Her Sky Cowboy (41 page)

And not a bustle, corset, or bonnet to her amended name.

Once in a great while, she yearned for some kind of feminine frippery, but she was far more keen on surviving this intolerant world rather than feeling pretty.

“Willie!”

Blast
. “Right, then. Best get this over with,” she said to herself, because no coworkers were within earshot of her somewhat sequestered and privileged workspace, and even if they had been, she wasn’t chummy with any of the blokes. Willie had two confidants in this world: her father and her journal. One hidden away and one locked away—respectively.

Abandoning her research on significant technological inventions, Willie pushed away from her scarred wooden desk. Her home away from home, the desktop was crowded with stacks of books, piles of documents and files, scores of pens and pencils, her typewriter, and her personal cup and teapot. Dawson often wondered how she found anything, but she did in fact know the precise whereabouts of any given item. Organized chaos—just one of her many gifts.

On the short walk to her boss’s office, Willie breathed deep, seeking solace in the familiar scents of the newsroom—ink, paper, oil, cigarette smoke, sweat, and assorted hair tonics. Scents she associated with freedom and security. This job enabled her to pursue her passion as well as provide for herself and her addle-minded father. Forsaking her gender and race had seemed a small price to pay in the beginning. But lately she teemed with resentment. Bothersome, that. She had no patience for self-pity.

To her own disgust, she stalked into her boss’s office with a spectacular chip on her shoulder. “You bellowed?”

Dawson looked up from his insanely neat and orderly desk. “Where’s the story on Simon Darcy?”

Bugger.

Certain her palms would grow clammy any second, Willie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and slouched against the doorjamb. “What story?”

Dawson’s eyes bulged. “The story I asked for days ago. The story that’s
late
. The interview with Simon Darcy regarding the collapse of Project Monorail!”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes,
that
.”

“The timing seemed off.”

“Off?”

“He’s been away, attending his father’s funeral, comforting his family.”

“Yes, I know, Willie. The father who blew himself up whilst building a blasted rocket ship! Two Darcys suffer ruin due to two fantastical projects one day apart. One week before a global race is announced that promises to stir up interest in
outlawed
inventions—if you know what I mean, and I know that you do!

“The timing, dear boy, is
perfect
! Pick Simon Darcy’s brain whilst he’s vulnerable. Get the scoop on his failed project and his father’s bungled invention. Probe deeper and dig up buried family secrets. Go where no man has gone before and ferret out never-disclosed-before details regarding Briscoe Darcy and his time machine. If anyone can do it, you can!” He pounded his meaty fist to his desk to emphasize his point.

Willie felt the force of that blow down to her toes. Her temples throbbed and her pulse stuttered. Yes, she could do it. But she did not want to. The subject of their discussion was too close to her spectacularly well-guarded heart. Though she said nothing, Dawson clearly read her reluctance due to her obviously not so guarded expression.

Narrowing his bloodshot eyes, the portly man braced his thick forearms on his desk and leaned forward. “Close the door.”

Gads. This was worse than bad.

Willie did as the man asked, then slumped into a chair and settled in for a lecture. Meanwhile her keen mind scrambled for a way to get out of this pickle.

“
The Informer
is no longer the most popular tabloid in the country. We’ve been edged out by the
Crier
.”

“The
City Crier
? But that’s a Sunday-only paper. We are a daily. Not only that…” Willie tamped down her pride, snorted. “You’re jesting.”

“Our investors are not happy,” Dawson went on, sober as a judge. “The publisher and executive editor are not happy. Which means…”

“You are not happy.”

“Get the dirt on Darcy or dig up something even more titillating.” He jabbed a finger at the door. “Now, get out.”

Although Dawson could be a curmudgeon, he’d always had at least a sliver of good humor hiding beneath the guff. Willie sensed no humor now. The pressure from above must have been severe, indeed. Pausing on the doorstep, Willie voiced a troubling notion. “When did I stop being your favorite?”

“When you went soft on me. That original piece you typed up on Ashford’s death was fluff. And the revision wasn’t much better. Our readers want sensational, Willie, not respectful. They can get that from the quality press.” After a tense moment, Dawson sighed. “You’ve had a good long run at the
Informer
, Willie. Some people think you’ve gotten too comfortable. Too arrogant. Most people don’t know you as well as I do, and even
I
don’t know you that well. But I do know that you have a special gift. I’d hate to lose it.”

Sensing freedom and security slipping away, Willie spoke past her constricted throat. “You’ll get your story.”