Montana Maverick

by Ramona Flightner

  She took a sip of water and then carried the metal tray of letters to the printing press, where she rubbed a thin coat of black ink over it. After she set a piece of newsprint over it, she lowered its cover, moved it to the press, and turned the handle on the press. After counting to ten, she released the press and lifted the cover. She smiled as she read the headline “Fears Mount Silver Played Out in Obsidian Camp.” She clipped it to a clothesline and continued producing this edition of the paper. She had calculated that fifty copies would suffice. For now. She hoped demand for her newspaper would grow and that she would soon distribute it to the miners in the camp and to the numerous ranchers down the valley.

  She huffed out a breath at the thought of calling her one-sided broadsheet a newspaper. She knew calling it such was misleading; however, for marketing purposes, she would continue as she had begun.

  When the copies were printed and hung to dry, she arched her shoulders again and sighed as she stretched them after hours of work. She scrubbed at her fingers, dirtied with ink, in a clean bucket of water set in her kitchen area and then took off her apron.

  “I need an assistant,” she muttered as she moved her neck from side to side with a groan. “A competent one.” She grimaced when she thought of her first attempt at hiring an assistant. Upon arriving in town, she had interviewed the few young men not in the mining camp and decided to hire Horace Martin. She grunted in disgust as she thought of young Horace. Tall, gangly, with an inability to make his limbs move in the direction he wanted them to, he had nearly set the print shop on fire when he had bumped into an oil lamp and then knocked over a bucket of ink.

  Far worse was his incessant chatter. She had thought she could survive her loss of peace, but, when she learned his gossip was costing her her livelihood, she had fired him. Few in town saw the need to purchase her paper when they could speak with him and learn the paper’s contents free of charge. Now she was forced to run the entire enterprise on her own.

  She smiled, wiping her hands dry as the front door opened. “Hello, Mr. Clark.”

  “Miss McMahon,” Warren said with a nod. “How are you?” He glanced at the broadsheet and then shook his head as he read the headline. “Who’d you hear such rubbish from?”

  Jessamine’s smile turned cagey. “I never reveal my sources.”

  He met her gaze, his eyes squinting slightly, as she failed to fidget under his harsh stare. “You can’t believe everything you hear at the saloons or in the café. Some will speak in hyperbole simply to see their stories in print.”

  She laughed. “I vet my stories. When numerous townsfolk speak of a similar concern, I deem it a story worth investigating. Unless it is one I witness myself.”

  “Such a story, especially if it were true, could lead to panic. This town does not need a panic, J.P. It needs stability and a banker willing to be as generous as possible.”

  She snorted. “That man doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He thinks it is spelled s-t-i-n-g-y. I remain hopeful I am never in need of his aid. It’s my unfortunate luck that I’m his neighbor.”

  Warren waved away her words. “He is the only banker we have in town for now”—he raised an eyebrow as her eyes lit with interest—“and thus we must deal with him. Stories like this will only lead to fears that the Recession, which is easing, will return.”

  “I heard it wasn’t as severe here as in other parts of the country,” Jessamine said.

  “Oh, it was hard enough on the common townsfolk. And it lasted longer than other downturns.” He watched her with disappointment. “You should not feed fear, J.P.”

  She shrugged. “I refuse to print falsehoods and fairy tales.”

  Warren glared at her a moment and then sighed. “I didn’t come here today to argue with you about your upcoming stories. I wanted you to be aware that we are to have a new town doctor.”

  Her interest in the potential for a new banker faded, as did her irritation about Warren’s criticism of her reporting about the Obsidian silver mines. “Really? What’s his name? Where does he come from?”

  “He is Dr. Chester, and he comes from the state of New York. Upstate New York.”

  She frowned. “Why would he come here?”

  Warren smiled. “That is a question we ask about all of us, and, for some of us, it remains a mystery.” He nodded with approval as she shifted under his gaze. “Now, J.P.” He paused at her dramatic sigh.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I could set my watch by your visits.”

  He frowned and took off his hat as he moved farther into her print shop. He ducked under a line of drying broadsheets, maintaining a pristine suit free of ink stains. “If so, a wise person would cease activities that would lead to the arrival of the lawyer.”

