Just Her Type (14 page)

He blew a cloud of noxious smoke. When she choked, he smiled. “Excuse me, Mrs. McCraven. I wasn't aware that you found the smell of a cigar distasteful. Of course, with it being just you and the boy, you probably aren't used to it. Oh, I forget. You have Bradfield working for you now.”

“Temporarily.” She wished Luke were back, but getting supper would take at least a half-hour.

“Then he goes back east?”

“Yes.”

“To write more stories like this?” He withdrew a creased newspaper from under his coat.

When he shoved it into her hands, she opened it.
The Albany Independent
!

“Read this, Mrs. McCraven!” He pointed to a circled article.

Her eyes widened as she saw Luke's byline. She scanned the column. The references to the cattle barons in the article were no more complimentary than the headline.

She folded the newspaper. “What Mr. Bradfield writes for the
Independent
isn't something I control.”

“But you can control your own opinions.”

Surprised, she repeated, “My own opinions?”

“He quotes you.” He jabbed at the paper. “Perhaps you didn't read far enough. Shall I read it to you? ‘The cattle barons have set themselves up as feudal lords. They prey on each other, but, unlike the lords of old, they offer no protection to those who do their dirty deeds. Instead they watch while their henchmen are sent to hang. When the hanging is done, they count their profits, for gold and power are the only two gods they idolize.' The words, according to this article, of Mackenzie Smith, editor of
The Bentonville Bugle.
”

Sickness ate through her. Not from fear of having flouted the authority of the cattlemen, although she knew the price could be high. Worse. Luke had stolen her words.

Connolly threw the paper on the floor. “Do you deny saying that?”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

His eyes narrowed. “Mrs. McCraven, Lionel and Krafft would not hesitate to destroy your printing press, if I told them to.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not.” He tapped ashes onto a stack of newsprint. “Just making a comment.”

“No one will close down the
Bugle
, even if I have to handwrite every issue myself.” She smiled as she brushed ashes off the paper. “Just a comment, Mr. Connolly, to a man who needs this paper.”

“I don't need this rag. Any gossip you print, I've known for days.”

“How will a man with political aspirations explain that he forced his local newspaper out of business?” Never had she dared to push one of the cattle barons so far, but she would not let him shut her down.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced toward the press, then smiled. “Mackenzie, you intend to remain a thorn in my side, don't you?”

“I've no interest in being your enemy.” That he had called her by her given name told her this battle was over. The
Bugle
had survived … again.

“Just none in being my friend.”

She pulled off her apron. “Friendships are earned.”

“And can be profitable.” He reached for his hat, which was instantly placed in his hands. “Think about it. A pretty woman like you, with a young son, must have many concerns as you face the world alone.”

“She's not alone.”

Mackenzie whirled at the furious voice. Why had Luke returned
now
?

“You must be Bradfield,” Connolly said, his voice again frigid.

“We met the day I arrived in Bentonville.” Luke smiled. “I remember you and your slow-witted henchmen there. The only one missing is your doxy—Gloria's her name, isn't it?”

When the cattleman's mouth tightened, Mackenzie wished Luke would glance in her direction, so she could signal him to be silent. His gaze avoided hers as he crossed the room.

“Do you have business for the
Bugle
, or are you here just to offer lecherous suggestions to Mackenzie?” he asked.

“I'll have business with you, Bradfield, if you keep writing lies for your lily-livered greenhorns back east.” He pointed to the paper on the floor.

“I'm surprised it got here already.” He rested one hand on the printing press. “Almost as surprised as I am that the article displeases you.”

“Displeases me?” roared Connolly. “That piece of rubbish is all lies.”

Luke's expression of puzzlement was false. Mackenzie knew that, but waited for him to finish playing his hand. To speak now might guarantee the end of her newspaper.

“By my calculation, Connolly, the article about your well-run campaign for senator should have been in the paper only a few days ago. I didn't realize the mail got here from Albany that fast.”

