Authors: Wildwood
“Cigars?” She stared at him. Jeremiah’s shift in subject matter pulled her attention back to the newspaper. “Are you suggesting that smoking a cigar will help me think what to do?” She choked down a bubble of laughter at the thought.
“No, ma’am, surely not. But ceegars come packed in big boxes, and those boxes are wrapped in fine big sheets of paper. Kinda tan colored, but we could iron out the creases and—”
“Jeremiah, you’re a genius!”
“Yes, ma’am,” the deputy said modestly. “I’ll just go rouse up Mr. Frieder and see what kind of ceegars he’s got in stock.”
Jessamyn watched the stocky man march through the doorway, her mind racing ahead of him. An iron! She’d need an iron. And a fire in the stove to heat it on. She could smooth the wrapping paper out on the desk.
Before she could dash over to beg the use of Cora’s sadiron, Jeremiah was back, a roll of wide wrapping paper in one hand and a small flatiron in the other.
“This here’s my special pressin’ tool. Works just fine on Mr. Ben’s shirts, so I figured—”
He broke off as Jessamyn gave him a swift hug. “Jeremiah, you’re not only a genius, you’re a newspaperwoman’s gift from heaven!”
Jeremiah’s grin flashed again. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jessamyn swore a blush tinged the deputy’s tanned cheeks. “Come on, Jeremiah. Another hour and our paper will hit the street, as they say in Boston. Oh, isn’t it exciting?”
Jeremiah’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Yes, ma’am.” If she only knew. He’d almost choked when he’d heard old Mrs.
Henson’s rooster crow at five this morning and realized he’d been at the news office all night. Then he’d had to rouse Otto Frieder and his wife out of a sound sleep to rustle up the cigar-box wrapping paper. Otto had sworn a blue streak all the way to the mercantile front door.
“Yes’m, Miss Jessamyn, it surely is exciting.”
Jessamyn flitted away to the back room with the nickelplated iron in her hand. Jeremiah spread the roll of wrapping paper out on the desk.
At half past six that Tuesday morning, fifty neatly folded copies of the
Wildwood Times,
editor J. Whittaker, were completed. They had printed the final four copies on squares of clean muslin sheets that Cora had reluctantly agreed to cut up as the deadline approached.
Jessamyn flew up one side of the street and down the other, delivering her papers. She left copies on the Dixon House hotel desk, on the table just inside the door of Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon, at Frieder’s Mercantile and the barbershop. She would hand-deliver the paid subscriptions later this morning, after some breakfast.
Jessamyn watched her helper and mainstay through the endless, exhausting night sprint across the street and disappear into the sheriff’s office. Feeling enormously pleased, she pulled the front door shut, locked it, then headed for the two-story white house and the soft bed in the yellow-papered room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
It was a good issue, she thought with pride. A good beginning. She could almost hear her father’s voice.
“Well done, daughter!”
She hoped Ben wouldn’t be too angry when he read the story about him on the front page. She drew in a tentative breath and held it. Closing her eyes, she fought down a tremor of alarm, remembering Jeremiah’s frown when he’d scanned her lead article.
T
he sheriff’s office door banged open, then slammed shut. “Ben!” a furious voice bellowed. “Ben Kearney, where the hell are you?”
“Putting on my pants,” Ben said quietly as he emerged from the sleeping quarters. He cinched his belt up, moved to meet the short, wiry man dancing a jittery path toward him.
“What are you doing up so early, Jack? I thought railroad barons lived a life of luxury.”
“Luxury!” Jack Larsen sputtered. “Don’t you know what’s happening? They’re talking about changing the railroad route to the coast. Hell, if they do that, I’ll be flat broke in a week!”
Ben looked the man in the eye. “I warned you to wait Only a fool would rush out and buy up all that property on sheer speculation.”
“Ben, it was a sure thing.” The man’s impeccably groomed mustache twitched with fury. “I had Senator Tiel eating out of my hand. If it wasn’t for that goddamned newspaper—”
“Thad Whittaker’s dead, Jack. You know that.”
