Caitlin had set up a temporary jumping grounds, much to Dillon’s dissatisfaction. His heart leapt in his throat every time she jumped a fence, but he said nothing. She seemed to get a rush from jumping, and he’d seen a different side of her since the horse came. She was carefree, civil, and actually smiling. Something he hadn’t expected to see in the two weeks since her parents left.
He wasn’t sure if the personality change was because of Spirit, or if she might be taking a liking to him. She had seemed genuinely concerned about his welfare when he’d been trapped in the stall. Whatever made the difference, life was starting to calm down. He felt comfortable and happily settled into his new routine.
Since Caitlin started joining him more at mealtimes, he found himself coming home for supper, and not going to the eatery, or skipping it altogether. He didn’t stay as late at the shop either. He enjoyed coming home to a cooked dinner and some companionship.
Of course that did lead to one problem. His feelings for her were growing stronger. But he had no idea how she felt. The desire that shot through his body every time he looked at her was getting harder to control. He wondered if he would be able to keep his end of the deal much longer?
* * *
Caitlin sat by the hearth, the warm glow of the fire illuminating her auburn hair. She carefully pulled a needle and thread through the fabric, knotting it and pushing it up again. Dillon watched her rhythmically repeat the process a few more times. Then her brows wrinkled.
“What is the matter?”
“I cannot get this section right,” she sighed.
“May I take a look?”
She looked up, surprised. “’Tis only embroidery.”
“I am aware of that.”
“What do you know about stitching?” Even her father had never taken a vested interest in the art of sewing.
“I know a little.” He smiled. “My mother used to let me help when I was young.”
“You are welcome to take a look.” She held out the hoop.
He studied it for a few minutes before saying, “Ahhh. Here is your mistake.” He pointed to a row of stitching. “You miscounted the spaces in this row.”
“Where?” She grabbed the hoop out of his hands. Studying the area she saw the mistake. “Great! Now I have to redo all of it.” She started ripping the stitches out.
“Do not fret. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“I shall never get it done at this rate!”
“What is it anyway?”
“’Tis a picture for the wall by the door.”
“Oh.” He was surprised.
“Is that all right?”
“Of course, my dear. I had not realized you were working on something for the house.”
“Aye. The walls are so bare. I thought a few things to decorate would help it look more lived in.” She hesitated a moment before broaching the subject. “Dillon, I do have a matter I wish to speak with you about.”
He set his book on the table and gave her his full attention. “This sounds serious.” She’d never talked to him before.
“’Tis about the matter of redecorating the house.”
His thick, brown eyebrows shot up. “What about it?” She’d been so angry after finding out about her family leaving that the subject had been dropped.
“Do you mind if I still do it? I know we talked about once but nothing got started.”
“Why would I mind? I told you the house is in your hands.”
“That was before my family left.” Before she’d slapped him, insulted him, and just plain ignored him. “Perhaps you have changed your mind.”
“Nay.” He earnestly studied her. She truly did seem more relaxed now. Perhaps someday she would consider this her home too. “I will place an ad in the paper for a contractor.”
Her face brightened. “Thank you.”
* * *
The door squeaked open and Dillon looked up from the press. His agitated expression softened when he saw Caitlin. His breath caught in his throat. The purple fabric floated down to the floor like liquid silk. A high white hat with three matching purple plumes completed the look. Her white wrap was held in place by a broach.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Nay, I am only fixing the press again.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “I did not know you would be in town today.”
“I wanted to surprise you.” She strode forward. “And show off my new dress.” She twirled around so he could get the full effect. “What do you think?”
Beautiful, he thought. “’Twas worth every cent.”
She smiled. Her cheeks a rosy glow from the cold. “The other dresses will be ready in a week or so.”
“I am sure they will be of the same fine craftsmanship.”
Caitlin moved closer to get a better look at the press. A young boy standing nearby hurried to the other side of the room.
“You’d think I have the smallpox’s the way he ran away,” Caitlin commented.
“Well, my pet, you did leave quite an impression on him the last time you came in.”
“I was angry and upset.” Hurt and loneliness still burned in her eyes.
“I know. However Johnny is young and very timid. It may take a while for him to warm up to you.”
“Are you printing the paper?” She noticed his large, brown leather apron was covered in black ink. There was a spot on his cheek also. She wasn’t accustomed to this casual appearance. He wore long brown pants and a plain white shirt, cuffed to his elbows.
“Nay. The paper does not come out until Thursday so we print it on Wednesday.”
“When is the deadline for submissions?”
“Tuesday. Why do you ask?”