  She rolled her eyes as she fought an amused smile. “Mr. MacKinnon ran to you, complaining again, and now you are here to exhort me to write namby-pamby stories.” She raised her hands, palm up. “Am I incorrect?”

  “This time your story affects more than just a MacKinnon, Miss McMahon. You should have more sense than to slander a young woman.”

  “And you should know better than to use a word like slander when it is not called for. I did not slander her. I reported what occurred.” She stood taller as she recited facts. “Did she or did she not offer her hand?” Her eyes gleamed as his shoulders stiffened. “Did she or did she not fall on his lap?” Her smile spread as he glared at her. “Did she or did she not tarry upon attempting to rise from such a position?”

  He swore under his breath and paced away. “Dammit, J.P., you need to cease antagonizing everyone in town. Write stories that you consider namby-pamby for a bit, but at least you’ll be a part of this town. Accepted.” He stilled as he saw a flash of longing in her gaze that was quickly masked. “You have to know that, if you continue on this path, few will wish to speak with you in the future.”

  She smirked. “There will always be someone eager to speak with a journalist. The thought of seeing one’s name or one’s words in a paper is a thrill few are willing to pass up.”

  He exhaled a huff of breath. “Your cynicism isn’t becoming, Jessamine.”

  She laughed. “I know, but you like me anyway.”

  He half smiled and nodded. “Be careful what you write. You are angering too many, too quickly. Write something else that will cause the town to talk, other than speculations about their neighbors’ actions.” He paused a moment as he saw her sober. “Can you attempt that?” When she nodded, he put on his hat. “I wish you good day.”

  She plopped onto a chair after his departure, clinging to her sense of pride at a job well done, staring at her drying broadsheets, and fighting loneliness.

  Chapter 2

  News & Noteworthy: It has come to this reporter’s attention that a certain gentleman well known in at least two of the disreputable centers of vice in our fine town is in need of a wife. I’d think carefully, ladies, before I’d consider one such as he a suitable husband.

  Ewan choked on a sip of coffee as he read the latest paper. His eldest brother, Cailean, had left it folded to the column where J.P. spewed her gossip two times a week. He glared at the words on the paper again before setting it aside.

  He sat in the large room in Cailean’s house that served as the kitchen and dining room. Near the door leading to the hall and sitting room was a good-size round table covered in a light-green cloth with flowers embroidered along the edge. A sink with a hand pump, a large Great Majestic stove, and an icebox were in the kitchen, along with a small wooden table for preparing food. A filled woodbox was by stove, while a hutch with dishes and linens stood along the wall leading to the hallway. Cupboards were filled with cooking instruments, pans and foodstuffs. A door to the side of the kitchen heading outside led to the livery and an outhouse.

  “Damn woman,” he muttered. Ever since she had arrived in town in the middle of August, she had focused on him in every edition of her newspaper.

  His sister, Sorcha, entered the kitchen and saw him
reading about himself. “Serves ye right for antagonizin’ a woman with a printin’ press.” Sorcha moved to the stove and poured herself a cup of coffee, sighing with appreciation as she breathed in its scent. Her light-blue eyes shone with amusement as she witnessed her brother’s irritation. Her red-brown hair, tied in a loose plait, fell to her waist. Although her brothers were tall, she stood only an inch over five feet.

  “How was I to ken she’d be such a pest?” He rubbed at his head. “No matter what she says here, now every mother in town will push her daughter in my direction. It’s as though the demon newspaperwoman kent, by sayin’ one thing, she’d cause the exact opposite to occur.”

  Sorcha chuckled. “Aye, she’s a canny opponent, and so far ye are losing.” Her amused gaze watched her brother as he ran a hand through his hair. “Ye canna spend more time than ye already do at the saloons or the Boudoir, avoidin’ every available female and their mothers. Ye’d have to be rentin’ a room at either establishment.” She frowned as her brother failed to smile. “’Tis no concern, Ewan.”

  He strode to the stove and refilled his coffee mug. “’Tis, Sorch. I like my life. I want to continue to live it unfettered by the demands of a wife and further responsibilities. I dinna want a gaggle of women followin’ me around or attemptin’ to trap me.” He shuddered. “Ye ken what almost happened to Alistair with that Jameson girl.”

