Montana Christmas. Jackie Merritt

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      Andrea drove to the newspaper office, found a parking space and walked into the one-story building. She loved it at once, from its unique smell of newsprint to its air of productivity. It wasn’t large and it wasn’t noisy, but newspapers were created here. She would love to be a part of it.

      The front of the building was one large room. Several doors drew her attention; one had to lead to the pressroom. Two women sat at desks, one of whom was talking on the phone. The other looked up.

      “May I help you?”

      Andrea smiled. “I’d like to speak to Kathleen Osterman. Is she in?”

      “Do you have an appointment?”

      “Is an appointment necessary?”

      “No, but I thought she might be expecting you.”

      “She isn’t, but I really would like to see her.”

      “I’ll check with her. What’s your name?”

      “Andrea Dillon.”

      The woman dialed a number on her phone. “Kathleen, there’s an Andrea Dillon out here who would like to speak to you. Do you have time to see her now?” After a beat, the woman said, “No, she didn’t say what it was about. Should I ask her?” There was another pause, then she said, “Fine, I’ll send her back.” She put down the phone and looked at Andrea. “She’ll see you. It’s the door on the left. Just go on in.”

      The woman had pointed to the back of the room. “Thank you.” Andrea rounded a short counter and crossed to Ms. Osterman’s office door. But she couldn’t just walk in, regardless of the instructions she’d received.

      Drawing a breath, she knocked.

      “Come in” came from the other side of the door. Though deep, gravelly and rather strident, it was unquestionably a female voice.

      Andrea took another quick breath and opened the door. Her initial impression was of clutter. Papers, books and file folders were piled on anything that would hold them. Her gaze moved to the woman behind an enormous desk. “Ms. Osterman?”

      “Ms. Dillon?” Kathleen sounded amused over their greeting. “Any relation to the Dillons who live on Green Street?” She gestured to the chair at the front of her desk. “Come in and have a seat.”

      “Thank you.” Andrea shut the door and went to the chair. Settling herself, she smiled. “To answer your question, no, I’m not related to any Dillons in the area.”

      “Really.” Kathleen sat back and blatantly sized up her visitor.

      Andrea was doing a little sizing up herself. Kathleen Osterman was an extremely attractive woman, in her middle fifties, she estimated. Her clothing—a pair of taupe slacks and matching sweater—looked expensive. So did the cut of her short blond hair, her makeup and her jewelry. Several rings with large diamonds adorned her long, thin fingers. Her face was more striking than pretty, and her eyes—a deep, dark blue—looked hard as marbles.

      This lady was no cream puff, Andrea decided.

      “So, what can I do for you, Miss Dillon?” Kathleen asked, sounding blunt, businesslike and to the point.

      “I’m looking for a job, Ms. Osterman.”

      Kathleen cocked an eyebrow. “And you think I have an opening?”

      “Do you?”

      “Do you know anything about the newspaper business?”

      “Not as much as I would like to know,” Andrea said. She was getting too warm and she slid her arms from her overcoat and let it fall back against the chair. “I worked for the Los Angeles Times for almost a year, but I have to be truthful. I was more of a secretary and a gofer than anything else. I want to be a reporter, Ms. Osterman. I’m a good writer, although the only paper that ever published anything of mine was the student gazette at the college I attended. I have clippings of my articles in my purse, if you’d care to see them. Incidentally, I majored in journalism,” she added as a final note. “And graduated with honors.”

      “Back up a minute. You worked for the Times for almost a year? If your heart’s so set on journalism, why did you leave the Times? You had your foot in the door of one of the most widely read papers in the country. If you’re as good a writer as you claim, eventually you would have worked your way into reporting. I think an explanation is in order, Miss Dillon.”

      Andrea maintained an impassive expression, although her heart had started beating faster than normal. She couldn’t be honest and she didn’t want to lie, but there was no way to avoid giving this woman some sort of explanation.

      “My mother passed away last February. Her estate demanded my full attention. I would have stayed at the Times if not for that.” It was as close to the truth as she could get.

      “Your mother’s estate brought you to Rocky Ford?” Kathleen looked skeptical.

      “In a roundabout way, yes. Things have settled down now, and I’d like to go back to work.” Andrea smiled. “But something happened during my stay in Rocky Ford, something I certainly didn’t expect when I came here. I’ve grown to love Montana and this little town. The thought of returning to L.A. is not at all appealing.”

      Still appearing skeptical, Kathleen picked up a cup and drank from it. “Coffee,” she said. “Would you like some?”

      “No, thank you.”

      Kathleen set down her cup. “Let me tell you how it is, Miss Dillon. My paper comes out only three times a week, and—”

      “I know,” Andrea murmured. “I’ve bought and read it since the day I came to Rocky Ford.”

      “Then you also know that we pick up only the most urgent national and international news from the wire services, and that most of the paper is dedicated to reporting events that would only be of interest to the locals.”

      Andrea nodded. “I think it’s a wonderful format for a small-town paper. Those residents interested in moredetailed stories of world events can find them in any number of other newspapers.”

      Kathleen’s expression became slightly sarcastic. “So glad you approve.”

      Andrea flushed. “I’m sorry if I sounded patronizing. I merely intended to convey my own enjoyment of reading your publication.” Working for Kathleen Osterman would not be easy. But then, there was probably no reason to worry about it. Ms. Osterman wasn’t exactly elated over this interview.

      “Getting back to how my organization functions, I’m the only reporter on the payroll, Miss Dillon.”

      Startled, Andrea blinked. “You write every article yourself?”

      “I didn’t say that. I said I’m the only full-time, salaried reporter. I have three employees. You saw two of them on your way in. Grace Mulroy handles the classifieds, without which we wouldn’t stay in business for long. The woman who sent you to my office is a jack-of-all-trades, secretary, receptionist, СКАЧАТЬ