Larsen’s small black eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well, the newspaper isn’t. You seen it?”
“Seen what? The paper? No, not yet. I know Jess—the
editor’s been working on it. Last I heard she hadn’t gone to press. Nobody’s seen a printed copy yet.”
“Like hell.” Larsen withdrew a rumpled page from inside his vest and slapped it down on Ben’s desk. “Read that!”
Ben studied the words printed on the odd-colored paper. A faint design showed through the typeset copy—a huge, floppy petaled flower with the word
Havana
beneath it. Disregarding it, he scanned the articles. Activities of Mrs. Ellis’s church quilting society. A formal birth announcement for Henry Winchester and Lyle Coulter Bartel, Rufus and Lizzie’s twins. Ah, there! At the top of the last column.
“Legislature Reassesses Railway Route,” Ben read out loud.
Jack Larsen rocked back on the heels of his black leather boots. “It’s all over town. I got the last copy over at Charlie’s saloon.”
Ben eyed the man before him. “What’s all over town?”
Larsen snapped his jaw shut, then cracked his thin lips just enough to speak. “Senator Tiel thinks the original route—
my
route—is unsafe. Rock slides or some damn thing. Hell, Ben, another article like this one could ruin me!”
Ben nodded. If he was going to get any breakfast this morning, he’d better smooth Jack’s ruffled feathers. Otherwise, the irate investor would talk his ear off all morning complaining about unfair news coverage and biased editorials, shooting off his mouth before he thought things through.
“Write a rebuttal, Jack. Maybe a letter to the editor making your views known. If you’re convincing enough, you might even change the senator’s mind. And coherent enough,” he added as an afterthought. Jack Larsen was always going off half-cocked and doing something crazy. The attribute annoyed Ben. He’d watched Thad Whittaker punch holes in Jack’s outrageous accusations for years; it was like popping a hatpin into an overinflated balloon.
“Talk to Jeremiah when you’ve calmed down,” Ben advised. “My deputy’s good with words.”
“Yeah, Ben, maybe I’ll just do that.” The tightness in the railroad man’s voice eased. “I’ll just do that As my daddy used to say, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.” His narrow, pinched face lit up with a secret smile. “Or an editor.”
Ben hustled Jack out the front door ahead of him.. The last thing he saw as he made his way to the Dixon House dining room for his breakfast was Jack Larsen’s blackjacketed backside disappearing into the Red Fox Saloon.
Ben frowned. Not only was the man a damn fool, he was not trustworthy. Not for one minute did he believe the investor had Senator Tiel eating out of his hand. More likely that was some puffery designed to mollify Larsen’s coinvestors. Now the railroad investor was mad as a hornet because his lie had been exposed. When he went back up into the mountains tomorrow, he’d ask Jeremiah to keep an eye on Larsen.
At Dixon House Ben hung up his gun and ordered coffee and the usual steak and fried eggs, then slid into a chair at one of the unoccupied tables. A copy of the
Wildwood Times
lay on the next table. Ben picked it up, opened it to the front page.
“Goddammit to hell!”
His fist crashed onto the wood surface.
Ben ran one hand through his hair as he scanned the front page. There before him, in bold black type, was exactly the information he needed to keep quiet—the link between cattle rustling and providing guns to the Indians. God almighty! The minute whoever was responsible read this, he’d know the sheriff was on to the scheme.
Ben gritted his teeth. The first thing an outlaw would do would be to go underground. Disappear. Damnation! He’d lost the only advantage he ever had—surprise.
“Jessamyn,” Ben muttered. “You damned little fool.” She’d forced his hand. Now he’d have to saddle up this
very morning to get the drop on his quarry before the news spread.
Ben gulped the scalding coffee, grabbed his pistol off the hook and moved toward the door.
“Rita?” His voice rang in the empty dining room.
The waitress poked her head out from the kitchen.
“Cancel that steak, will you?”
Miss Whittaker, if I live through this, I’m gonna tan your backside so hard you’ll stand up for a week.
