Printer In Petticoats. Lynna Banning

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СКАЧАТЬ huffed out an exasperated breath. “I didn’t order—”

      “Want to trade?” Cole interrupted. He lifted away her plate of fried chicken and slid his steak platter in its place.

      “Well, I—”

      Rita propped both hands on her ample hips. “Oh, go on, Miss Jessamine. He’s right, ya gotta eat.”

      Jess wanted to crawl under the dining table and bury her head in her hands. How could she have stooped to such low journalistic ethics? How could she?

      She knew better. Her father had set a better example than that. And Miles! Her brother had lost his life defending the Sentinel’s policy of responsible journalism. The least she could do to honor his memory was play by the rules.

      What had she been thinking?

      She stole a glance at the rugged, suntanned face at the next table. It was his fault. That man had pushed her over the edge. His newspaper made her nervous. His presence rattled her. He had self-confidence, something she dearly wished she had more of. He was unflappable. Arrogant.

      And he was laughing at her.

      She couldn’t stand being laughed at. Her father had laughed at her. From the time she was a baby, Ebenezer Lassiter had disparaged everything she had ever done, from making mud pies in the backyard of their Boston home to writing her first heartfelt poem to...well, just about everything she’d ever tried to do.

      It was a wonder she’d grown up at all with his belittling and not withered away to a husk. If it hadn’t been for her mother and her brother, Miles, she would never have survived.

      Sometimes she wondered if she had survived. Certainly she lacked confidence in everything she’d ever tried to do, and now she found herself saddled with running a newspaper, of all things. How Papa would have laughed!

      But Papa was no longer here to criticize her until she dissolved in tears. She squared her shoulders. She had not wept in over a year.

      * * *

      The next afternoon Jess looked up from her desk to see a figure racing past the front window, then another and another. The pounding on the boardwalk outside the Sentinel office sounded like thunder before a storm.

      She frowned and sank her teeth into her pencil. Where was everyone going in such a rush? Then she grabbed up her notepad and bolted for the door. Her nose for news, as Miles had described it, was twitching as if it smelled something burning on a hot stove. Whatever it was, she’d break speed records to report it before Cole Sanders heard about it.

      The crowd swept her along to the railroad station, where townspeople were milling about the platform. The train from the East had just pulled in. Pooh, that wasn’t newsworthy unless someone important was on it. Governor Morse? General Custer? Maybe Jenny Lind? She elbowed her way to the front.

      No one got off the train. Instead the engine rolled forward two car lengths to reveal the cattle car. Oh, for heaven’s sake, everyone in the county had cows! There was nothing newsworthy in that unless one of them had two heads.

      The crowd oohed and aahed and fell back to reveal the most beautiful horse Jess had ever laid eyes on, a handsome chocolate-colored mare. The animal stepped daintily down the loading ramp and Jess caught her breath. The horse was led by That Man. Cole Sanders.

      “That’s a purebred Arabian,” someone yelped.

      “Damn right,” That Man said. He caressed the animal’s sleek head, then leaned forward and said something she couldn’t hear into the creature’s silky ear. She could swear the horse nodded.

      “How come ya didn’t ride her out here?” an elderly man shouted.

      Cole looked up. “Would you hitch a thousand-dollar horse to a freight wagon?” he yelled.

      “Guess not,” the man admitted.

      Was there a news story in this? Jess wondered. Maybe. Something glimmered at the edge of her mind, something about a man called Coleridge playing nursemaid to a horse.

      She fished her pencil out of her skirt pocket, plopped onto a bench in the shade and began to scribble.

      * * *

      Cole watched the kid load newspapers into a saddlebag and ride out of town on his roan mare. He took his time saddling up Dancer, then cantered after the boy. Wasn’t hard to catch up; the kid stopped at every ranch along the road to Gillette Springs.

      Finally he trotted Dancer out in front of the roan and signaled. “Hold up, son.”

      The boy reined in. “Something wrong, mister?”

      “Nope. Just doing a little reconnaissance, you might say.” He leaned over to offer a handshake. “Name’s Cole Sanders. Editor of the new paper in town.”

      “I’m Teddy, uh, Ted MacAllister. I’m delivering the Wednesday edition of the Sentinel for Miss Jessamine.”

      “Mind if I ride along? I’m new to this part of the country.”

      “No, I don’t mind.”

      “Might have a man-to-man discussion with you about your subscribers.”

      Teddy’s chest visibly swelled. “Sure. Gosh, that’s a fine-lookin’ horse you got, mister.”

      “She’s an Arabian. Name’s Dancer. Like to ride her?”

      The kid’s face lit up like Christmas. “Could I? Really?”

      Cole reined up and dismounted. “Sure. Let’s trade for a few miles.”

      The boy slid off his roan so fast Cole thought his britches must be burning. He held Dancer’s bridle while Teddy mounted, then hoisted himself into the roan’s saddle.

      “Hot-diggety, a real live Arabian!”

      Cole laughed and fell in beside him. Kinda reminded him of himself at that age, young and green and working hard to hide it.

      Well, he wasn’t green now, and he had a score to settle. Not only had Jessamine Lassiter impugned his manhood in her editorial; she had implied he wasn’t a real journalist, that he lacked both concern for Smoke River and the strength to take on the rough Oregon West.

      No one, especially not a snip of a girl with a stubby pencil in her hand, said he wasn’t a professional journalist.

       Chapter Four

      The Sentinel newspaper published twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday. Cole decided the Lark would publish on Tuesday and Friday. That way he could scoop any breaking story and be the first to print it.

      Each week he relished covering his chosen beat, the Golden Partridge Saloon, the barbershop, the potbellied stove at Carl Ness’s mercantile where the townspeople and ranchers gathered to shoot the breeze and complain about whatever was stuck in their craw. And the railroad station, where each week he picked up a bundle of newspapers СКАЧАТЬ