Truly His Type (Cowboys and Angels Book 25)

by Jo Noelle

Then he continued. “I don’t believe you.”

  Rhona froze. Had she been mumbling too? Her heart raced. She had to say something. But what? She could confess that she found his face beautiful and his body athletic but it wouldn’t affect the way she performed the duties she was assigned. Oh, but she thought it could.

  “Half an hour at the most,” he said.

  What? Oh, how long he’d been muttering. “Yes, well, it seems like an hour. And you asked if I could write. You didn’t ask me—you just muttered it. I didn’t know if I should answer you or not.”

  “Do you?” His hands stopped with the ink roller suspended above the pad, staring her in the eye.

  “If you’d like to know, you’ll have to come out and ask.” She met his gaze. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to ask.

  He stepped closer only the paper between them. “Rhona, do you write?”

  Her pulse sped. She’d have to get over that since they’d be working together every day. She answered, “Yes, I write.” Her voice was breathy.

  He stepped back over to the machine and began pressing another page, breaking the spell. “Would you tell me about it?”

  Rhona forced her eyes not to watch him. “There’s really nothing to say. I write stories.”

  “What about?” He looked at her and quickly away.

  No one had ever asked before. She’d been accused of using too much paper. Of burning precious candles late into the evening. Of wasting ink. She hardly knew what to say. Was he really interested? He was a writer, too, a journalist. Would he look down on someone who made up stories to surprise and entertain?

  “I wrote novels about cowboys. My brother made his way to the United States and then to the west, and I daydreamed about what it must be like to live in an untamed new place.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “You’ve written more than one?” He stopped the process again, leaning forward. “How many?”

  Rhona placed a new sheet under the printing frame. “I have three novels and a handful of short stories. I’m most proud of this last one.”

  “I’m impressed. I’d like to read them sometime. Is there one that might interest me?”

  It was a scary notion to think that someone would read her words. “I doubt very much that my stories would interest anyone.” She shook her head. “Everything I wrote was imagined from the short notes Edwin sent back on occasion about this town and how I imagined Creede to be. I have to say that I didn’t have enough imagination to do the task justice.”

  “Why do you think so?” He scrolled the pages forward and under the press.

  “It’s much wilder here than I imagined. But there’s opportunity and freedom.” She thought back to their poverty in Scotland. She had never been so glad as when Edwin sent for them. She would have gone anywhere to escape the life they’d had. Immigrating to America had probably saved their lives. “If I wrote them over again with what I know now, the stories would be more exciting.” The new pages slid back to her.

  “I think you should. Make them as huge as Colorado is to you. Would you trust me to read one?”

  “Trusting you isn’t the problem. It’s myself I don’t trust. I would get my hopes up. Then I’d want them published, but it’s scary to share your soul that way.” What if he didn’t like it? I don’t know if I could handle the rejection. She turned around to place the pages on the table to dry.

  They continued working as they talked, printing two more pages before Mark spoke up again as she set a new paper under the frame. “All the big papers are serializing novels to share with their readers. Mark Twain, George Eliot, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Henry James—they all published their novels by installments in newspapers and magazines. We could do that with yours.”

  Everything Mark had said sent Rhona’s heart hammering with fear. She pointed toward the page lying on the plate and then toward the press, reminding Mark that they were working.

  He slid it forward and pulled the lever. “Your story would be on the front page. Creede’s own authoress. Think on that.”

  She didn’t want to think of that possibility at all. If her chest contracted any more, she might stop breathing.

  Mark’s face was bright with excitement. “Shall we do it? Are you ready to be famous?” he asked, sliding the frame her direction.

  “No.” She busied herself with removing the latest print made, then turned her back toward Mark as she set it aside carefully and very slowly. She took a calming breath and blew it out her mouth before she turned back around. “I couldn’t possibly. There would be too much to fix.”

  His expression lost the excitement it had held moments ago, but it didn’t look disappointed—more like reassuring. “One day, you’ll have some time to get back to that.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the way “one day” sounded—perpetually in the future, so it would never happen. The two words repeated in her head, making her feel sadder each time. But learning that she had no talent would break her heart. The novels were written hoping that someone would read them, but she was frozen with fear.

  A while later, they’d finished the stacks of flyers they’d been making. “It seems like a good time to take a lunch,” Mark said. “Shall we walk to Hearth and Home and pick up a bagged meal?” He removed his apron, and so did Rhona.

  “Yes. I’d like to talk with Isla.”

  Mark took her coat from the peg by the door and held it for her as it slid over her shoulders. He pulled his on, and they left.

  They walked along the boardwalks in front of the stores facing Main Street.

  “I wonder if you would help me with my business.” Mark’s voice sounded unsure.

  “Isn’t that what I’m doing now?” She looked to see if he was teasing.

  “Of course, but a different kind of help. Since you’re a writer—”

  Oh, no. Please don’t ask again. Rhona wondered if she’d have to find a new job soon.

  “. . . and Creede is changing. There are more ladies coming to town every day, and I would like to see the Creede Candle address some of their interests. The thing is, I haven’t the faintest idea what a lady’s interest would be.”