Ben strode through the door into the hot June sunshine and headed for the sheriff’s office. He had to let Jeremiah know he was going back up into the mountains.
Jessamyn rolled over in her narrow bed and pulled the sheet over her head, trying to shut out the morning light that flooded the upstairs room. No use. Exhausted as she was, she was too keyed-up to sleep any longer. She had to hear firsthand the townspeople’s reaction to her first issue.
She sat up, easing her pantalet-covered legs off the edge of the bed. She had to know Ben’s reaction, too.
She splashed cool water from the washstand basin onto her face, scrubbed her teeth with baking soda. She wouldn’t bother with her corset, she decided. She was in too much of a hurry to take the trouble to snap herself into it and cinch up the laces. Hurriedly she pulled two crisp, starched petticoats on and tied them at the waist over her chemise.
Twisting her hair into a loose bun, she jammed seven wire hairpins in as fast as her fingers would move, then buttoned up her shoes and grabbed her parasol. She was down the stairs and out the door in a twinkling. Cora didn’t even look up from the kettle of fragrant strawberry jam bubbling on the stove.
The morning air smelled of dust and Cora’s prize damask rose blooming in the side garden. Jessamyn flew past the livery stable and up the street toward her office.
Dr. Bartel tipped his hat and smiled his thanks for the birth announcement. Then Addie Rice hailed her. Could the
seamstress place another ad for dressmaking and one for millinery in next week’s issue?
In front of the mercantile, a beaming Anna-Marie Frieder waddled out the front door with a small paper sack of ginger drops. “You write about our baby, too, when it comes next month?”
Of course she would, Jessamyn assured her. Birth announcements and obituaries were the staples of the news business, along with political advertisements. How glad she was this was an election year—her coffers would be running over by voting day in the fall. Already some senator from Portland had written to inquire about her rates.
Her brain hummed. Next week’s issue would include the church choir director’s plea for men’s voices and an editorial on sprucing up the buildings along the main street in time for the Fourth of July.
But just think, she had readers! Already supporters flocked to subscribe. Silas Appleby had ridden in from his ranch just yesterday to offer a year’s payment in advance. He’d gazed with interest at her frenzied activity at the composing table and gallantly invited her to supper. She’d declined, but even so, the sandy-haired rancher had insisted on paying for his subscription then and there.
Oh, it was wonderful, all of it. She knew why Papa had loved it so. A newspaper was an important contribution to a community, an economic and cultural asset to the county. The process—and the heady sense of connectedness she gained—were as intoxicating as fine brandy.
Just as she reached the door of the
Wildwood Times,
Sheriff Ben Kearney appeared on the opposite side of the street. He pivoted, spoke over his shoulder to his deputy and lifted a saddlebag onto his shoulder.
Ben was going away? So soon after…
He caught sight of her and stopped still for an instant, then started across the street toward her. Jessamyn swallowed as his long legs brought him closer and closer. His angular face looked grim, his well-formed lips compressed
into a hard line, his stride unrelenting. Watching his loose-jointed gait, the long, powerful legs flexing in her direction, she felt mesmerized by the sheer animal magnetism of the man.
Blood surged into her face. Dizzy, she wrenched her attention away, jiggling the key in the front door lock. His footsteps echoed on the board sidewalk behind her.
“Lift it up,” Ben breathed at her back. He reached around her, maneuvered the sticking door open. “Now, lock it behind us. I want to talk to you.”
Unsteady, Jessamyn swung the door wide. Her heart pounded erratically. Ben swept her through the opening and kicked the door shut with his boot. Then he turned the key, locking them inside.
“No one can get in,” Jessamyn ventured.
“Exactly.”
“What about my subscribers?” She made a half turn away from him to peer out the front-window. “Some of them might want to pay—”
“Later.” Ben dropped his heavy saddlebag where he stood and took two steps forward. Grasping her shoulders, he spun her to face him.
“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Jessamyn stiffened. “Publishing my newspaper, that’s what.”
