Читать книгу Printer In Petticoats - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 8

Chapter One

Smoke River, Oregon, 1870

Jessamine glanced up from her rolltop desk in front of the big window in her newspaper office and narrowed her eyes. What on earth...?

Across the street a team of horses hauling a rickety farm wagon rolled up in front of the empty two-story building that until a week ago housed the Smoke River Bank. A brown canvas cover swathed something big and bulky in the wagon bed.

She couldn’t tear her gaze away. A tall, jean-clad man in a dusty black Stetson hauled the team to a stop and jumped down. He had a controlled, easy gait that reminded her of a big cat, powerful and confident and...untamed. His hat brim shaded his face, and his overlong dark hair brushed the collar of his sweat-stained blue work shirt.

She sniffed with disdain. His grimy clothes suggested he needed a bath and a barber, in that order. He was just another rough, uncultured rancher come to town with a load of...what? Sacks of wheat? A keg or two of beer?

The man untied the rope lashing the dirty canvas over whatever lay beneath, and she stood up and craned her neck to see better.

Oh, my father’s red suspenders, what is that?

The barber, Whitey Poletti, and mercantile owner Carl Ness put down their brooms and ambled across the street to see what was going on. In two minutes, Mr. Rancher had talked them into helping him unload the bulky object. He loosened the ropes securing the thing, lowered the wagon tailgate and slid a couple of wide planks off the back end. Then he started to shove whatever it was down onto the board sidewalk.

The canvas slipped off and Jessamine gave an unladylike shriek. A huge Ramage printing press teetered on the wagon bed.

A printing press? Smoke River already had a printing press—hers! Her Adams press was the only one needed for her newspaper—the town’s only newspaper.

Wasn’t it?

She found herself across the street before she realized she’d even opened her office door. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Mr. Rancher straightened, pushed his hat back with his thumb and pinned her with the most disturbing pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. Smoldering came to mind. Was that a real word? Or maybe they were scandalizing? Scandalous?

“Thought it was obvious, miss. I’m unloading my printing press.” He turned away, signaled to Whitey and Carl, and jockeyed the huge iron contraption onto the boardwalk.

“What for?” she blurted out.

Again those unnerving eyes bored into hers. “For printing,” he said dryly.

“Oh.” She cast about for something intelligent to say. “Wait!”

“What for?” he shot from the other side of the press.

“What do you intend to print?”

“A newspaper.”

“Newspaper? But Smoke River already has a newspaper, the Sentinel.”

“Yep.”

“So we don’t need another one.”

“Nope.” He stepped out from behind the press and propped both hands on his lean hips. “I’ve read the Sentinel. This town does need another newspaper.”

“Well! Are you insulting my newspaper?”

“Nope. Just offering a bit of competition. A lot of competition, actually. Excuse me.” He brushed past her and hefted one corner of the press. Then the three men heaved and pulled and frog-walked the bulky machine up the single step of the old bank entrance and through the doorway.

Well, my stars and little chickens, who does he think he is?

She tried to peer through the bank’s dust-smeared front window, but just when she thought she saw some movement, someone taped big sheets of foolscap over the panes so she couldn’t see a thing.

She waited until Carl and the barber exited and walked back across the street.

“Afternoon, Miss Jessamine,” Whitey said amiably.

Her curiosity got the better of her. “What is that man doing in there?”

“Movin’ in,” Carl offered. “Gonna sleep upstairs, I reckon. No law against that.”

Jessamine swallowed a sharp retort. She couldn’t afford to insult a paying customer, even one who was at the moment helping her competition. She needed every newspaper subscriber she could get to keep her paper in the black. She had to admit that she was struggling; ever since Papa died, her whole life had been one big struggle with a capital S.

Carl marched past the bushel baskets of apples in front of his store and disappeared inside. The barber lingered long enough to give her a friendly grin.

“Like Carl says, no law against livin’ upstairs. Specially seein’ as how you’re doin’ the same thing.”

“That man needs a haircut,” she retorted. She was so flustered it was the only thing she could think of to say.

Whitey nodded. “So do you, Miss Jessamine. Gonna catch them long curls of yours in the rollers of yer press one of these days.”

Jessamine seized her dark unruly locks and shoved them back behind her shoulders. The barber was right. She just hadn’t had time between setting type and soliciting subscribers and writing news stories to tend to her hair. Or anything else, she thought morosely. There weren’t hours enough in the day to deal with everything that had been dropped on her.

Wearily she plodded back to her office across the street and dragged out her notepad and a stubby, tooth-marked pencil. “New printing press arrives in Smoke River,” she scrawled. “Bets taken on longevity.”

* * *

Cole finished cleaning the last speck of trail dust off his Ramage press, dropped the kerosene-soaked rag in the trash basket and went upstairs to unload his saddlebags. In the small bedroom he found a narrow, uncomfortable-looking cot flanked by two upended fruit crates, one of which supported an oil lamp and a grimy china washbasin. Home sweet home.