  Sorcha sobered. “Aye, although we ken it was more the mother than the girl. Because of her mother, Helen will be one of the first to pursue ye.”

  Ewan shuddered. “Ye ken she’s as bad as her mother. I willna be forced to marry her.”

  After setting down her mug, Sorcha grabbed her brother’s arms in a sort of long-armed hug until he looked at her. “Then be on yer guard, Ewan. She’s desperate, and ye dinna want her desperation to lead to yer misery.”

  He nodded before kissing her forehead. “Thank ye, Sorch. Ye’ve always understood me better than Cail and Alistair.”

  She shook her head. “Nae, I’ve accepted ye as ye are, not as how I wished ye were.” She squeezed his arms and let go.

  He took two big gulps of coffee before leaving his cup in the sink and slipped from the room. He grabbed his hat and a jacket from the pegs by the front door and walked outside. He turned away from the town, walking past the livery and blacksmith shop toward the nearby sawmill. Ewan saw the new schoolteacher, Mr. Danforth, across the road attempting to corral the young children and shook his head as they raced around like wild beasts, ignoring Mr. Danforth’s quiet words to calm down.

  Ewan walked a short distance along the road that led to the wide valley that spread out below the town. Large cattle ranches filled the valley, although a few intrepid homesteaders had staked their claims. Ewan inhaled deeply, sighing with contentment as the clean air filled his lungs. The scent of fresh pine and spruce permeated the air, while cottonwoods grew near the stream a short distance from the road. He heard the peck-peck-peck of a woodpecker but was unable to sight him in the trees.

  He approached the sawmill and called out to Nathaniel Ericson who ran it with his friend Karl Johansen.

  Nathaniel emerged from inside with a light covering of wood dust on his work-roughened clothes, a smile as broad as his shoulders. “Ewan,” he said as he held out his hand. After shaking Ewan’s hand, he rubbed at his head, sprinkling more dust on his shoulders. “I’ve your order ready.” He spoke with the long vowels of someone from Norway, although Ewan joked with him that Nathaniel’s English was better than his.

  “Aye, thanks,” Ewan said. He saw his filled wagon, a team of horses hitched to the front, waiting to head into town and looked around in confusion.

  “Your worker is flirting with Leena again.” Nathaniel laughed as Ewan frowned. “She made apple cake, and he accepted her offer of a piece.”

  “Yer sister is too friendly,” Ewan muttered, earning another laugh from Nathaniel.

  “Ya, she is, but she also knows she is to wed Karl soon. Her happiness is …” He squinted as he searched for a word before shrugging.

  “Contagious,” Ewan muttered. “I canna help but feel my mood lighten when I am near yer sister.”

  “Ya, and you know she will not be one of the women in the town who wishes to marry you.” Nathaniel laughed as Ewan glared at him. Nathaniel clapped him on the shoulder and led him into the small house next to the sawmill. Inside, Ewan watched with amusement as his worker’s joy turned to embarrassment at Ewan’s arrival.

  “Sorry, boss,” Stephen said as he gobbled down the last of his apple cake. He rose and thanked Leena before sidling out the door to the waiting wagon full of lumber.

  Ewan smiled at Leena who offered him a piece of apple cake. He nodded his acceptance and sat at the table. “I ken ye have work to do,” he said to Nathaniel. “Sorry to take ye away from yer duties.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “We are mainly caught up on our orders. Do you have many new projects starting?”

  Ewan took a bite of the cake and closed his eyes. “Delicious,” he whispered. “Aye, I’ve the house I’m workin’ on now and two more to try to complete afore winter. The framin’ is about done, and then we’ll work on the inside.” He watched as his friend fidgeted. “Are ye worried about the winter?”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Ya, last winter was long, and we didn’t have much work. We’ve saved this summer, but I never know if it will last.”

  Ewan nodded and took the last bite of the sweet cake. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.” He murmured his thanks to Leena and rose, leading Nathaniel outside. “The town is boomin’, but ye have to ken it could end at any moment.”