  The tense muscles in her chest relaxed as he spoke about a different kind of writing. “Very sensible.”

  Mark gave her a startled look.

  Oh, she did love to tease him. She shrugged. “As you said so.”

  “You didn’t have to agree so readily.”

  “Just trying to be agreeable.”

  “This isn’t a very creative job. You’d tell what you learn around town—dances, fashions, and such.” His fingers lifted to tick off his ideas.

  “That doesn’t sound like a newspaper article to me.” She stopped walking.

  “I should hope not,” he said, looking up and down the street to see if they could cross.

  “Well, at least you don’t expect me to be a real writer. Articles might be beyond me.” She knew she was teasing Mark, but perhaps he didn’t know that. His head was shaking, and he had a smile on his lips. He could take it, so she continued. “I’m a little dismayed that’s what you think of our sex. Ladies’ interests are much more diverse than you’ve stated.”

  “I bow to your superior knowledge.” And with that, he stopped right in the middle of the street and made a deep bow.

  Rhona had the silliest notion of being in a crowded ballroom with a handsome laird begging her for the next waltz. That might be the next novel she wrote, and Mark would star in it.

  “So, you will?” he asked on his way back up from the slow bow.

  Rhona linked her elbow with his and pulled him the rest of the way across the street, wishing they were at a ball. She thought she’d hurry him onto the balcony for a little time alone. She knew her imagination was getting away from her, so she forced herself back to the immediate. “Only to save the women from reading about what you think they’d like to know.”

  “You already know what they want. They like frivolous topics like teas, ribbons, cookery, flo
wers, and recipes. I thought it could be a section called ‘Local Siftings’ that tells the town gossip. Ladies like that.”

  “So you think I gossip, do you?”

  His jaw dropped open.

  Really, it was too easy to bait him. She was beginning to wonder if he’d ever spoken to a woman before in his life. He seemed terrible at it. Rhona could tell he was searching for what he should say or maybe only thinking of things he shouldn’t, but wisely, he didn’t say a word for several steps.

  “You want articles ladies would read? Is that right?”

  “It is.” His voice rose like he was asking a question.

  “If I write those, you’ll print them in the paper?”

  “I will.” He nodded.

  They stopped in front of the door to Hearth and Home. “What if you don’t like an article?”

  “We’ll work together until we both like it.” He opened the door for her.

  If she agreed to do this, where would she get her information to write about? She supposed she’d just have to keep her ears open. Sounded easy. She wouldn’t have to make anything up, like fiction. If she ever needed to know what was going on in town, she only had to visit with her sister Isla. With just what she knew, Rhona could fill a newspaper. “I’ll give it a try.” She walked into the dining room.

  Rhona had thought she’d seen Mark smile before, but nothing compared to the grin he wore at her response. Chills erupted across her scalp, and her heart tried to jump out of her chest. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and share his excitement. That was the second time in so many days that she’d thought of hugging him. She didn’t consider herself a swoony miss, but right now, oh, yes, she was. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets instead.

  They picked up lunch sacks, and Mark ate his in the restaurant’s dining room while Rhona went to the kitchen to find Isla.

  “I can never eat this much food. Edwin feeds the men very well,” Rhona said to her sister. “Do you have a minute to eat?”

  “I’ve already done that. I’m making cookies for the sack meals tomorrow.” Isla continued beating the dough in a bowl. “You can talk to me while you eat.”

  Rhona sat at the table along the side of the kitchen. “I haven’t worked with you for a few days, and I was curious what news there was about Creede.”

  Isla’s face changed to an expression of wonder, and she stopped, putting the bowl down. “Oh, the best. Or the worst, depending on if it was happening to you. Do you know Rio Lopez?”

  “Yes. He’s the road boss, right?” She took a bite of the sandwich.

  “Aye. He comes in every morning to have breakfast and take a bagged lunch. Well, today he told me that for three days running, he’s found a dead body on the road before sunrise.” Isla made the sign of the cross, then continued. “All men. All dead. All on the road.” She pointed across the room. “Grab the hot pad and pull the tray from the oven.”

  “Bless their souls,” Rhona repeated the sign before she picked up the pads. Then she took the tray from the oven and set it on the wooden cutting block. “Which roads?”

  “Right here on Main Street. With a town this size, I suppose someone frequently dies, but not right on Main every time. It seems a tad suspicious to me.” Isla pushed a new tray of cookies inside the oven, then went back to her bowl, adding in flour.

  Rhona shut the oven door. “Suspicious indeed.” This might be the kind of story the ladies of Creede were interested in though Mark would never admit it. “How? What caused their deaths?”

  “You’d think they got run over by the location where they’re found. But no, not even bullet holes or bruises from being beaten.” Isla brushed her hands off on her apron and reached for another cooking sheet. “That’s the thing. Marshall KC and the doc can’t figure it out.”

  Rhona considered the startling news and quickly ate another portion of lunch before heading back to the print shop with Mark.

  “There was a detail I failed to mention when you hired me. On Tuesdays, I attend a special tea for some of the ladies in town. I’d like to continue. I’d be gone a little over an hour, and it would mean the world to me.” She’d been surprised that she could feel isolated in a town of ten thousand, but with few women, the chances to interact were limited. These women were her dear friends. Immediately, she wondered if Mark thought that was a frivolous female pastime.

