Printer in Petticoats

by Lynna Banning

  Alto Ardith Buchanan won the part of Lady Marmalade’s lady-in-waiting, and Cole, Ike Bruhn and Anderson Rivera were cast as the three suitors. The sheriff would play his fiddle.

  Cole groaned under his breath. Anderson Rivera. He sure hoped none of the suitors got to kiss Lady Marmalade. Especially not Sheriff Rivera.

  Noralee Ness won the part of Miss Evangeline, and Billy Rowell ended up as Picklerelish.

  At the end of the evening, Cole offered to walk Jessamine home, but he had to practically arm-wrestle her away from Anderson Rivera, who was standing next to her—way too close—demonstrating a sudden interest in Jess’s gift for improvising verse.

  Cole didn’t realize his fists were clenched until he tried to stuff his hands into his trouser pockets.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rita plopped her coffeepot down on the table and scowled at the two diners facing each other across an expanse of white linen tablecloth. Land sakes, they weren’t even looking at each other, much less talking! Each newspaper editor had his—or her—head hidden behind the pages of the other’s morning edition. Not only that, but neither Cole Sanders nor Jessamine Lassiter looked up, even when she refilled their cups. For the third time.

  Only when she retreated to the kitchen did she hear a single word spoken.

  “Kinda pointed,” Cole said.

  Jessamine raised her coffee cup to her lips without glancing up. “No more so than your editorial.”

  “Yeah, but my editorial is more accurate.

  She stifled a grin. “Prove it.” She loved bantering with Cole. He made her squirm, and she made him laugh.

  “Jess, your editorial is downright opinionated.”

  “An editorial doesn’t have to be accurate,” she challenged. “An editorial is just that, an opinion. And in this case, my opinion on the matter is better than yours.”

  Cole snorted. “But at least the editor’s opinion has to be based on facts.”

  “Does not.”

  He hid his smile behind the newspaper he held before his face. “Another thing, Jess. Writing-wise, you’re stuck in another alphabetical rut. This time it’s J words. Jaundiced. Jounced. Jerry-rigged.”

  “I like J words,” she quipped. “Jumpy…joyful…jittery,” she recited. “So there. And may I point out that you’re awfully fond of M words this week? Murderous. Manacled. Mayhem.”

  “And I believe,” he said dryly, “that it’s jury-rigged, not jerry-rigged.”

  “It is? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Kinda expected you to know the difference.”

  “There’s a difference? I thought it was just a matter of spelling.”

  “Or misspelling,” he said blandly.

  She leaned across the table toward him. “Oh, Cole, I do like it when we discuss things. It’s…stimulating.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Stimulating? ‘Stimulating’ would be reading an editorial of yours without a lot of hyperbole.”

  “Ah, yes, hyperbole,” she mused aloud. She peeked out from behind the propped-up page of the Lark. “That’s when someone tries to make his readers forget the facts, isn’t it?”

  “Hyperbole,” he muttered, lowering his newspaper so their eyes met, “is what a woman does every time she smears rouge all over her cheeks.”

  She gave a delighted chirp of laughter. “My, that is clever. Personally I have never worn rouge. Papa said it wasn’t proper.”

  “You don’t need rouge, Jess,” he said with a smile. “You’re blushing.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip and Cole sucked in a breath.

  “Let’s get back to manacled and mayhem, shall we?” she said. “Those are perfectly good words for that snake Conway Arbuckle.”

  “He’ll go to prison, Jess. I figure we’re just helping him along. It won’t be jury-rigged when he comes to trial.”

  She laughed. He’d never heard a woman’s laugh he liked better than Jess’s. Half the fun of their twice-weekly newspaper postmortems across the restaurant dining table was exchanging barbs with her.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rita watching them, a puzzled look on her shiny face. He felt halfway sorry for the waitress. Weeks went by when he and Jess bantered back and forth across platters of eggs and bacon and biscuits. He guessed Rita couldn’t figure out if they were friends or enemies.

  Now that he thought about it, maybe that was a valid question. Lately he didn’t know himself. Jess could be pointed, amusing, determined and playful, all at one sitting. It was damn hard to keep up with her, but it sure kept him on his toes.