He plopped his four precious books on top of the other crate and stood staring out the multipaned window. Directly across the street he saw the Smoke River Sentinel office.

He’d known there was another newspaper in town; he just hadn’t expected it to be located so close. Well, maybe that was a blessing. He could keep a sharp eye on the competition. Still, it was a mite more than he’d bargained for.

Was that spunky miss with all the questions the typesetter? Or the sister of the printer? Or the daughter...maybe even the wife? Pretty little thing. Rude, too. Never even introduced herself.

Well, neither had he. He must smell like a randy goat after the eighteen days he’d spent hauling that press from Kansas City. No wonder the little lady didn’t introduce herself. Better rustle up a bucket or two of water for a spit bath tonight.

Tomorrow he’d stop in and make nice, but right now he was dog-tired. All he wanted was a shot of whiskey, a steak two inches thick and twenty-four hours of sleep.

Two doors down, the Golden Partridge Saloon beckoned, and next to that was the Smoke River restaurant. Handy. He swiped his hand over his stubbly chin, finger-combed his hair and set off down the street.

The whiskey was smooth, the steak rare and the bucket of water he hauled up to his living quarters was free. Couldn’t beat that. He stripped, sponged off four states’ worth of dirt and was just about to collapse onto the cot when he saw something out the window that stopped his breath.

Directly across from his room was another set of windows with the shades drawn. A lamp of some sort illuminated what lay behind the shades, and—good golly Molly! The silhouetted figure of a woman was moving back and forth in front of them.

A naked woman. Must be the Sentinel woman. Girl, he amended, assessing the slim form. High breasts, nicely flared hips, long, long hair, which she was brushing with voluptuous movements, her arms raised over her head.

Well, hell. He sure as shootin’ wasn’t tired anymore. He watched until the lamp went out across the way, but by then he was so aroused he was awake most of the night.

In the morning he checked the windows across the street. The blinds were up, but he couldn’t see a thing with the sun hitting the glass. Just his luck. He’d have to wait for tonight.

The restaurant next door to the hotel served biscuits that just about floated off the plate and bacon so crisp it crackled when he bit into it. The plump waitress, name of Rita, was pleasant and efficient and nosy.

“New in town?”

“Yep.”

“Passing through?”

“Nope. Staying.”

“Don’t talk much, do you?”

“Nope.”

“More coffee?”

He nodded and left her a good-sized tip.

He spent the morning setting up the press, then asked around town for a typesetter. Nada. By suppertime he’d given up, stopped by the barbershop for a shave and a haircut and a bath, then returned to the restaurant for dinner.

“Know anyone who can set type?” he asked the attentive waitress.

“No, but I do know someone who’d like to learn,” she said. She leaned toward him confidentially. “Young Noralee Ness. You’ll find her at the mercantile. Her father’s the owner.”

“Her?”

“Sure, why not? You got something against females?”

“Not if they can set type, I don’t. How come she’s not working for the Sentinel?”

“Oh, Miss Jessamine sets her own type. Always has, even before her brother died.”

Cole lowered his coffee cup. “Died?”

“That’s what I said. Irate subscriber shot him.”

Hell... This was no better than Kansas City. He’d narrowly escaped the same fate as a result of an editorial he’d written on abolition. Actually sometimes he wished he had been shot; might have been easier than what he’d gone through later.

“What was the issue?” he asked cautiously. “Not slavery, was it?”

“Nah. Election coming up. People out here get pretty riled up.”

It was full dark by the time he tramped up the stairs to his quarters, and he was dead tired. But not too tired. Quickly he washed and then doused the lamp and waited.

Sure enough, about nine o’clock the blinds across the way snapped down and the light went on behind them. Cole watched until he couldn’t stand it any longer, then spent the next three hours trying to get to sleep. The next morning he could hardly drag himself off his cot.

Noralee Ness turned up promptly at ten o’clock. Hell, she was only eleven or twelve years old, but her brown eyes snapped with intelligence, and she brought apples and cheese and a slab of chocolate cake for her lunch and shared it with him while he showed her how to arrange the pieces of lead type in her type stick.

She was quick to learn and even quicker with her hands. By noon he had finished the last page of the story he’d been writing, and before three in the afternoon Noralee had typeset it right down to the last comma.

Two Newspapers? Why Not?

Why shouldn’t the Smoke River Sentinel have some competition? It’s a free country. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. Besides, the little popgun press in this town shouldn’t fear a bit of healthy competition.

Or should it? Is it possible the Smoke River Sentinel has grown complacent because it’s the one and only newspaper in this fair community?

I ask you—with an election coming up, isn’t it reasonable to present two sides to every question?

Cole Sanders

Editor, Lake County Lark

That night before he crawled onto his cot he slipped a copy of his first edition under the door of the Sentinel office across the street.