“Have you any idea… I thought we agreed you’d keep your nose out of my investigation.”
“You agreed,” she reminded him. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t interfere. I never said I wouldn’t report on it”
“Semantics!” Ben growled. “You’re just like Thad, all brains and ideas but no common sense.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders.
“So now,” he continued, “I’ve got a wild bull by the tail. When you made sure your readers heard about that rifle we found at Black Eagle’s camp, you blew my only cover to hell.”
“C-cover?”
“Well, I’ve got to find those carbines. There has to be a cache of them hidden somewhere up in the hills. Except now—thanks to you—instead of hunting slow and sure, with time and secrecy on my side, I’ve got to ride hell-for-leather and try to find those guns before whoever’s stashing them finds me first.”
“Oh, Ben, I—”
“Jessamyn, why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?”
Jessamyn stared up into smoky blue eyes that now glittered with anger. Her breath choked off as her heart thumped to a stop and then jerked into a new rhythm.
“News,” she blurted when she could trust her voice, “is what’s
new.
Any good journalist knows that. And I’m a journalist.”
“You’re a damn fool.”
“I am not! I worked hard on that story. It’s factual, and it’s accurate. It’s well written.”
“It’s most likely going to get me killed.”
Jessamyn opened her mouth, thought for a long moment, then closed it. “Ben, I don’t know how to say this. I’m not sorry I printed an important piece of hard news—that’s my job as a newspaper editor.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. Goddammit, Jess—”
“I’m not finished.” She drew in a shaky breath and closed her eyes, then flicked them open and looked up at him. “Ben, believe me, I am sorry if my newspaper has put you in danger.”
Ben relaxed his hold on her. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Thad and I had similar talks after every issue he printed. Nosy old coot.”
Jessamyn bristled. “He’s not a nosy old coot! He’s my father, and he was a wonderful—”
“Nosy old coot.” Ben’s voice softened. “Hell, Jess, I loved him as much as you did. That doesn’t keep me from speaking the truth as I see it. Thad was a fine newspaper editor and a thorn in my side from the day I rode into town
and took on this job. I suspect you’re not going to be any different.”
Jessamyn stifled a nervous laugh. “You think I’m a ‘nosy old coot’ too, is that it?”
“I think you’re a nosy young…woman.”
Suddenly aware of his hands still on her shoulders, Ben let them fall away. A silence stretched between them, the air so charged it almost sang with tension. Very deliberately Ben replaced his hands.
Jessamyn’s head came up. She stuck her proud little pointed chin in the air and spoke quietly. “You’re right, Ben. I’m a nosy old maid. But it’s all I’ve got.”
“Jessamyn…”
“Don’t stop me now. I’ll never have the courage again.”
“Courage for what?”
“I’ve never said this to anyone, not to Papa or Mama or anyone.” She shut her eyes momentarily, ran her tongue over her lips. “I’m frightened underneath. Afraid my life doesn’t matter. That
I
don’t matter. Sometimes it makes me angry. If I can get angry enough, it feels cleansing. Clarifying. When I’m so angry I don’t care what happens, I feel stronger. N-not so scared.”
Her voice broke. She took another deep breath.
“The newspaper—Papa’s legacy for me—makes me feel I’m worth something. So I don’t think—I write. And writing eases my fear.”
Ben felt as if he’d been poleaxed. He couldn’t utter a word. For one thing, he couldn’t think what to say. But more than that, he wasn’t reacting to her verbally at this moment; his response was strictly visceral. He wanted to crush her against him, take her mouth in a hot, slow rhythm. Some part of Jessamyn’s inner being, her real self, had spoken to him so honestly he felt humbled. He didn’t know how to respond.
But he did know one thing—he didn’t want to get killed. He wanted to come out of the mountains whole in body and in spirit. He wanted to come back to her.
But right now, God forgive him, part of him wanted to strangle her pretty little neck, and part of him wanted to lay her down in that sun-warmed patch on the floor, pull off those soft, ruffly garments, and stroke her until she wept.