  As long as she doesn’t nibble on her bottom lip.

  He darted a look at her, then purposefully looked away. “Are you covering the dance out at Jensen’s barn on Saturday?” he asked.

  She blinked. “‘Covering’? You mean gathering news?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I rather thought a dance was an opportunity for a person to dance,” she said tartly.

  “That, too,” he acknowledged. “Also good for finding out the latest news and gossip. I understand that Sheriff Walks-on-Water Rivera will be there.”

  Her dark eyebrows rose. “Walks on water?”

  “Noralee is so swoony over Anderson Rivera you’d think he’d climbed down from Mount Olympus just to be the sheriff of Smoke River.”

  “You mean Valhalla, don’t you? Mr. Rivera looks more Viking than Greek to me.”

  Cole groaned under his breath. Viking, Greek. It was bad enough that his typesetter was all aflutter over the man; an all too visceral part of him didn’t want Jess to be smitten, as well.

  Hell’s bells, she was biting her lip again. He pushed away from the table and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “We aren’t finished with our postmortem yet.”

  “I’m finished,” Cole said in a tight voice. “I’ll rent a buggy and drive you out to Jensen’s on Saturday night if you’d like.”

  “Yes, thank you, Cole. On the way back to town we can compare notes on all the news and gossip. I look forward to it.”

  Cole folded his copy of the Sentinel under his arm and studied her rosy upturned face. He could hardly wait. But what he looked forward to wasn’t talking with Jess; it was dancing with her.

  *

  Music floated on the evening air as Cole maneuvered the buggy close to Peter and Roberta Jensen’s handsome red barn. He parked the rig among the horses and buckboards gathered in front of the structure, handed Jess down and took her elbow.

  She looked so beautiful tonight he could scarcely breathe. Her dark blue skirt hugged the curve of her hips and swirled gracefully about her black button-up shoes. The lacy pink shirtwaist swelled in all the right places. He swallowed and looked off across a just-plowed field.

  The minute Jess was inside she unwrapped the knit blue shawl about her shoulders, drew a notepad and a pencil from her skirt pocket and headed for the chairs lining the plank dance floor where a row of onlookers sat chatting. Cole watched her make a beeline for Jericho and Maddie Silver, rocking their twin babies in two matching wicker laundry baskets.

  Well, shoot. He wanted Jess dancing in his arms, not taking notes for her newspaper. He concentrated on the fiddle and guitar music and let his attention drift until it landed on the new sheriff, Anderson Rivera. His tall, spare frame moved purposefully toward the bar made of pine two-by-twelves balanced between two stacked apple crates. Cole watched the man speak at length to the bartender, Seth Ruben, down a cup of lemonade—lemonade?—and stride back to the dance floor.

  Cole stepped up to the bar. “Seth,” he greeted the paunchy man uncorking a fifth of whiskey.

  “Cole. New sheriff sure don’t drink much.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Been here two hours, and all he’s had is lemonade.”

  “Clean and sober man, maybe. Pour me a shot.”

  Seth snorted. “Nah. More’n likely he doesn’t want liquor on his breath for the ladies. Jest watch him.” The bartender jerked h
is chin toward the dance floor.

  Rivera was dancing with the widowed Elvira Sorensen. When the two-step concluded, the sheriff escorted the tall, gaunt woman back to her chair and then whirled pudgy Roberta Jensen out onto the floor. Then it was Zinnia Langfelter, the undertaker’s daughter, and then old Mrs. Hinksley, the retired schoolteacher from Ohio who was eighty if she was a day. The elderly lady’s snow-white head bobbed in time to the music while Rivera spun her around and around in a waltz. Next he engaged Maddie Silver in a spirited two-step.

  After Maddie, Rivera bent over the hand of Ardith Buchanan, politely asking her to dance. Cole groaned. Noralee would be so jealous and distracted he might as well kiss Monday’s galley proofs goodbye.

  Suddenly he understood what the man was doing. The new sheriff was methodically working his way around the room, dancing once with every female at the gathering. Cole watched his progress and scratched his head. What did he think he was doing, running for office? Great jumping jennies, he already had the office.

