Printer in Petticoats (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

W
hile the town breathlessly awaited the arrival of Anderson Rivera, their new sheriff, Cole decided to run a series of human interest articles on the man. On a sunny Monday morning, he went from the restaurant onto a tree-shaded side street and found Ilsa Rowell, Billy's mother, bent over a washtub in her backyard, scrubbing mud off a pair of the boy's jeans.

“Mrs. Rowell?”

“Yes?” She didn't straighten up. She didn't even look up, just kept drubbing the garment up and down on the corrugated tin washboard.

“I understand our new sheriff, Anderson Rivera, is a relative of yours,” he ventured.

“Yes, he is. He's my brother. Actually he's my half brother. His ma married my pa and then she had me.”

“I see. Was this in Oregon?”

“Texas. Down near the Rio Grande. My brother is—was—a Texas Ranger.”

Cole already knew that from Jessamine's article in the
Sentinel
, but he wanted something more. Something intriguing. Something sensational, if he could pry it out of Ilsa.

“Why did he quit the Rangers?”

“Good question,” she said shortly.

“What would you guess his reason was?”

Ilsa straightened and propped soapy hands on her hips. “I sure don't know, Mr. Sanders. I never did understand Sonny, and when I was growing up he made it pretty clear that nothing he did or said or even thought was any of my business.”

“Sonny?”

“That's what his pa called him. I do, too.” She bent again over the washboard.

“Did you like him? Was he a good brother?”

That brought her ramrod straight, a sopping pair of jeans in her hand. “A good brother? Mr. Sanders, I worshipped Sonny, I really did. I liked him, I really liked him. Still do, as a matter of fact. He's a good man, just...private.”

Private, huh? Cole twiddled his pencil between his thumb and forefinger. He was getting nowhere with Ilsa Rowell. To all appearances, the new sheriff's past was dull as dishwater. Maybe the man was curled inward tighter than a corkscrew.

Or maybe, just maybe, the man had a secret of some kind, one that would warrant leaving the Texas Rangers and coming a thousand miles north to a tiny out-of-the-way place like Smoke River. A scandal, maybe? A killing? A woman?

Ilsa gathered up an armload of wet clothes. “Excuse me, Mr. Sanders.” She sent him a look and then shouldered her way past him to the clothesline in the backyard.

Cole sighed. He hadn't gotten the story he'd hoped for this morning, but he wasn't about to give up. Sheriff Anderson would be here within a week; Cole would wait. And when the man came to town, he would sharpen up his pencils and pounce.

* * *

On the second Monday in January, Jess turned up at the meeting room behind the barbershop to cover Jericho Silver's swearing-in ceremony. She was an hour early.

Nearly a hundred townspeople had gathered to witness the event, but the closer the hour drew, the more curious she became. Why wasn't Cole present? Was he out covering a more interesting piece of news? The thought made her squirm.

What am I missing?

At two o'clock sharp, tall, tanned Jericho Silver in pressed jeans and a crisp white shirt took his place before Federal Marshal Matt Johnson, who was entrusted with the investiture proceedings on behalf of Governor Morse in Portland.

“Raise your right hand, Jericho,” the marshal instructed. Maddie Silver stepped up to her husband's side and slipped a Bible under his left palm. While she swiped tears of pride off her cheeks, Jericho swore to uphold the laws of the state of Oregon and to be fair and impartial in dispensing justice.

It was thrilling to watch. Jess felt her own eyes tear up right along with Maddie's. Jericho Silver, the orphan boy from Portland of unknown parentage, a man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, who had built a reputation for toughness and even-handed justice, had beaten rich, puffed-up Conway Arbuckle fair and square at the polls. Oh, she did love democracy!

After the ceremony, Jess drew Maddie aside for an in-depth interview about finding herself the wife of the new district judge. But all the while she was scribbling on her notepad, she wondered where Cole was and what her competitor was doing. Was she missing something newsworthy?

If so, what on earth was it?

She wanted to ask Maddie something personal, something with the human interest aspect Cole was always yammering about, but she hesitated to voice it. Oh, well, why not? Cole said human interest was what sold newspapers.

