Printer In Petticoats

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.

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 from the East.

The news was weeks out of date, but out here in Oregon it was still news. Custer and the Sioux, President Grant, new railroad routes. Cole discovered folks in Smoke River bellyached about everything, and that was rich pickings for a newspaper man.

The ongoing sidewalk-sweeping war between barber Whitey Poletti and the mercantile owner next door to his shop raged until the winter rains started. The dressmaker, Verena Forester, ranted at length about a lost shipment of wool bolts from Omaha. Charlie the stationmaster got so tired of sending Verena’s “Where is my wool?” messages he started claiming the telegraph lines were down.

Subscriptions to the Lark trickled in. Cole visited every farm and rancher from here to Gillette Springs to drum up business; he even paid Teddy MacAllister an extra twenty-five cents to deliver one free copy of the Lark to each Sentinel customer on his route.

Billy Rowell, the young lad who covered the town circulation, perked right up at his offer of the same for including the Lark on his rounds. Jessamine Lassiter wouldn’t like it one bit, but the kid confided that his pa had been killed in a mining accident last year and his momma, Ilsa Rowell, was taking in washing to make ends meet. Cole promised to increase Billy’s take when the Lark subscriptions exceeded those of the Sentinel.

He pushed away from his desk and rolled his chair over to where Noralee Ness bent over her type stick. “Doing okay?”

“We’re running out of w’s, Mr. Sanders. What should I do?”

“Improvise. Butt two v’s up together. Might look funny, but it’ll work.”

Noralee sent him a shy smile. She was proving to be a great little typesetter, quick and conscientious, even though she could only work after school and on Saturdays. She even helped Billy load up the newspapers twice each week and she never let a word slip to Jessamine about the arrangement.

He paid Noralee a dollar a week, and from the adoring look on her narrow face the first time he laid her pay envelope in her hand, he’d won a friend for life. Maybe newspapering out here in Smoke River wasn’t too bad.

Except for Jessamine Lassiter. Damn woman could dig up more news from her ladies’ needlework circles and afternoon teas than he could keep up with. The new music school opening next week. Births and baptisms. Weddings and funerals. The latest fashion news from Godey’s Ladies’ Book, whatever the hell that was. Even recipes for oatmeal cookies.

But the most galling was the Sentinel’s blatant editorials supporting Sheriff Jericho Silver for district judge. “Up by his own bootstraps” stuff. “Honest, hardworking, heroic.”

Bilge. Nobody was that perfect. If he was going to support Conway Arbuckle, he’d have to dig up some dirt on Sheriff Jericho Silver.

Later. Right now he spied Jessamine sashaying across the street and into his office, where she stood in front of his desk and announced that Sheriff Silver, the paragon of Smoke River, had caught the afternoon train to Portland to take his law exam.

“You didn’t know that, did you?” she taunted.

Yeah, he knew that. But when she thought she’d got the drop on him like that, her eyes snapped more green than gray, and sometimes he couldn’t remember what the topic was.

“I didn’t know that,” he lied. He wondered if his eyes did anything to her insides, the way hers did to his. Then he caught himself and deliberately looked away. He wasn’t in the market for a woman’s glance. Or a woman’s anything else.

“I’ll scoop you on the outcome, too,” she crowed. “Jericho talks only to me.”

“Yeah,” Cole agreed. “But his wife, Maddie, talks to me.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows went up. “She does? Really? When do you—?”

“When she’s hanging up diapers in her backyard. Sometimes when she’s out in front of her house, pruning her roses.”

“Liar.”

“Not. Maddie washes diapers every morning.”

“And she feeds you tidbits of information every afternoon, is that it?” She puffed out her cheeks and released a long breath, making an errant curl dance across her forehead. Jessamine never wore a hat, he’d noticed. Maybe that was why she had a sprinkling of charming little freckles across her nose.

“Besides,” he added, “along with some cookies and a good cup of coffee, Maddie tells me all the latest news from Pinkerton’s Detective Agency in Chicago. She’s an agent, you know.”

“That,” she said with exasperation, “is cheating.”

“No, it’s not, Jessamine. It’s called news gathering.”

She gave him a look that would fry turnips and swished out the door. He watched her skirt twitch behind her hips with every step. He couldn’t wait until bedtime and another show behind her window blind.