  Rivera’s next target was Jessamine Lassiter. Oh, no, you don’t, you bastard. Keep your hands off my— His what? His reaction brought him up short with a sucker punch to the gut. Jess didn’t belong to him. She owed him nothing. Other than groin-tightening kisses and way too few nights of unforgettable lovemaking, he had no claim on her.

  Jess didn’t belong to him. He had no claim on her because…because, you damn fool, you’ve never claimed her!

  All at once he found himself asking a surprisingly painful question: What exactly did Jessamine Lassiter mean to him?

  The question made his head spin. Maybe he’d step over to the bar again for another stiff whiskey and think this whole mess over.

  “Back so soon?” Seth asked with a knowing grin.

  “Yeah. Make it a double this time.”

  “Got woman trouble?”

  “How’d you guess?” Cole growled.

  “Aw, it ain’t hard,” Seth said in a sympathetic drawl. “The minute you fancy a woman, you got trouble.”

  Cole saluted the man with his glass, downed the contents in one gulp and turned back to the dance floor. Gritting his teeth, he searched for Jess, and when he found her in Rivera’s arms he reached behind him and shoved his shot glass back toward Seth.

  With a chuckle the bartender splashed in another two fingers of whiskey and slid it back within Cole’s reach.

  Cole didn’t notice. His attention was riveted on Jess and Rivera. He could see her lips moving, making conversation or maybe asking questions, and he tightened his jaw until his teeth hurt.

  Admit it, you selfish bastard. You don’t want Jess to like him.

  He watched her gaze up into the tall sheriff’s face and folded his hands into fists. He knew just how she looked, her green eyes wide-open and eager, her mouth soft and sweet and…

  God, please don’t let her nibble her lips! The man was only human.

  He gripped his whiskey, took a deep breath and tossed back every drop.

  *

  Noralee Ness smoothed the lace on the sleeves of her best blue gingham dress and said a prayer. Please, please, Lord, let Sheriff Rivera ask me to dance. Please.

  She watched him across the expanse of plank flooring and wondered why the arms of the banjo and fiddle player were moving but making no noise. The low buzzing inside her head shut out everything in the Jensens’ cavernous barn except the thudding of her heart.

  If he asked her to dance, she vowed she wouldn’t miss a step, music or no music. Whatever it was, a waltz, a schottische, a slow two-step or a fast polka, she would keep up with him; she just knew she would.

  He looked so tall and handsome it made her throat ache. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, couldn’t look anywhere else except at his long legs and broad shoulders, and she followed his every move with glazed eyes.

  Now he was dancing with Maddie Silver. When he returned Maddie to her seat beside her husband, the sheriff bowed over the hand of Ardith Buchanan, the schoolmarm, seated next to Maddie. He swung the white-haired lady out onto the floor in a waltz that made her head bob and swoop in time to some music Noralee still could not hear.

  Next it was the widow Sorensen again and then… Suddenly Noralee sucked in her breath. Sheriff Rivera was methodically working his way around the room, moving from one woman to the one sitting next to her, dancing with each one in turn.

  Her heart skittered wildly. All she had to do was be the next female person in the seated row of onlookers and Sheriff Rivera would eventually invite her onto the floor.

  It would all be so simple! She sped over to the sidelines and planted herself next to the chair just vacated by Mrs. Sorensen. I’m next! I’m next!

  The sheriff whirled past and Noralee devoured him with her eyes. How elegantly he danced! His feet never got tangled up in a woman’s long skirt no matter how many flounces at the hem. And he didn’t waste time talking, either.

  That was just as well, since she knew she would be completely tongue-tied just looking at him up close. Had she remembered to dab some of Mama’s toilet water behind her ears? Men liked that; Miss Jessamine said they did. And rouge…but she couldn’t find any rouge in her mother’s top bureau drawer. Surreptitiously she pinched her cheeks to make them rosy.

  What about her breath? Did it smell of corn on the cob?

