Читать книгу Printer In Petticoats - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 9
Оглавление“Popgun press!” Jessamine screeched. “Popgun? Just who does this Cole Sanders think he is?”
Elijah Holst, her printer’s devil, pushed his scruffy cap off his forehead with fingers stained black with ink and aimed a squirt of tobacco juice into the spittoon beside his stool.
“Fer as I kin tell, Miss Jessamine, he’s the gent across the street with the fancy Ramage press.”
“Gent! He’s no ‘gent,’ Eli. He’s an interloper. An opportunist. A muckraker.”
“No, he ain’t. He’s jest another newspaper editor, same as you.”
“He is not the same as me, not by a long shot. He’s rude and uncouth and—”
“I hear tell he’s hired the Ness girl to set type fer him.”
“What? Noralee? How could she?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Jess, but you cain’t blame the girl. When she wanted to come work for the Sentinel, you wouldn’t hire her.”
* * *
Cole lowered his paintbrush, climbed down from the ladder and stepped backward across the street to admire his handiwork.
Crisp black lettering marched across the doorway of the bank building he’d rented, and the name he’d carefully stenciled sent a surge of satisfaction from his brain all the way into his belly. By golly, this was better than a perfectly grilled rare steak. Better than the sight of the snow-covered Rocky Mountains. Better even than sex.
Well, maybe not better than sex. Nothing was better than holding a woman in his arms, or undressing her slowly and...
Hell and damn. He could hardly stand remembering how it had been. He’d spent long, heated nights in Maryann’s arms, stroking her body and thinking he was the luckiest son of a gun on the planet.
Oh, God, remembering it felt as if something were slicing into his gut. Never again, he swore. Never, never, never again.
He refocused on the name he’d chosen for his newspaper, the Lake County Lark. Then he climbed back up on the ladder and added his own name in smaller printing below, followed by the word Editor.
This called for a shot of something to celebrate. He plopped his brush in a half bucket of turpentine and strode down the boardwalk to the Golden Partridge.
The portly redheaded bartender gave him the once-over. “New in town, huh?”
“Yeah, you might say that.” He reached over the polished expanse of mahogany to offer his hand. “Cole Sanders. Just came in yesterday with my printing press and a couple bales of newsprint.”
The man’s rust-colored eyebrows rose. “Already got a newspaper in Smoke River, Mr. Sanders. Guess nobody told you, huh?”
“Yeah, they told me. Decided to come anyway.”
“Care for a farewell drink?”
Cole laughed. “Sure. But make it a welcome-to-town shot of whiskey. I’m staying.”
“It’s your funeral, mister. You met Jessamine Lassiter?”
“Jessamine, huh? Works at the Sentinel office?”
“Owns the Sentinel.” The barkeep moved away, sloshed liquor into a shot glass and slid it down to Cole. “Name’s Tom O’Reilly, Mr. Sanders. I’d welcome you to town, but I figure you ain’t gonna be here long.”
“Care to bet on that? I just finished painting the name on my newspaper office. Paint isn’t even dry yet.”
Tom moved out from behind the bar, tramped over to the batwing doors and peered out. “Lake County Lark, is it? Kinda fancy for a small town like this.”
“Maybe.” Cole sipped his whiskey.
“Gotta hand it to you, Mr. Sanders. Takes nerve to run a newspaper out West.”
“Not as much nerve as running a newspaper in Kansas. An abolitionist newspaper.” He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.
A tall gent, nattily dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and what looked like a new bowler hat, pushed through the doors and approached the bar. He nodded at O’Reilly. “The usual, Tom.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Arbuckle. You met the new editor of the Lake County Lark?”
Arbuckle swiveled toward Cole and slapped his hat onto the bar. “Did you say newspaper editor?”
Cole nodded. “Cole Sanders,” he volunteered.
“Conway Arbuckle. Next Lake County district judge. Election’s in November. Can I count on your support?”
“Well, I—”
“The Sentinel’s backing my opponent, Jericho Silver.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s really no contest, the way I see it. Me, I’ve got a law degree, whereas I’d swear that half-breed sheriff never got past grade school. He’s figuring on ‘reading law’ to pass the bar exam. His wife got him a set of law books for a wedding present, see, but then she turned around and had twins last summer. Not gonna help him study law, I’m thinking.”
“You married, Mr. Arbuckle?”
“Me? Nah. Never met a woman I couldn’t live without, know what I mean?”
Cole signaled for another shot. No, he did not know. He’d lost the only woman he couldn’t live without, but he was still breathing in and out, so he guessed he was still alive. Some days it didn’t feel like it, though.
He sucked in a deep breath. “On second thought, Tom, forget the refill. Gotta get back to the office. I’m training a new typesetter.”
Arbuckle frowned. “What about endorsing my candidacy, Sanders?”
Cole studied the man. Looked respectable, even with the shiny bald head under his new hat. Sounded halfway educated. Besides, a friendly rivalry between the two newspapers in town would boost his circulation. “Sure. Stop by the office tomorrow morning for an interview.”
On the way down the street, he strolled past the Sentinel office to admire his paint job from her vantage point. Jessamine, huh? Pretty name. Starchy girl. But at least she wasn’t likely to burn down his press because he backed an unpopular cause.
* * *
At the sound of Eli’s scratchy voice, Jessamine dropped her gaze to the lined notepad on her desk and drew in a lungful of hot-metal-scented air.
“You gonna hurry up and finish that editorial so’s I kin git to work on it?” Eli queried.
She snatched the stub of her pencil from between her teeth and crossed out her last sentence. “In a minute, Eli.”
“Guess I’ll eat my lunch, then.” He perched on his typesetting stool and unfolded a red gingham napkin to reveal four fat cookies and a shiny red apple.
“Whatcha starin’ at out the window?”
“That man across the street. He’s up on a ladder doing something suspicious.”
“Like what?” Eli rasped.
Jess pulled her attention away from the long legs on the fourth step of the ladder and studied instead the man’s muscular shoulders and the tanned forearms that showed where he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’d give a cookie to know what he’s doing over there.”
“Want one of mine? Baked ’em myself. Brown sugar with raisins.”
Eli boarded with widowed Ilsa Rowell. Jess paid her son, Billy, twenty-five cents each week to deliver the Sentinel to the town subscribers, but even with Eli paying for his room and meals, Jess knew Ilsa was having a hard time. The MacAllister boy, Teddy, took the newspaper out to the ranchers in the valley on his horse; she was happy to pay Ilsa’s son to do the town deliveries.
“Whyn’tcha go on over and ask him what he’s doin’, Jess?”
She jerked her eyes back to the article she was composing. “Don’t be silly. A good reporter learns by watching what’s going on.”
“And askin’ questions,” he reminded her.
Aha! Now the man was climbing down off his ladder, and it looked as though he had a paint bucket in his hand. He walked backward into the street, and Jess got a good look at his handiwork.
“Oh, my goodness. The Lake County Lark? What kind of cockamamy name is Lark for a newspaper?”
“Sounds kinda ladyfied, don’t it?”
“It does indeed, Eli. I think we won’t worry about the Lark. It sounds too poetic for a newspaper out here in the West. And look! There’s his name underneath. Coleridge Sanders. Coleridge! No doubt he fancies himself a writer of elegant prose.”
Eli crunched into his apple and Jess bent to finish the opening of her story about the new music academy in town. Maybe she’d also write an editorial about her rival newspaper in Smoke River.