Connolly gasped, “You wrote an article about my campaign for your paper?”

“Of course. Isn't that what we're talking about?”

“Yes, yes,” Connolly mumbled as he stared at Luke as if reappraising him. Tipping his hat to Mackenzie, he added a quick farewell.

As soon as the door closed, she asked, “You wrote an article praising Connolly?”

“Of course not! But thinking that I have will make him my best friend for a few weeks. Then, when he gets suspicious, I'll blame its lack of publication on my editor. Perfect lie.”

“No lies are perfect.”

He put an arm around her waist. “Sweetheart, he was ready to tear down the
Bugle
office with us in it. When I heard he was paying you a call, I figured I'd better delay supper. It's a good thing I did. If a lie or two forces me to be his buddy, it's well worth it.”

“I'm not surprised you'd say that, knowing your lack of integrity.” She pushed the newspaper toward him with her toe.

He picked it up. Opening it, he smiled. “This explains why Connolly visited us.”

“But it creates other questions, such as how you could quote me without my permission?”

“You gave me permission to quote you.”

“When?”

“When we were talking about women's suffrage.”

“But not about this, Luke. This is dangerous ground. I've had to tread carefully to keep the
Bugle
open.” She struggled with anger at the betrayal. “How could you send that to your paper when you know what I'm dealing with here? You should have shown it to me.”

“I never let a source read my work before it's printed.”

Anger overwhelmed her. Spinning to face him, she cried, “You risked everything I have and love for the chance to see your byline. I opened my home to you, and you've repaid me by insulting the very ones who could destroy me.”

She went to the press. There were copies to be put out. Luke's perfidy could not interfere with the paper's publication.

Hands settled on her shoulders. She tried to shrug them away. One moved along her right arm to pull her hand away from the press. Slowly it turned her so he could frame her face and tilt it beneath his.

“No,” she moaned as she pulled away. “That won't work, Luke. Practice your lying tricks on someone else.”

“It's not a lie that I want to hold you.”

“I suppose not.” She went to the front of the shop and put the closed sign n the window.

“When I sent that article to Albany, I had no idea it would find its way back here.” He stood by the half-door. “Don't you know that I'd do nothing to harm you or Douglas or the
Bugle
?”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“You can. Mackenzie—”

“I don't have time for this. I have to put the paper to bed. I have to—”

He whirled her into his arms. “I'd like to put
you
to bed. Now. With me.”

She slipped out of his embrace and turned back to the press and began printing out the newspaper. Such work had been her salvation before. She prayed it would again, for, if the
Bugle
failed her also, she did not know where she could turn.

TEN

When Douglas went to join his friends for a swim to celebrate his birthday, Mackenzie was tempted to run off with him instead of going downstairs to work with Luke. Since the confrontation with Connolly last week, Luke had shown remarkable patience when she insisted on reading and approving everything he wrote. Yet, it was not his writing that unsettled her. She needed to get away from Luke and his tempting touch.

Baking Douglas's birthday cake gave her the excuse she needed. It had taken three weeks of badgering both the manager of the mercantile and the station-master to get the mint flavoring from Casper. Tonight, she would give Douglas the cake and his birthday present. For months, she had saved the money to buy the whittling knife he wanted.

Mackenzie made sure that Luke had left the print shop to collect the accounts before she came downstairs. With the cake decorated, she had time to work on the next edition. She should be able to handle this situation with Luke as easily as she did all the crises at the newspaper. Still, her mind refused to focus on anything but the enticing images of being in his arms through the warm darkness of the night. If only—

The door of the print shop crashed open. She rose and smiled at the heavy man on the other side of the half-wall. “How are you doing, Gil?”

“Good.” Gil Chaffee took off his hat and scratched behind his ear. “Got some news for you, Mackenzie. 'Bout the cattle rustlers.”

“Yes?” she asked when he paused.

“They caught someone on the road out to the river. On Connolly's land.” He chuckled. “Cheapjack Rutherford'll be payin' up.”