  Or, God forbid, of the green onions she’d had at supper? She cupped her hand over her mouth and puffed out a breath, then quickly inhaled. No onion smell, just a hint of tomatoes. Oh, why, why had she not brushed her teeth before coming to the dance?

  The polka with Mrs. Sorensen was ending. Noralee watched the sheriff escort her back to her seat and tried to stop herself from bouncing up and down in anticipation.

  He was coming! He was coming right toward her!

  She tried to smile in a ladylike way, demure but friendly. But Sheriff Rivera passed by her chair and asked Rachel Bluett to partner him. Rachel Bluett! Why, she could dance better than a red-haired stick like Rachel Bluett! Lots better.

  Instantly she jolted to her feet and repositioned herself four seats down, next to a line of as yet undanced-with ladies. Only after she sank onto the bench did she realize the woman next to her was her mother. And her twin sister, Edith.

  She moved over three places.

  But when the music started up again, it was Edith who walked out with the sheriff. Her own sister! How could she?

  Oh, the cruelty of it. She couldn’t bear to watch. Her heart was cracking in two right down the middle.

  “Noralee?”

  Billy Rowell stood in front of her. “Wanna dance?”

  Well, yes, she wanted to dance, but not with Billy Rowell. Would it be impolite to refuse him and then step out onto the floor with Sheriff Rivera?

  She moaned under her breath. Yes, it would be. “Um, well, I…uh…”

  Just then the music stopped. The sheriff brought Edith back to her seat and asked the next woman, Ivy Bruhn, wife of the sawmill owner, to dance. The fiddle struck up another waltz.

  “Yes,” she blurted. “I’ll dance with you, Billy.” At least if she was out on the floor she would be that much closer to the sheriff. She could watch his face, maybe even hear what he was saying to his partner.

  Billy Rowell danced like a wooden soldier. They circled twice around the floor and all at once he halted. “Noralee, stop leading.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “S’okay. I don’t dance too good anyway.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sheriff Rivera return Lucy to her seat and head for the bar at the far end of the room. Surely he didn’t drink spirits?

  No. It was a glass of lemonade he held to his lips. Lemonade! She made the best lemonade in town; everybody said so, even Edith. Maybe someday the sheriff would…or she could take a quart jar of her fresh-squeezed lemonade with just a tad extra sugar over to the sheriff’s office.

  Billy returned her to the bench on the sidelines, bowed politely—bowed? Billy bowed? J
ust like the sheriff?—and left her. As soon as his back was turned, Noralee scooted over two more places to her right and waited expectantly for Sheriff Rivera to appear before her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jessamine lifted her head, waiting for the sheriff to respond to her query. She’d asked him, politely, how he liked Smoke River so far.

  “Fine,” he said.

  She waited. Was that all, just “fine”?

  “Is there something in particular you find pleasing?” she inquired.

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing? Are you used to towns as small as Smoke River?”

  “Yep.”

  Jess bit her lip. “Well, what was your home in Texas like?”

  “Small.”

  “How small? Did you have a church? Or a schoolhouse?”

  “Yep. Both.”

  “And?” She smiled up at him and held her breath.

  “And what?”

  Oh, for mercy’s sake! “What was your town in Texas like?” She hoped her exasperation didn’t show.

  “Like…Texas.”

  Jess frowned. “Are you worried because I’m a newspaper editor? Is that why you are so, well, short-spoken?”

  “Nope.”

  “Perhaps you are afraid I will misquote you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mr. Rivera, don’t you want to talk to me?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m talkin’.”

  No, you are not, she fumed. Or…a thought struck her. Maybe the man thought he was talking to her. Maybe he simply didn’t have that much to say.

  He might be tall and attractive, but as for interesting—that he most certainly was not. Perhaps if she were twelve years old, like Noralee, but she wasn’t twelve. She was twenty-two years old, and she had a brain in addition to a pair of eyes, and she was bored by this man. Bored.

  Suddenly it struck her as funny. She gulped back a giggle just as a warm hand slid about her waist and someone swung her out of Anderson Rivera’s long arms. She swirled away into the arms of Cole Sanders. Her heart lifted.

  “Oh, Cole, talk to me!”