“Maddie,” she began, her tooth-nibbled pencil poised over her notepad, “what is it really like, being married to the sheriff and now the Lake County district judge?”

Maddie laughed. “I'm not married to either the sheriff or the district judge. I am married,
very
married, to a man, Jericho Silver. And believe me, Jessamine, that is a challenge.” The young woman's cheeks flushed a pretty rose color. “And,” she added, her voice dropping, “a great pleasure, as well.”

Well! She couldn't print that!

“I understand you have a career, too, Maddie, as a Pinkerton agent. How do you and Jericho carve out any time together? Especially now that you are the parents of twins?”

Maddie leaned toward her and lowered her voice still further. “At night, Jessamine. Jericho and I are together at night. All night.”

“Heavens, I can't quote that, Maddie. It's too personal.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” Maddie said with a laugh. “I thought you wanted to know, as a woman and not just as a newspaper editor.”

“Yes,” Jess said quickly. “I do.”

“You know, Jessamine—and I don't want to be quoted on this—but I didn't really want to marry Jericho and settle down in Smoke River.”

Jess stared at her. “You didn't? Why did you, then?”

Maddie sighed. “Why does any woman marry a man and settle down? I wanted to be with Jericho. And I wanted that more than I wanted anything else.”

“Oh.” Jess was not often at a loss for words, but at this moment “Oh” was all she could think of to say.
Maddie wanted to be with Jericho more than she wanted anything else.
How extraordinary.

After another half hour of talk so personal Jess knew she could never use it in a news story, she said goodbye, hugged Maddie and returned to the
Sentinel
office.

The afternoon dragged on and on and still Cole did not appear. She loaded her afternoon edition into Teddy MacAllister's saddlebags and helped Billy Rowell stuff his sack full, saw both boys off and then walked down to the restaurant for supper. Alone.

While she poked at her chicken croquettes and mashed potatoes, she thought about Jericho and Maddie Silver.

What
was
it like to be married? And have two careers?

* * *

When the latest edition of the
Lark
came out, Jess received another shock.

Sheriff Anderson Rivera
to Arrive in Smoke River
Tuesday Afternoon

Pooh!
That was simply
not possible. Texas was over a thousand miles from Oregon. Even if the man rode fifty miles a day, it would take him twenty days to get here. Cole was bluffing. He had to be. Besides,
today
was Tuesday.

She charged across the street and collided with Noralee at the front door of the
Lark
office.

“Didja see him, Miss Jessamine? Didja? Oh, he's so tall and...and...he takes great big steps!”

“Your imagination is working overtime, Noralee. Sheriff Rivera won't be here for at least two weeks.”

“But he
is
here, honest. I saw him.”

Jessamine followed the burbling girl into Cole's office.

“It's true, Jess,” Cole said calmly from behind his desk. “Rivera's here.”

“Impossible,” she said.

Cole's dark eyebrows went up. “Why is it impossible?”

“Because a man, even a paragon of law enforcement, as Anderson Rivera is purported to be, cannot ride a thousand miles in—”

Cole laughed aloud. “Who says he rode?”

“Well, how did he get here if he—”

Cole stood up. Because he was towering over her, Jess had to look up at him. “Stop and think a minute, Miss Thinks-She-Knows-Everything.”

Her face changed. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “The railroad.”

For a moment Cole almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Yes, the railroad,” he echoed.

“But...but what about his horse?”

“The man hasn't got just one horse, Jess. He's got a whole remuda. He's hired someone to drive them north.”

Noralee giggled over her type stick, and in that instant Cole realized he'd made a tactical error. He wanted to compete with Jess, not make her so mad she'd never let him get close enough to kiss her again.

He reached his hand out to touch her arm, but she jerked away with a sniff.

“Jess...”

“Oh, go to the devil, Cole.” She pivoted and swept out so fast her skirt got caught when the door slammed.

“You don't understand girls, Mr. Sanders,” Noralee said quietly.

What? He did, too, understand girls. He understood Jess well enough to take her to bed and make love to her, didn't he? What wasn't “understanding” about that?

