Cowboy Creek Christmas. Cheryl St.John

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СКАЧАТЬ minerals were well dissolved. “Your bath is ready. Take your time and relax. You have towels on the stand there. I’ll let you know when you’ve soaked long enough, but should you need the water reheated, ring the bell.”

      “Thank you, darling! You’ve saved me from a winter of dry skin and made me look dewy fresh. I will glow at my performance. I am singing your praises to the other ladies—lilting notes on a sweet high C.”

      Marlys smiled and left the bathing room. She’d had two of those deep bathing tubs installed in comfortable private rooms, funded—along with the rest of her practice—by selling the jewelry and townhome she’d inherited from her mother. After working multiple jobs to pay for her degree from an unconventional school of medicine, selling her property had been her only option. Her father had supported her early desires to learn languages and world history, but had never approved of her medical studies. Immediately after she’d made the decision to become a doctor and not marry, he’d cut off all support.

      As soon as Pippa’s session was over, Marlys emptied and cleaned the tub, hung the towels to dry, and dressed in her wool coat and fur-lined boots. She tugged her collar up around her neck and tied a scarf over her hair. Winters in the East had prepared her for cold, but not for the relentless wind that caught the hem of her skirt and whipped the end of her scarf across her face. She held it over her nose and trudged along Second Street.

      She passed Dr. Fletcher’s office on the corner of Second and Eden, crossed the street and passed Sheriff Hanley’s office and jail to reach the newspaper. The previous owner had been sent to prison for crimes against the local business owners. While evading arrest, he had deliberately set fire to his own building. The quick response of the townspeople had saved the jail and the boarding house on either side, but the Herald had been gutted.

      Shortly after her arrival, Marlys had learned that an Eastern journalist had bought the gutted building and renovated it so quickly her head had spun. She imagined a fresh young fellow eager to make a big name for himself in the quickly growing cattle town.

      The exterior had been freshly painted, and the new door didn’t show any wear. On the other side of the enormous pane of glass, a bespectacled man was painting bold gold letters, scrupulously edged with black, spelling out Webster County Daily News. Beneath the name of the paper, the artist’s brush had scripted Owner & Managing Edito...and was midstroke on the r when he spotted her and quickly opened the door to usher her inside. A bell rang above the door as he opened and closed it. “It’s too cold to stand out there for longer than a minute,” he said. “Come inside and warm yourself by the stove.”

      There was a new stove surrounded by wooden chairs in the corner of the front open area, a space obviously designed to welcome visitors and perhaps encourage local gossip. A blue-speckled enamel pot sat atop the stove, and pegs holding half a dozen tin cups lined the wall.

      A four-foot-high wooden room divider with a half-door separated the back portion of the room, where desks had been haphazardly deposited and crates stood against one wall. Two enormous printing presses took up the space in the rear, and there were two doors leading to rooms beyond, one with the door open, the other closed.

      “Coffee’s hot. I just made it.” The painter gestured to the stove and pushed his glasses up his nose.

      “Are you the editor or a journalist?” she asked.

      “Forgive my manners. I’m Pete Sackett. Just here to do this lettering. I’m sure the owner heard the bell, so he’ll be out in a moment.”

      Marlys used the predicted moment to survey the impressive array of framed front pages along the interior wall of this area. The Progressive: LINCOLN ELECTED, New York Illustrated News: RICHMOND IS OURS!, Dallas Morning News: LEE SURRENDERS, The Daily Intelligencer: LINCOLN ASSASSINATED were a few headlines she had time to read before a greeting came from behind her.

      “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

      At the instantly recognizable rich voice, her hands stilled on the scarf she’d been about to remove, and she turned.

      * * *

      At the sound of the bell, Sam Mason wiped ink from his fingers and stood, dropping the rag to the floor beside his journeyman. His knees cracked as he straightened, and the lanky young man grinned. They’d been cleaning type block since early that morning, arranging the blocks in orderly sequence in stained wood trays. “Your knees would protest, too, if you’d slept on the cold ground for months at a time while marching through Virginia. You were still on your mama’s knee by the fire, and a good thing for you.”

      “I’m not that young—you’re exaggerating,” the younger man disagreed. “I was running my family farm on sweat and prayer. Where do these uppercase script letters go?” Israel asked.

      “In that tray.” Sam pointed to the tray behind Israel. “Starting third row down and ending row seven in the middle.”

      Israel nodded and loaded the first letter block. Sam’s uncanny memory for details astounded most people, but Israel was used to it. He’d apprenticed under Sam in the city and had been honored that Sam had asked him to accompany him on this new venture.

      The appearance of the outer room gave Sam a jolt of pleasure every time he walked into it. The work area still smelled like new wood and plaster, but soon the combined smells of ink and paper would remind him of the history of years of journalistic endeavors and indicate a job well done.

      A woman in a practical gray coat and red scarf stood facing away from him, perusing his collection of front pages. Pete was still painting letters and had just outlined the S for Samuel’s name. “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

      The woman pushed the scarf from her chestnut brown hair as she turned. The winter sun chose that moment to stream through the freshly cleaned and shined window, silhouetting her form and sparking glistening gold variations of color in her unfashionably short wavy hair, reaching only below her ears in casual disarray.

      She wore no jewelry and hadn’t rouged her cheeks, but her skin glowed, and her beauty needed no ornamentation. Her gaze riveted on his face, intense, probing, familiar. He experienced a jolt of awareness akin to the nervous anticipation of an impending skirmish. Why he dredged up that feeling puzzled him for only seconds. She narrowed her gold-brown eyes. They recognized each other at the same time.

      “Samuel?” she intoned.

      Her voice was a confirmation. He’d never forgotten the lilting sound of it. Marlys. “Miss Boyd. Or—is it still Miss Boyd?”

      “Yes.” His former fiancée’s astute gaze took in his shirt and trousers, the ink on his hands. “I had no idea it was you who had taken over the newspaper. I thought you’d long been settled in Philadelphia.”

      “The war changed a lot of plans.” He determinedly collected himself. “May I take your coat? You’ll get too warm.”

      She unbuttoned the garment and let it slide from her shoulders. She wore a pale blue blouse without ruffle or lace and a dark blue skirt. She was still as narrow and delicate-looking as the girl he remembered, but she’d blossomed into a lovely woman. He took the coat, sweetly perfumed with the scent of her hair, and hung it on a hook near the stove. His olfactory senses had not forgotten her, either. “Have a seat. There’s coffee.”

      “I’m fine, thank you.” But she moved to perch on a chair, and her formal manner drove his discomfort up another notch.

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