She smiled, fluttering her long, thick lashes. “I have given some thought to your suggestion. And have come up with an idea to help my present predicament.” Her gloved hand went to the broach she wore.
Dillon followed the movement and recognized the piece of jewelry. “You are wearing my mother’s broach.”
“Aye, ‘tis a lovely piece. I am sorry I threw it away so carelessly the night you gave it me. I had no idea it meant so much to you.” She looked up with sincerity in her eyes. “The story you told was truly enlightening and inspiring. So much so that I have written a piece I wish you to publish.” She took out a piece of paper from her reticule.
Dillon unfolded the paper and read the writing. An expression crossing his face that Caitlin couldn’t recognize, when he finished reading he looked up and said, “’Tis very good.”
“Truly?”
“Aye. ‘Tis well written and very concise, straight to the point.”
“Then you will print it?” Her face brightened with eagerness.
“I would suggest a few changes first.”
“What?” Her tone took on an edge, ready to defend whatever he found wrong.
“I am assuming that you want me to print this anonymously?”
“Aye.”
“Then you need to make a few minor changes. If I print this as is, everyone will know you wrote it. By saying ‘the sedition act forced my parents back to a hostile country,’ people will automatically know it is you. To my knowledge no other families have been sent back. And here,” he stepped closer and pointed, “instead of writing I, start out by saying ‘a family I know’. “’Twill not be lying because you do know them, but it won’t give away your identity either.”
“I see what you mean.” Caitlin studied the paper. “I shall work on it some more.” Looking at Dillon she asked, “Will you print it then?”
“Absolutely.” He cocked his head. “’Tis surprising you are taking my suggestions without a fight.”
“I may be stubborn but I am not stupid.” She smiled. “Besides they are very good suggestions.”
“If you want I will look over the revised edition tonight.”
“’Twould be nice.”
The clanging of the door drew their attention away from each other. “Sorry it took me so long,” Lucy bust
led in, “but Henrietta started talking with me. It’s the oddest thing, she never talks to me.”
“Knowing Henrietta, she wants something. ‘Tis the only time she’s ever nice to anyone,” Caitlin commented.
“I do not understand what she could want from me.”
Dillon stiffened when her name came up. Before Caitlin could ask about it, a commotion in the back of the room caught everyone’s attention. Johnny was sprawled on the floor with boxes and papers scattered around.
“Are you all right?” Dillon asked.
“Aye, sir.” He stood up, straightening his clothes. His eyes met Lucy’s but then quickly looked away. His cheeks turned a bright red. “’Twas only carrying some boxes of paper back to the storage room. I didn’t see the table.”
“Next time do not carry so many boxes at once. You are going to hurt yourself one of these days.”
“Aye, sir.” Johnny started gathering up the papers, too embarrassed to look at Lucy.
“I better help him clean up the mess.” He nodded toward Lucy. “I will see you both later.”
However, Lucy was busy watching the young man pick up the papers.
* * *
Dillon gave the handle one more crank and watched the pieces of wood flattened the paper against the coffins.
Caitlin eagerly waited.
“Be careful the ink is still wet,” he cautioned as he held up the paper for both of them to look at.
“You are only printing one?”
“’Tis the proof sheet. I have to check it for mistakes. After we have made the corrections on the machine then we will print more copies.”
“How many copies do you have to print?”
“Our subscriptions are up to one hundred.”
“’Tis an amazing feeling seeing something you have written in print.” Caitlin said with pride. “I bet it would be even more satisfying seeing your name printed after the article.”
“‘Tis too risky, my pet. Perhaps the next article will bear your name.”
“Next? I have no more ideas.”
“I am sure you will think of something.” He winked. “If you keep it up you could become a regular black letter gentry.”
Caitlin laughed. “I doubt that. I am not a writer.”
“You wrote this, did you not?”
“’Tis just a short opinion.”
“It may be short but ‘twill have people talking.” He fidgeted with some small square objects.
“What are you doing?” The press fascinated Caitlin. She’d been in the shop many times with her father, but never had the audacity to ask questions about how it worked.
“Setting the type.” He looked up and explained. “That is putting the letters in proper order. I saw a few mistakes and I’m correcting them.”
“Mistakes like this word is spelled wrong?”
“Exactly.”
“Did you notice that the letter A is upside down in this word.” She pointed.
“I have not gotten that far.”
She flipped through the pages. “The E is missing altogether in Ireland.”
“What line is that?” Dillon diligently worked over the press.
“I do not know,” she said puzzled.