But under his shirt collar he began to sweat. He couldn't ask Noralee about it, but he wondered...

At least he
thought
he knew about women. About Jess.

Didn't he?

* * *

Noralee sighed, and then sighed again. Cole glanced over to see the girl's hands lying idle on the typesetting table, her attention riveted on something outside the front window. He followed her gaze.

Anderson Rivera, the new sheriff, was tying up his horse at the rail in front of the Golden Partridge Saloon.

“Noralee?”

No answer.

“Noralee, are you all right?”

She turned dazed brown eyes to him. “What?” She released another long breath of air. “No, I am not all right, Mr. Sanders. My brain is chattering inside my head. I can't think. I am... I am in love.”

Cole glanced out the window again. The only thing he saw was the sheriff's bay mare, standing quietly at the hitching rail. “With a horse?” he inquired.

“Oh, no,” she moaned. “With
him
. With the new sheriff.”

Cole bit his tongue to keep from laughing. When he could speak he said, “He's a bit old for you, don't you think?”

“No,” she whispered. “I'm gonna grow up real fast, and then he won't be too old at all.”

Great jumping jennies!
He racked his brain for the right thing to say to the girl. “Noralee, I'm sure you will be a lovely young woman when you are grown-up. No doubt in a few years you will have many suitors, and—”

“I don't want many suitors,” she murmured. “I just want him.”

Cole walked twice around his desk and stopped near the table where the girl sat, mesmerized into immobility. “Uh, Noralee, while you're growing up, do you think you could set some type for me?”

“What? Oh, sure, Mr. Sanders.” She didn't move.

“Now?” he inquired in a gentle voice.

“What? Oh, sure, right away.” Still she remained motionless on her stool.

“Right away
today
?” he pursued. Or would he have to wait until Sheriff Anderson Rivera emerged from the saloon, mounted his horse and moseyed on out of Noralee's view?

He exhaled a long breath.
Women.

Chapter Twenty-Two

C
ole decided he didn't like Anderson Rivera. Not because he was inefficient, or full of himself, which he wasn't. It was just...well, he couldn't exactly put his finger on what bothered him. The man partook of a friendly drink at the Golden Partridge of an evening, tipped his immaculate sand-colored Stetson to all the ladies, respectable or otherwise, and took time to speak to the youngsters around town. He even treated them to chocolate cookies at Uncle Charlie's Bakery.

The string of horseflesh that paraded down Main Street two weeks later were such fine-looking specimens, even after a journey of a thousand miles up through the Texas and Arizona desert, that men poured out of businesses and the saloon and lined the street to ogle them, especially the spirited Appaloosa that led the herd.

Deputy Sandy Boggs let his admiration for the man be known in no uncertain terms, and Noralee Ness went into such a trance whenever the new sheriff stepped into the
Lark
office that Cole had to prod her back to setting type. The girl was so moony she started making spelling errors, which she had
never
done, even when working under a tight deadline.

Already Rivera had brought in the outlaw who had robbed the Gillette Springs Bank, and he'd recovered all the money in the bargain. Billy Rowell, Rivera's nephew, had started standing so straight and proud Cole wondered if his momma was putting starch in his overalls.

It seemed that everybody in Smoke River loved the man. Everyone except Cole. Not only that, but he couldn't tell how Jessamine regarded the new sheriff. He watched her bustle about town, her notepad clutched in one hand and a fistful of pencils in the other, reporting on the wheat crop; the baby shower for Ellie Johnson, the marshal's wife; the new violin teacher the music school had hired; even the sale of Miss Lucy's place over on Maple Street. Cole would sure like to know just how Jess had managed to uncover
that
piece of information.

She also reported on how plans for the summer operetta,
Lady Marmalade's Suitors
, were shaping up. Casting for the principal singers would start in April. Music would be provided by Ike Bruhn on guitar and mandolin and Anderson Rivera on his fiddle. Hot damn, the man could play the fiddle?

Dressmaker Verena Forester would design and sew costumes for the dancing girls.
Dancing girls!
Cole figured Sheriff Rivera would be needed more to keep order among the males during any performance with dancing girls than to play his fiddle.

