Printer In Petticoats. Lynna BanningЧитать онлайн книгу.
“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.
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The news was weeks out of date, but out here in Oregon it was still news.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.”