  “That sounds like a good idea. A news writer needs to be out in the community to write about it.”

  Her apprehension turned to worry. There was plenty to hear at the Tuesday Tea. Months ago, they’d talked about the rash of bank robberies. Had she reported on that conversation, tipping off the criminals, the train robbery might not have been thwarted. She’d have to be cautious about what she chose to write.

  She tried to sound more confident than she felt. “Excellent idea. Thank you.”

  She and Mark worked steadily Thursday afternoon to get the paper ready to go out on Saturday morning. He’d worked on the front page alone, and when she saw it, she gasped. He obviously knew about the deaths that had been happening. She had hoped to prove to him she was a great reporter by having a story he knew nothing about. From the looks of the article, he didn’t know much either. He was reporting that the undertaker had received three dead bodies. That’s all and more news to come later.

  “You already heard about this?” he asked.

  Rhona wondered if she imagined it, but his voice seemed to hold great concern for her. “Yes. Isla and I were talking about it at lunch. Is this why you walked me to work this morning?” Her eyes looked up into his as she rested her hand on his shoulder. She noted his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, seemingly nervous.

  “Yes.” His voice was sultry. “I’m not comfortable with having you walk alone even a few blocks to work. Not in this town just now.”

  Her heart flipped at hearing his concern. She wasn’t a fragile as he thought she was. She was a grown woman and had overcome much in her life. She’d crossed the ocean and the whole United States. Still she liked hearing that he cared for her. “I work for a newspaper.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “That’s the kind of thing we should talk about.”

  She hadn’t realized that her hand was still on his shoulder until his arm crossed his chest, and his palm rested on top of her hand. Warmth raced through her, chasing the thrill his touch gave her.

  His hand gently squeezed hers. “Agreed. There’s much we should talk about.” Slowly, his hand slid down her hand then wrist and then forearm.

  Rhona thought she might squeal. Oh, she loved that feel. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m sure there will be. I’m looking forward to many discussions with you.”

  Saturday was spent cleaning the shop and preparing for the next week. She got one day off and started over again on Monday for the following Saturday’s installment.

  Tuesday Tea was a welcome interruption in her week. They gathered at the tea shop in a private party when the business wasn’t open for other customers. As she approached the tea house, she could see ladies in the windows. Nerves prickled in her stomach. If she’d stayed working at Hearth and Home, she wouldn’t have risked her welcome here. But oh, she wanted the chance to work with the printed word. How she loved reading and writing. She couldn’t pass it up. And if the ladies couldn’t trust her, she’d leave. She would miss them terribly, but she understood their need to have the Tuesday Tea be an oasis.

  Rhona entered the shop to the hum of her friends’ voices. The rich blue and white of the walls and the flocked wallpaper reminded her of a genteel drawing room back home. The outside world felt far away here.

  “Hello. I’m so happy to see you both.” She sat beside Julianne Fontaine and Vivian Morgan.

  “Hello. You have a new employer.” Julianne lifted her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Yes. I enjoy learning how newspapers are created.” Rhona emphasized the word newspaper to assure Julianne not get the wrong idea.

  But he
r friend lightly and repeated, “Yes. Newspaper. Uh-huh. That’s the only reason you’re there.” Then she touched Rhona’s arm. “I truly hope not.”

  Rhona couldn’t help but hope Julianne’s suspicion was right as everyone settled into seats. This might be the right time to make her announcement. She stood beside her chair. “Ladies, I have important news.” She smiled nervously as the women turned to give her their attention. “I’ve taken a job at the Creede Candle.”

  Several comments of “Congratulations” or “Happy for you” and the smiles sent her way gave her courage for the next part.

  “I’ve been asked to write articles that might interest the women of our town.” She paused. She didn’t want to leave this group, but honesty was required at this point. “If you would rather I not attend Tuesday Tea for fear that I will report on our conversations, I’ll withdraw.”

  The room was silent.

  Julianne stood beside her. “I hope you’ll stay. If you’re reporting something, please ask us. We’ll let you know if we’d rather not see it in print. Otherwise, you’ll be our voice to the community. It’s so exciting to be included in the paper.” Julianne hugged her shoulders, and several ladies clapped.

  The worry left her, and her nervous stomach relaxed. “Thank you.” When Rhona sat down, she said to Vivian, “I heard your brothers-in-law will be coming back to Creede very soon. I haven’t met them, but I’m looking forward to it. Seffi talks about them quite a bit.”

  Vivian stirred an extra teaspoon of sugar into her cup. “That’s what they say in their letters. They have some big to-do that they want to bring to Creede—in a month or maybe two. You’d think they’d have told us all about it by now. They sure can keep a secret.”

  Across the way, Celeste took a bite of the cream puff on her plate and moaned a little, closing her eyes. “I could eat these for every meal. Maybe we could do a Tuesday Tea again on Thursday. If everyone in town knew the little treasures sold here, the shop would be packed all day long. You do sell these when it’s not Tuesday Tea, don’t you?”

  “We do,” Ariadne said.