Jess was always busy these days. Cole had to admit she was doing a fine job of competing with the
Lark
; she matched him scoop for scoop, often publishing stories he'd thought he had an exclusive on. But he managed to return the favor so often that whenever they shared breakfast or a late-afternoon cup of coffee, she took to clapping her hands over her notepad so he couldn't read what she was writing.

She still smiled at him with those huge gray-green eyes that made his heart skip three beats. And she still worried her lower lip between her teeth, which left him hard and hot and hungry for a lot more than scrambled eggs and bacon.

This morning Cole looked up to see Sheriff Rivera stride past the front window of the restaurant and Cole found himself watching Jess closely.

Her gaze flicked up, then focused on the man's long legs.

“Noralee's right,” she murmured. “He does take giant steps.”

Cole stared at her. “What's that got to do with the price of corn?”

She worried her lower lip. “Why, nothing at all.”

He snaked a hand across the table and grasped her wrist. “Dammit, Jess, don't do that!”

She dimpled and he almost choked on his coffee. Hell's bells, when had she developed a dimple? He thought he'd seen every kind of smile that ever crossed her face; how could he have missed that dimple? He wanted to run his tongue into that sweet little curved indentation in her cheek.

“Cole, whatever is the matter? You look very odd.”

He released her wrist and sucked in his breath. “I told you what getting your lips all rosy like that does to me.”

She nodded, then stared past him out the window. Oh, hell, she wasn't even listening to him.

She gave her lower lip another nibble and he clenched his jaw. She was driving him crazy.

“Hell's bells, Jess, you want me to kiss you right here in the restaurant in front of everybody?”

“Oh. I forgot.”

He stared at her. “You forgot?” She
forgot
?

Dimples again. His shirt collar constricted his Adam's apple. He undid the top button.

“Cole?”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Do you still want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Kiss me.”

With a groan he bolted out of his chair, gripped her shoulders and dragged her up to face him. “Yeah, I still want to.” He covered her mouth and kissed her until his breath stopped.

It wasn't until he released her that he realized the restaurant was empty and Rita was busy in the kitchen. Thank God for that. He didn't want to play fast and loose with Jess's reputation. She wasn't the kind of girl a man dallied with just for the hell of it.

But God knew losing his wife was as close to hell as he ever wanted to get. He didn't dare risk being married to a woman ever again.

“God, Jess, don't tease me. I haven't kissed you in exactly six weeks and three days.”

“You've been counting?”

“Damn right I've been counting.”

“Good. I was beginning to wonder.”

“What the—?” He groaned.

Jessamine thought his eyes couldn't get any narrower, but she was mistaken.

“Don't play games with me, Jess. You know I like kissing you. I'm trying to keep it under control.”

She watched the struggle in his face. The pain in his eyes sent a shard of unease into her chest. “I don't mean to tease you, Cole. Or play games.”

He just looked at her. “You know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you?”

She swallowed.

“Listen, Jess, you know that losing my wife was... I can't do it again.”

“What are you saying, Cole?”

“I'm saying...” He swallowed again. “I'm saying I can't bring myself to risk being married to a woman. Ever.”

“Yes, of course, I understand that. It's something you've mentioned before. But there's something you don't know about me, Cole.”

“Yeah? What's that?”

“I do not want to marry anyone. I will never marry. I care about you, Cole, but I am not looking for marriage.”

He looked as if a horse had just kicked him. “Care to tell me why?”

“It's a legal thing. In Oregon the minute a man and a woman get married, the woman loses control over her property. It falls to her husband. The truth is, I don't want to lose my family newspaper to anyone. Not even you.”

Again, he just looked at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his fists clenched at his sides. “That's what the law says, is it?”

“Yes, it is. I checked in Jericho Silver's law books and—”

“You think you might lose control over your newspaper, is that it?”

“Exactly. So you can relax, Cole. And...” She laid her fingers against his stubbly cheek. “...that means you can kiss me whenever you want.”

