Printer In Petticoats. Lynna Banning

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       Chapter Three

      Jessamine waited impatiently beside the press as Eli swabbed the oily-smelling ink over the type and cranked out a proof copy. She snatched it off the press and with relish ran her gaze over her editorial.

      New Editor Raises Questions

      What red-blooded man would call his newspaper the Lark?

      Is it because this editor, Mr. Sanders, intends to peck away like a bird at his competition, your long-established and well-regarded Sentinel?

      Or is it because the man is just playing at the profession of journalism and has no intention of taking seriously the concerns of the Smoke River population?

      Or could it be that the new editor, bearing the highfalutin name of Coleridge, an English Romantic poet, is just that—a romantic dreamer who lacks the manly strength to cope with the rough and ready Oregon West?

      Jessamine Lassiter

      Editor, Smoke River Sentinel

      The following afternoon another issue of the Lark was slipped under Jessamine’s door.

      Whoa, Nelly!

      Is the editor of the Smoke River Sentinel questioning the masculinity of a rival newspaper editor based on his choice of Lark for a name and his parents’ choice of Coleridge as his given name?

      While this is not libelous, it is of questionable judgment for a supposedly unbiased journalist. This editor refuses to cast aspersions on the femaleness of Miss Lassiter. However, he does question the lady’s good manners. In such a personal attack I perceive a tendency toward biased news reporting. I would expect better of a good journalist.

      And I also expect an apology.

      Coleridge Sanders

      Editor, Lake County Lark

      That very afternoon Eli Holst marched across the street and handed Cole a copy of the latest edition of the Sentinel.

      “Read the editorial page first,” Eli hinted with a grin.

      Mea Culpa...

      To the editor of the Lake County Lark: I sincerely apologize for any inappropriate personal remarks made in the previous issue of this newspaper regarding Mr. Sanders’s masculinity.

      Jessamine Lassiter

      Editor, the Sentinel

      Cole settled into the chair at the corner table in the restaurant, stretched his long legs out to one side and picked up the menu. Rita bustled over, her notepad and pencil ready.

      He had opened his mouth to order steak and fried potatoes when he spied someone in the opposite corner, hidden behind a copy of his afternoon edition of the Lark.

      Well, well, well. Jessamine Lassiter. He recognized her dark green skirt bunched up under the table. Mighty flattering to find her reading his newspaper at supper.

      Before he could stop himself he was on his feet and striding over to her table. He reached out his hand and pressed down the page of newsprint she held in front of her face until her eyes appeared.

      “Interesting reading?” he inquired.

      “Very interesting,” she said, her voice cool. But her cheeks pinked and thick dark lashes fluttered down over her gray-green eyes.

      Cole signaled Rita and reseated himself at the table next to Jessamine’s. “Like I said, Rita, I’ll have steak and fried potatoes.”

      The waitress flipped over her notepad and turned toward Jessamine. “And for you, Miss Jessamine?”

      “She’s having a big helping of humble pie tonight,” Cole drawled. It might be the last time he’d get the best of his sharp-tongued competitor, so he figured he’d better strike while he could.

      Miss Lassiter gave him a look so frosty it sent a shiver up the back of his neck, and then she raised the newspaper to hide her face.

      “Chicken,” came her voice from behind the page.

      “Roasted or fried?” Rita asked, her voice carefully neutral.

      “It was a comment, not a supper choice,” Jessamine said. “On second thought, I’m no longer hungry.”

      Cole was on his feet before she could move, and once again he pressed down the newspaper she held aloft. “Truce, okay? You should eat supper.”

      “What concern is that of yours, may I ask?”

      “None. Just thought it would clear the air.”

      She leaned forward and pinned him with a look. “Nothing will ever ‘clear the air’ between us, Mr. Sanders.”

      Cole sat down and leaned back in his chair. “How come? A war doesn’t last forever. Even Bluebellies and Confederate soldiers have buried the hatchet.” Ostentatiously he shook out his copy of her latest Sentinel edition and propped it in front of his face.

      They both read in silence until Rita returned with their dinners. “Steak for you, sir.” She set the sizzling platter before Cole. “And chicken for the lady.”

      Jessamine 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.