“Are you sure, Gil?”

He nodded so hard she feared his jowls would bounce off his face. “Heard it at the saloon.”

“From whom?”

“Boswell. If'n Connolly's foreman don't know the truth, don't know who does.”

“Is Boswell still at the saloon?”

“Maybe. Wanted to let you know the news so you could put it in the
Bugle
. You'll put in that I was the one to tell you, won't you?”

“Of course,” she said absently. “Just let me get a few more facts from Boswell.”

Gil did not seem offended. “If'n he won't tell you, let me know. I'll get more information for you.”

She patted his thick arm and hurried down the street, but paused before the double doors of the saloon. Maybe she should find Luke. He would enjoy ferreting out the facts here. Often he came into the print shop smelling of the mind-numbing whiskey Stub served. He would … No, she was the editor of
The Bentonville Bugle
. She would get the facts. With a shudder, she pushed through the swinging doors.

Mackenzie hid her distaste of the whiskey and cheap perfume. Behind the battered bar, Stub was serving whiskey to two men draped over the splintered top. She despised the saloon and what it did to the men and women who entered it.

“Well, look who's here. Howdy, Mackenzie.”

At the slightly mocking voice, she tensed. She once had considered two of the women who worked here friends. One was dead. The other … “How are you doing, Honey?” she asked.

The blonde threaded her way between the tables as every eye in the saloon settled on them. Honey pulled on the drooping strap of her gold gown. “I'd be doing much better if you'd loosen your lasso on that looker you have living with you. Afraid if he comes in for a little variety, he won't come back to you either?”

Mackenzie recoiled. “How can you say that to me?”

“Just 'cause you don't let him pay you, it don't make you different from me. Women like a handsome man in their beds, 'specially lonely widows.”

“Mr. Bradfield has his own bed.”

Honey's top lip turned up in a condescending sneer. “Then you're a fool.”

“Have you seen Boswell?” Mackenzie asked, not wanting to argue what might be true.

Honey put her foot on a chair and adjusted her garter to the appreciation of the men sitting nearby. Playfully she batted away one man's hand. “Later, boys. C'mon, Mackenzie. I'll take you up to where he be.”

Mackenzie grasped her arm. “Look, Honey, I'm not going to let you embarrass me or Boswell. If he's busy, I'll wait here.”

Honey laughed. “
I'm
not a fool. Stub'd have my head if'n I dragged you upstairs and intruded on one of his girls. C'mon. You won't get your sensibilities riled if'n I take you where Boswell be.”

Mackenzie followed Honey's swaying skirts. Over and over, she had tried to tell herself that her past had been buried with Cameron and Pa. It had not. She still ached to know why the disaster that started here had stolen her happiness.

“Coming?” demanded Honey as she paused by the foot of stairs leading up to a balcony ringing the lower room on three sides. Strips of paint hung from the underside of it like albino bats.

“Yes.” She could manage no more than a whisper. If Luke saw her trembling like a bride on her wedding night, he would laugh. Squaring her shoulders, she vowed to keep the composure that had gained her the respect of the hardened cattlemen. As they climbed, mumbles, giggles, and sounds from beyond the doors they passed brought heat to Mackenzie's cheeks.

“Here's where Boswell be.” When Mackenzie did not open the door, Honey snapped, “I ain't no maid to announce you.”

As she opened the door slowly, Mackenzie smiled with relief at the call of a bet. The men around the poker table grew silent. When she met the dark eyes of the man seated at the far end, he rose, keeping his cards hidden from the other players. He had not taken time to change out of his sweaty clothes before coming to town. Twin Colt pistols glittered on his hips. His spurs clanked as he crossed the floor.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a voice that could have been heard through a storm.

“I need to speak with you, Boswell.” Mackenzie glanced at the other men. They all worked for Connolly. “I've heard some interesting information, and I want you to confirm it for me. Is it true that—?”