“Sorry. I forgot I was not working with Johnny.” He showed her how to count the lines. “This is the first line, second, third and so on.” He moved his finger down the page. “The lines are set in columns. This is column one, two and three.” He was momentarily distracted by her nearness. She stood so close that her chest almost brushed his arm when she inhaled. The fragrance of flowers mingling with soap drifted up creating an intoxicating scent. He liked the smell of cleanliness. He liked the smell of her.
“So this letter is on line twelve, column two.” She looked up excitedly. “This is just like a puzzle.” Dillon’s intense gaze made her feel a little unsettled. She quickly lowered her gaze back to the paper, her long lashed lids covering her green eyes.
Dillon mentally shook himself. “Only you could find a game in work.” Her sense of playfulness was one more thing he liked about her.
“Life is work,” she commented. “If you do not look for fun in it will become boring.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.” Dillon laughed, enjoying her company. He felt a strange sensation whenever she took interest in his life.
He bent over the printer, moving and replacing letters as Caitlin read the lines and columns with errors. “There, the text should be correct.” He grabbed two large, round pads, soaking them with ink. Caitlin earnestly watched like a child viewing someone making candy. “This is called inking.” He stamped the two pads over all the letters several times to insure he didn’t miss any spots. “The more ink you use the darker the print.”
When he finished inking he laid a piece of paper over the letters. A hard flat board covered the paper. Then he clamped the board down to secure it so the paper wouldn’t move. When this was all done he moved to the side of the machine and started cranking the handle. The 15 by 20 inch paper was now covered with words. Next, Dillon carefully clipped the paper on a line. “We shall let it dry for a while, then we can read and see if there are any more mistakes.”
“’Tis a lot of work for one copy. You have to do this ninety-nine more times?” Caitlin seemed astonished.
“Setting the type is the most time consuming part.” He informed her. “After the paper is error-free the process goes much quicker.”
“I never realized so much work went into the newspaper.”
“’Tis a lot of work, but when you can make a difference the effort is worth it.”
“What if you do not make a difference?”
“The day I cease to make a difference is the day I close my shop.”
In spite of his weak-minded ways he had a determination that she liked. Perhaps he isn’t such a dim-witted goose after all. She smiled to herself.
* * *
A young girl entered the shop, her pink dress brightening the drab, dull shadows that lingered after dusk. She removed her bonnet, patting her blonde hair back in place, and hung the hat on the rack next to the door.
“Henrietta, to what do I owe this visit?” Dillon managed to hide his surprise.
“I just came to compliment you on another wonderful edition.” She stepped forward, hoping Dillon would notice the low cut neckline. A smile curved her red painted lips when his gaze drifted down. “I especially liked the opinion piece.”
“There were several. Which one drew your attention?”
“Come now, Dillon, don’t play coy with me.” She smiled seductively. “You know which one I’m talking about.”
“I am sure I do not.”
“The anonymous one that everyone is talking about.” She stepped near the press, running her long, thin hand across the frame. “We all know your little wife wrote it.” She spit the word wife out as if it were something distasteful.
“You know I am not at liberty to say who wrote the letter.” He clasped his hands behind his back, fighting to control his emotions.
“’Tis only me and you here, I shall not tell a soul.” She puckered her lips, pressing the index finger against them.
“An editor never reveals his sources.”
“Do you not trust me?”
“Why are you so intent on finding out the identity of the writer?” He had to be leery. His business and maybe even his life depended on it.
“’Tis merely curiosity.” Recognizing that determined stance she switched gears, trying a different approach. “The only reason I ask is that, well, if you are accepting women writers, I would like to submit something.”
Dillon silently groaned. She’d come to him before with articles to print but none of them were good. “I have never turned down a good piece of writing, no matter the gender.”
“You certainly never printed any of my pieces.” She pouted, obviously missing the point.
“Your submissions were not opinions they were intended as a column. For w
hich, I cannot afford to pay.”
“Dillon Cade, you should be ashamed of yourself.” She stated outraged. “I never asked you for coin. I wrote those papers from the depths of my heart only wishing to see them printed.” Actually, she’d only used them as an excuse to see Dillon. “You wounded me deeply when you rejected them. And, now you tell me the real reason was because of money.”
“I am sorry if I hurt your feelings.” His tone softened. “I understood how personal writing can be. I did not mean to imply that the only reason I rejected your submissions was for money.” He paused, forming his words carefully. “Your writings did not fit the format of this paper.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This is a newspaper. We report information that is pertinent to the reader concerning government, and local activities. Your submissions were more of a personal basis.”
“And what is wrong with that?”
“It does not fit under the context of news.”
“If I wrote about something else would you publish it?”
“I would carefully consider it.”
The Unwilling Bride Page 11