  Nathaniel looked down the road that led toward the town’s main street. “We have the train here and ranchers. We aren’t dependent solely on the miners. Even if they disappeared, we’d still have a reason to survive.”

  “I always love your optimism, friend,” Ewan said as he slapped him on his back. “I’ll be by soon when I need to place another order.”

  He retraced his steps, passing by the livery on his way to a house behind Main Street and a short distance from Alistair and Leticia’s home. It was nearly behind the café, and he had a ready excuse to slip inside for his midday meal each day, rather than venturing the short distance home to discover what Sorcha had attempted.

  Before Ewan entered the worksite, he was pleased to see his men busy unloading the lumber for this project. Half would travel to the house on the opposite side of Alistair and Leticia’s home. He nodded to the men as they piled the lumber inside and joined the man he considered his unofficial foreman. “Hello, Ben.”

  Ben smiled and pushed a strand of longish pitch-black hair behind one ear. “How are things today, boss?” He watched him with a curious gleam and a hint of mischief in his gaze.

  “That damn woman willna cease writin’ about me.” He glared at his friend as Ben burst out laughing. “It’s no’ as though I’m searchin’ for my ladylove.”

  Ben wiped at his cheek and fought to maintain his composure. “I hope not. The Beauties at the Boudoir would be sorely disappointed.”

  Ewan elbowed him in the side, smiling with satisfaction when Ben grunted in slight discomfort. Ewan looked around the room. “Looks as though the walls should go up today, and then we can work on the roof. I want this roughed in by the end of the month.”

  Ben nodded. “I’ve got it under control here. You should go to the other worksite and make sure the lumber is delivered.” He tilted his head outside where two of the men chatted. “The men you hired this summer are good workers but still in need of guidance.”

  Ewan slapped him on his shoulder, his boots thunking on the wide-plank pine floors. He put all thoughts but work out of his mind as he joined his men.

  Fact or Fiction? Since my arrival, I have been besieged by tall tales that the tellers insist are true. Thus I have created a new segment in the paper, and I leave it up to you, my most discerning reader, to determine for yourself if it is Fact or Fiction?

 
; This first tale comes from the dubious imagination of our most disreputable gentleman. Imagine a man, returning home from a winter’s trapping, to discover his home ransacked by a marauding Indian party. His wife and unborn child are dead, and he’s filled with rage and a thirst for revenge. Soon scalped members of the tribe begin to turn up dead with his unmistakable calling card: a bite missing from each dead man’s liver. Neither traps nor tricks nor ambushes by expert hunting parties foiled him in his twenty-year vendetta against his sworn enemy. I ask you, is this Fact or Fiction?

  Ewan sat in the kitchen and read aloud the new section of the newspaper to Sorcha who glared at the empty coffeepot. She muttered about men who took the last cup and failed to make any more before she brewed another pot. “Ye ken ye’ll rip our stomach lining away with what ye brew.” He ducked as she threw a drying cloth at him.

  “If ye can do better, then ye should make it,” she snarled. After a moment she shivered. “’Tis a horrid story ye were tellin’ in the saloon. Why would ye make up somethin’ like that? An’ why would she print it?”

  Ewan laughed. “I did no’ make it up! All the men in the saloons tell tales about him. He still lives, and his name is Liver-Eating Johnson.” He smiled as his sister made a disgusted face. “He’s famous for evading capture by the Crow. And he fought for the Union in the Civil War. He’s a heroic figure.” He frowned for a moment. “I think he’s a sheriff somewhere in Montana now too.”

  “I refuse to believe a man like him lived. I think the story is fiction. No man would act in such a way.” She shivered. “I canna imagine eatin’ livers like that.” She made another face.

  “They killed his wife and bairn, Sorcha. He wanted retribution.” He smiled. “Life wasna easy in the West forty years ago.”

  She joined him at the table. “It isna easy now, but we dinna go around carvin’ each other up. Nor do we turn them into folk heroes.” She pointed her finger at him. “An’ I dinna believe that man walked this earth. He’s a figment of yer imagination. Why are ye helpin’ that spiteful woman when all she does is write horrid things about ye?”