness bent over her type stick. “Doing okay?”

  “We’re running out of w’s, Mr. Sanders. What should I do?”

  “Improvise. Butt two v’s up together. Might look funny, but it’ll work.”

  Noralee sent him a shy smile. She was proving to be a great little typesetter, quick and conscientious, even though she could only work after school and on Saturdays. She even helped Billy load up the newspapers twice each week and she never let a word slip to Jessamine about the arrangement.

  He paid Noralee a dollar a week, and from the adoring look on her narrow face the first time he laid her pay envelope in her hand, he’d won a friend for life. Maybe newspapering out here in Smoke River wasn’t too bad.

  Except for Jessamine Lassiter. Damn woman could dig up more news from her ladies’ needlework circles and afternoon teas than he could keep up with. The new music school opening next week. Births and baptisms. Weddings and funerals. The latest fashion news from Godey’s Ladies’ Book, whatever the hell that was. Even recipes for oatmeal cookies.

  But the most galling was the Sentinel’s blatant editorials supporting Sheriff Jericho Silver for district judge. “Up by his own bootstraps” stuff. “Honest, hardworking, heroic.”

  Bilge. Nobody was that perfect. If he was going to support Conway Arbuckle, he’d have to dig up some dirt on Sheriff Jericho Silver.

  Later. Right now he spied Jessamine sashaying across the street and into his office, where she stood in front of his desk and announced that Sheriff Silver, the paragon of Smoke River, had caught the afternoon train to Portland to take his law exam.

  “You didn’t know that, did you?” she taunted.

  Yeah, he knew that. But when she thought she’d got the drop on him like that, her eyes snapped more green than gray, and sometimes he couldn’t remember what the topic was.

  “I didn’t know that,” he lied. He wondered if his eyes did anything to her insides, the way hers did to his. Then he caught himself and deliberately looked away. He wasn’t in the market for a woman’s glance. Or a woman’s anything else.

  “I’ll scoop you on the outcome, too,” she crowed. “Jericho talks only to me.”

  “Yeah,” Cole agreed. “But his wife, Maddie, talks to me.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrows went up. “She does? Really? When do you—?”

  “When she’s hanging up diapers in her backyard. Sometimes when she’s out in front of her house, pruning her roses.”

  “Liar.”

  “Not. Maddie washes diapers every morning.”

  “And she feeds you tidbits of information every afternoon, is that it?” She puffed out her cheeks and released a long breath, making an errant curl dance across her forehead. Jessamine never wore a hat, he’d noticed. Maybe that was why she had a sprinkling of charming little freckles across her nose.

  “Besides,” he added, “along with some cookies and a good cup of coffee, Maddie tells me all the latest news from Pinkerton’s Detective Agency in Chicago. She’s an agent, you know.”

  “That,” she said with exasperation, “is cheating.”

  “No, it’s not, Jessamine. It’s called news gathering.”

  She gave him a look that would fry turnips and swished out the door. He watched her skirt twitch behind her hips with every step. He couldn’t wait until bedtime and another show behind her window blind.

  At noon, Conway Arbuckle paid him another visit. “Say, Sanders, whaddya think about running another editorial about my superior qualifications for district judge?”

  “Already ran two editorials this week.” Cole noticed that every time Conway visited the Lark office, Noralee turned her back, keeping her head down and bending over the rack of type fonts as if they were Christmas packages.

  “You got something new to say?” he queried.

  “Hell yes, I do,” Conway snapped. “Seems that Sneaky Pete sheriff’s run off to Portland. Wonder what he does in the big city?”

  “He’s taking his—”

  “Prob’ly a woman, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say, Mr. Arbuckle. Sheriff Silver’s a married man with two kids. Twins.”

  Arbuckle leaned over Cole’s desk and spoke in a low tone. “So? I smell a rat? Cant’cha dig up some dirt on him? You know, a nice-lookin’ whore—”

  “Watch it, Arbuckle. There’s a lady present.”

  Arbuckle jerked upright. “Huh? Where? You mean your type girl? Hell, she’s only a kid.”

  “She’s a ‘she,’ no matter how old she is. Now get out and leave us in peace. When there’s legitimate news about Sheriff Silver, I’ll publish it.”

  Noralee watched the door close behind Conway Arbuckle and swiveled on her stool to turn worshipful brown eyes on Cole. “Do you think I’m really a lady, Mr. Sanders? I’m only eleven.”

  Cole rose. “Miss Ness, you are every inch a lady. I’ll stand up for you any day. Now, what about our W’s? You need any more?”

  “That man has bad breath,” Noralee remarked. “Could you write about that?”

  Cole chuckled. “Nah. Gotta have a Who, What, Where, When and Why to make a story.”

  But, now that he thought about it, maybe it was time in this election campaign to aim for the solar plexus.

  *

  Jessamine folded the last of her Saturday edition into Teddy MacAllister’s saddlebag and handed the rest of the stack to Billy Rowell for the town deliveries, along with a shiny new quarter for each boy. She frowned as she watched Billy lope off down the street. She’d seen him in town just yesterday, hanging around the Lark office with an expectant look on his face.