At noon, Conway Arbuckle paid him another visit. “Say, Sanders, whaddya think about running another editorial about my superior qualifications for district judge?”

“Already ran two editorials this week.” Cole noticed that every time Conway visited the Lark office, Noralee turned her back, keeping her head down and bending over the rack of type fonts as if they were Christmas packages.

“You got something new to say?” he queried.

“Hell yes, I do,” Conway snapped. “Seems that Sneaky Pete sheriff’s run off to Portland. Wonder what he does in the big city?”

“He’s taking his—”

“Prob’ly a woman, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, I wouldn’t say, Mr. Arbuckle. Sheriff Silver’s a married man with two kids. Twins.”

Arbuckle leaned over Cole’s desk and spoke in a low tone. “So? I smell a rat? Cant’cha dig up some dirt on him? You know, a nice-lookin’ whore—”

“Watch it, Arbuckle. There’s a lady present.”

Arbuckle jerked upright. “Huh? Where? You mean your type girl? Hell, she’s only a kid.”

“She’s a ‘she,’ no matter how old she is. Now get out and leave us in peace. When there’s legitimate news about Sheriff Silver, I’ll publish it.”

Noralee watched the door close behind Conway Arbuckle and swiveled on her stool to turn worshipful brown eyes on Cole. “Do you think I’m really a lady, Mr. Sanders? I’m only eleven.”

Cole rose. “Miss Ness, you are every inch a lady. I’ll stand up for you any day. Now, what about our W’s? You need any more?”

“That man has bad breath,” Noralee remarked. “Could you write about that?”

Cole chuckled. “Nah. Gotta have a Who, What, Where, When and Why to make a story.”

But, now that he thought about it, maybe it was time in this election campaign to aim for the solar plexus.

* * *

Jessamine folded the last of her Saturday edition into Teddy MacAllister’s saddlebag and handed the rest of the stack to Billy Rowell for the town deliveries, along with a shiny new quarter for each boy. She frowned as she watched Billy lope off down the street. She’d seen him in town just yesterday, hanging around the Lark office with an expectant look on his face.

You don’t suppose...?

She most certainly did suppose. That snake Cole Sanders was trying to use her delivery boy! She marched out the door and across the muddy street so fast Eli sat up on his stool, his mouth hanging open.

“Mr. Sanders,” she announced the instant she was inside his office.

Her nemesis stood up behind his desk. “Miss Jessamine. Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”

“Don’t change the subject,” she replied sharply. “You’re using Billy Rowell as a delivery boy, and I strongly object. Very strongly, in fact.”

“Well, don’t. Doesn’t take much to get you riled up, does it?”

She ignored the remark. “Stealing my delivery boy is unconscionable.”

“Unconscionable,” he echoed. “Shockingly unfair. Unjust. Unscrupulous. But unconscionable? Kinda strong word for a simple matter of hiring a free agent to do a job.”

Behind her she heard a spurt of laughter from Noralee Ness.

“Billy isn’t a free agent,” Jessamine countered. “He belongs to me.”

Cole liked it when she got angry. Her cheeks turned rosy and she bit her lips until they were swollen and the color of ripe raspberries. He was finding it hard to look away from her mouth.

“On the contrary, Jessamine, Billy Rowell doesn’t belong to you or anybody else in this town except maybe his momma, who, by the way, seems mighty grateful for the extra money her son’s bringing home each week.”

Jessamine’s raspberry-bitten lips opened and then closed. And opened again. “Of course,” she said in an even tone. “You are correct. I do beg your pardon for the use of ‘unconscionable.’ What about just ‘unfair’?”

“Seems to me, Miss Jessamine, you go off half-cocked a lot.”

“That, Mr. Sanders, is entirely your fault.”

“For God’s sake, we’ve been squabbling for weeks now. About time for first names, isn’t it?”

Another snort of laughter from Noralee.

“Now,” he continued, noticing how Jessamine’s breasts were swelling against the buttons of her white shirtwaist, “what is it exactly that is my fault? Other than running my newspaper office across the street from yours?”

She actually stamped her foot on the plank floor. “For one thing, you are—”

Jess stopped midsentence. He was what? A competitor, yes. A man, with all the maddeningly masculine habits of men, a lazy, confident swagger when he walked; a slow, suggestive smile that made her insides turn mushy; a mouth that... Oh, she didn’t know what, but his lips too often drew her gaze and she just knew that he noticed.