  You don’t suppose…?

  She most certainly did suppose. That snake Cole Sanders was trying to use her delivery boy! She marched out the door and across the muddy street so fast Eli sat up on his stool, his mouth hanging open.

  “Mr. Sanders,” she announced the instant she was inside his office.

  Her nemesis stood up behind his desk. “Miss Jessamine. Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” she replied sharply. “You’re using Billy Rowell as a delivery boy, and I strongly object. Very strongly, in fact.”

  “Well, don’t. Doesn’t take much to get you riled up, does it?”

  She ignored the remark. “Stealing my delivery boy is unconscionable.”

  “Unconscionable,” he echoed. “Shockingly unfair. Unjust. Unscrupulous. But unconscionable? Kinda strong word for a simple matter of hiring a free agent to do a job.”

  Behind her she heard a spurt of laughter from Noralee Ness.

  “Billy isn’t a free agent,” Jessamine countered. “He belongs to me.”

  Cole liked it when she got angry. Her cheeks turned rosy and she bit her lips until they were swollen and the color of ripe raspberries. He was finding it hard to look away from her mouth.

  “On the contrary, Jessamine, Billy Rowell doesn’t belong to you or anybody else in this town except maybe his momma, who, by the way, seems mighty grateful for the extra money her son’s bringing home each week.”

  Jessamine’s raspberry-bitten lips opened and then closed. And opened again. “Of course,” she said in an even tone. “You are correct. I do beg your pardon for the use of ‘unconscionable.’ What about
just ‘unfair’?”

  “Seems to me, Miss Jessamine, you go off half-cocked a lot.”

  “That, Mr. Sanders, is entirely your fault.”

  “For God’s sake, we’ve been squabbling for weeks now. About time for first names, isn’t it?”

  Another snort of laughter from Noralee.

  “Now,” he continued, noticing how Jessamine’s breasts were swelling against the buttons of her white shirtwaist, “what is it exactly that is my fault? Other than running my newspaper office across the street from yours?”

  She actually stamped her foot on the plank floor. “For one thing, you are—”

  Jess stopped midsentence. He was what? A competitor, yes. A man, with all the maddeningly masculine habits of men, a lazy, confident swagger when he walked; a slow, suggestive smile that made her insides turn mushy; a mouth that… Oh, she didn’t know what, but his lips too often drew her gaze and she just knew that he noticed.

  “I am…?” he prompted.

  “You disregard, um, propriety. You…drink. You…are backing that snake Conway Arbuckle for judge.”

  “It’s true, I do drink. I consider the Golden Partridge part of my news beat. But propriety? I don’t disregard propriety, Jessamine. I have never—”

  He broke off and swallowed hard. Yes, he had disregarded propriety. He’d swept Maryann off her feet right under the nose of her stepfather and run away with her before the old man could unearth his shotgun.

  “Also,” he continued, “Mr. Arbuckle asked for my support. Besides that, since I took him on, my subscriptions have increased almost twofold.”

  She sniffed. “That’s because people sense a fight between the Sentinel and the Lark over the election.” She sniffed again.

  “Naturally. We both want to sell newspapers, right? Competition brings in more customers, Jessamine.”

  She said nothing, just chewed some more on her lips. If she didn’t stop, he’d have trouble hiding his body’s reaction.

  Too late. He stepped sideways, out of both Jessamine’s and Noralee’s field of view, and surreptitiously adjusted his jeans.

  “Customers,” she murmured at last. “I see. Well, I suppose you are correct. I wonder why I didn’t consider that before.”

  “Seems to me you often speak first and consider later.”

  That elicited a choked laugh from Noralee.

  Jessamine said nothing for so long Cole thought maybe he’d gone too far. She stood motionless, studying her shoe tops and worrying her bottom lip.

  Jessamine realized she was standing tongue-tied in Cole’s office and couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d come for. Think of something. Anything.

  “I…um…”

  “Yes? Something else on your mind?”

  “Yes, there is,” she admitted. “But now I can’t remember what it was.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do I make you nervous, Jessamine?”

  “What? Of course not. What would I have to be nervous about?”

  He took a step closer and she backed up. “Me, maybe?” he said. He sent her a grin that seemed positively wicked.

  “N-no,” she blurted. “Not you.”

  “My newspaper?”

  “Of course not. I’m not afraid of a little competition.”

  It’s you I am afraid of. She cringed inwardly at the admission. There hadn’t been a male since she was twelve years old who made her heart thrum in irregular beats and her words dry up on her tongue. She squared her shoulders and forced her eyes to meet his.

  “I d-don’t scare easily, Mr. Sanders.” She thought he looked just a tad disappointed.

  “You don’t,” he stated. His tone said he didn’t believe her for one minute.

  “The newspaper business out here in the West is fraught with danger. If I were going to go all jelly-legged over something I would have done so when my father died and my brother was shot and left me running the Sentinel. As it is, you don’t scare me one whit.”

  “Yeah? Then how come you’re edging toward the door, Miss Lassiter?”

  “I’m not!”

  But she was. She couldn’t get away from those laughing blue eyes fast enough. She whirled toward the door and ran smack into Ellie Johnson, the federal marshal’s wife.

  Ellie reached out to steady her. “Jessamine?”

  “Ellie! I was just leaving. Please excuse me.”

  She fled through the open door and didn’t stop until she was all the way across the street.

  Cole watched her disappear through the Sentinel office doorway. “Don’t know what got into her,” he murmured.

  “Maybe she’s hungry,” Ellie offered with a laugh.

  “Nah, she just finished breakfast.”

  Ellie nodded. She was as tall as he was, with a slim figure and a graceful way of moving. He thought he recognized her from her photo in the Sentinel.

  “Mrs. Johnson, isn’t it?”

  “Ellie.”

  Cole nodded. “What can I do for you today, Ellie?”

  She smiled. “It’s about what I can do for you, Mr. Sanders.”

  Cole waited while her smile widened. “Uh, what might that be? You aren’t a typesetter, are you?”

  Behind him, Noralee gave a squeak of outrage.

  “Heaven’s no. I’m a music teacher. I came about tonight.”

  “Tonight? What about tonight?”

  “Why, the tryouts for the choir,” she explained. “At the church.”

  “Sorry, I’m not a churchgoing man.” He hadn’t set foot in a church since that awful day back in Kansas when he buried Maryann.

  “Oh, it’s not a church choir,” she said quickly. “It’s the new community chorus that I am directing. We’re doing a Christmas benefit for the new music school.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Do you like music? Singing, I mean?”

  “I do. But not in church.”

  “Whyever not? What have you got against churches?”

  “I…” Cole faltered. He could never explain how he felt, that God had abandoned him to black despair when Maryann had died. He shook his head.

  “Do come,” she urged. “A little religion would do any newspaper editor good. Seven o’clock.”

  She was gone before he could say yea or nay. Mostly he thought nay. A little religion would never in a thousand years cure what ailed him.

  But then he thought of all the town news he might glean at choir rehearsals, and he changed his mind.

  Chapter Five

  Cole hated churches. He’d been married in one and a year later he’d sat through Maryann’s funeral and felt his heart turn to stone. Ever since then he’d steered clear of religious establishments.

  To his surprise, the Smoke River Community Church meeting hall wasn’t oppressive. The walls were painted a soft cream color, accented by dark wooden beams. Oak, he thought. Nice.

  About two dozen townspeople sat on benches around the perimeter, waiting for the tryouts to begin. Including, he discovered with a jolt of pleasure, Jessamine Lassiter.

  Tryouts, he discovered, involved singing alone, and Cole immediately felt uncomfortable about that. Trapped would be a better word. Maybe he should give up the idea. He had started to rise when the choir director, Ellie Johnson, impeccably dressed in a black skirt and a soft pink shirtwaist, clapped her hands and everyone sat up straighter.

  “Let’s start with the women’s voices.”

  The women sang selections from church hymns for their tryouts. Ellie selected four altos and three sopranos that blended with each other. One of the sopranos was Jessamine, who had spent all evening studiously ignoring him.

  The tenors tried out next. The director chose five, including Whitey Poletti, who had a whiskey-smooth tone and an extraordinarily high range. Whitey had launched into “Santa Lucia,” but got no further than the first stanza before Ellie smiled and nodded at him.

  By the time the director got around to the baritones, Cole was ready to bolt. He couldn’t si
ng like Whitey. He had no musical training, never sang in a church or any other choir and he hated the thought of doing it in public.

  He looked for the exit, but just then Ellie pinned him with an expectant look.

  He maneuvered to sing last, praying that those already chosen, including Jessamine, would go on home.

  No such luck.

  “Cole Sanders? Your turn.”

  Cole stood up, wishing a trapdoor would open beneath him. The director smiled encouragingly. “What would you like to sing, Mr. Sanders?”

  He felt Jessamine’s cool green-gray eyes on him, and his throat closed up tight. The director waited.

  “Uh, could I do this outside? Just the two of us?”

  She shook her head, and the onlookers began to whisper among themselves. Shoot sake! This wasn’t any worse than facing down a rabid mob of pro-slavery demonstrators back in Kansas. He drew in a deep breath.

  Jessamine waited. She’d bet the country bumpkin from Kansas couldn’t sing a note. Then he opened his mouth and started in.

  “‘Oh, my darling, Oh, my darling, Oh, my darling, Clementine…’”

  Suddenly the room was so quiet she could have heard a hatpin hit the floor. She sat straight as a ramrod and stared at him.

  “You are lost and gone forever…”

  She’d never heard a more beautiful male voice. Rich and full, like a hot mince pie warm from the oven. The director stopped him after “dreadful sorry, Clementine.”

  “Mr. Sanders, do you read music?”

  Aha! Jess would bet a million dollars in gold that he couldn’t. That was why he’d chosen a simple folk song for his audition, and besides that, his voice was entirely untrained.

  “Yeah, some,” he said. “My momma taught me when I learned to play the guitar.”

  “Then we would be honored to have you in our community choir. We’ll be performing selections from Handel’s Messiah at Christmas. Are you familiar with this work?”