“I am...?” he prompted.

“You disregard, um, propriety. You...drink. You...are backing that snake Conway Arbuckle for judge.”

“It’s true, I do drink. I consider the Golden Partridge part of my news beat. But propriety? I don’t disregard propriety, Jessamine. I have never—”

He broke off and swallowed hard. Yes, he had disregarded propriety. He’d swept Maryann off her feet right under the nose of her stepfather and run away with her before the old man could unearth his shotgun.

“Also,” he continued, “Mr. Arbuckle asked for my support. Besides that, since I took him on, my subscriptions have increased almost twofold.”

She sniffed. “That’s because people sense a fight between the Sentinel and the Lark over the election.” She sniffed again.

“Naturally. We both want to sell newspapers, right? Competition brings in more customers, Jessamine.”

She said nothing, just chewed some more on her lips. If she didn’t stop, he’d have trouble hiding his body’s reaction.

Too late. He stepped sideways, out of both Jessamine’s and Noralee’s field of view, and surreptitiously adjusted his jeans.

“Customers,” she murmured at last. “I see. Well, I suppose you are correct. I wonder why I didn’t consider that before.”

“Seems to me you often speak first and consider later.”

That elicited a choked laugh from Noralee.

Jessamine said nothing for so long Cole thought maybe he’d gone too far. She stood motionless, studying her shoe tops and worrying her bottom lip.

Jessamine realized she was standing tongue-tied in Cole’s office and couldn’t for the life of her remember what she’d come for. Think of something. Anything.

“I...um...”

“Yes? Something else on your mind?”

“Yes, there is,” she admitted. “But now I can’t remember what it was.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do I make you nervous, Jessamine?”

“What? Of course not. What would I have to be nervous about?”

He took a step closer and she backed up. “Me, maybe?” he said. He sent her a grin that seemed positively wicked.

“N-no,” she blurted. “Not you.”

“My newspaper?”

“Of course not. I’m not afraid of a little competition.”

It’s you I am afraid of. She cringed inwardly at the admission. There hadn’t been a male since she was twelve years old who made her heart thrum in irregular beats and her words dry up on her tongue. She squared her shoulders and forced her eyes to meet his.

“I d-don’t scare easily, Mr. Sanders.” She thought he looked just a tad disappointed.

“You don’t,” he stated. His tone said he didn’t believe her for one minute.

“The newspaper business out here in the West is fraught with danger. If I were going to go all jelly-legged over something I would have done so when my father died and my brother was shot and left me running the Sentinel. As it is, you don’t scare me one whit.”

“Yeah? Then how come you’re edging toward the door, Miss Lassiter?”

“I’m not!”

But she was. She couldn’t get away from those laughing blue eyes fast enough. She whirled toward the door and ran smack into Ellie Johnson, the federal marshal’s wife.

Ellie reached out to steady her. “Jessamine?”

“Ellie! I was just leaving. Please excuse me.”

She fled through the open door and didn’t stop until she was all the way across the street.

Cole watched her disappear through the Sentinel office doorway. “Don’t know what got into her,” he murmured.

“Maybe she’s hungry,” Ellie offered with a laugh.

“Nah, she just finished breakfast.”

Ellie nodded. She was as tall as he was, with a slim figure and a graceful way of moving. He thought he recognized her from her photo in the Sentinel.

“Mrs. Johnson, isn’t it?”

“Ellie.”

Cole nodded. “What can I do for you today, Ellie?”

She smiled. “It’s about what I can do for you, Mr. Sanders.”

Cole waited while her smile widened. “Uh, what might that be? You aren’t a typesetter, are you?”

Behind him, Noralee gave a squeak of outrage.

“Heaven’s no. I’m a music teacher. I came about tonight.”

“Tonight? What about tonight?”

“Why, the tryouts for the choir,” she explained. “At the church.”

“Sorry, I’m not a churchgoing man.” He hadn’t set foot in a church since that awful day back in Kansas when he buried Maryann.

“Oh, it’s not a church choir,” she said quickly. “It’s the new community chorus that I am directing. We’re doing a Christmas benefit for the new music school.”