He caught her wrist. “Not so fast. You sure about what the law says?”

“About a married woman's property? Yes, I'm sure. That's why—”

“I heard you the first time,” he growled.

She gazed up into his troubled blue eyes and wondered why she felt as if she'd laced up her corset way too tight. She didn't like the constricted feeling inside her chest, or the funny hot burning in her throat or the hungry ache that was blooming below her belly.

What she wanted was for Cole Sanders to kiss her. A lot.

She also knew she couldn't have it both ways. Since neither of them wanted a permanent relationship, she could either love him and be with him or avoid tempting him. To be fair, she couldn't continue to torture him; he deserved better.

She expelled a long sigh and fought down an overwhelming urge to cry. Mercy, she hadn't felt this bereft since her brother, Miles, was killed.

* * *

“Miss Jessamine?”

Jess pivoted to see Noralee Ness timidly edging through the front door of the
Sentinel
office. “Yes, Noralee? What is it?”

The girl glanced at Eli, bent over his font case, and tipped her head toward the far corner. “Can I speak to you in private?” she whispered.

Jess followed Noralee to the niche by the doorway.

“Miss Jessamine, how does a girl get beautiful?”

Jess blinked. “Beautiful? You mean a pretty dress and curls?”

“No, I mean beautiful all over. Like you.”

“Honey, I'm not beautiful all over. I wear proper clothes and wash my hair twice a week, but that's all.”

“You smell good, and your cheeks are pink,” Noralee said softly. “And your eyebrows look like, um, like upside-down smiles.”

Jess blinked again. “Upside-down smiles? What an original description. I do believe you have a talent for words, Noralee.”

The girl sighed. “You really think so? Do you think I could write a...a love letter?”

“Well, you
could
, I'm sure. But whether you
should
is another matter entirely. Besides, I'm not sure a love letter is the way to a boy's heart. Can you bake cookies?”

“Cookies! He wouldn't want any old cookies!”

“I wouldn't be too sure about that, Noralee. Most males are very partial to cookies.”

Noralee brightened. “And while I made cookies I could be growing beautiful, couldn't I, Miss Jessamine? Oh, thank you! I knew you'd know what to do.”

She was out the door before Jess could open her mouth. She stood looking after her, skipping across the street to the
Lark
office. What strange notions girls got when someone plucked at their heartstrings. Women, too, she acknowledged.

Eli's dry voice made her jump. “It's hell to be young, ain't it?”

She spoke without thinking. “Sometimes it's hell to be twenty-two.”

“Yep. I figured that. Got you all tied up in an eight-way knot, huh?”

“Nonsense! I am not tied up at all. I am as carefree as a song sparrow.”

Eli didn't respond, and Jess sent up a little prayer begging forgiveness for her lie.

* * *

An obviously pregnant Ellie Johnson stopped in at the restaurant and made a beeline for the table in the corner where Cole and Jessamine sat over breakfast. “I'm so pleased to find you two together,” Ellie said.

“Mrs. Johnson.” Cole instantly rose and surrendered his chair, then snagged another from an adjacent table.

“Thank you, Cole.” Ellie sank onto the padded seat and turned a beaming smile on him and then Jess. “I need you both.”

“What for?” Jessamine blurted.

“Jessamine means,” Cole inserted dryly, “what can we do for you?”

Ellie grinned. “You may recall that we are planning to stage an operetta this summer?
Lady Marmalade's Suitors
?”

“Of course,” Jess said. “I was going to run a story about it in the
Sentinel
. Have you chosen the cast?”

Rita appeared, a coffeepot in one hand and a china teapot in the other. “Miz Johnson, would you like coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, please, Rita. I need to stay on my toes today.”

She turned to Jessamine. “No,” she said, “I haven't chosen the cast yet. I'm holding tryouts tomorrow and—”

“You'd like us to announce it in our newspapers,” Cole supplied.

“Well, that, too,” Ellie responded with a grin. She accepted a full mug of coffee and dumped in cream until it threatened to overflow.

Jess frowned. “Too? What does that mean?”

“Um, well...” Ellie sent a questioning look at Cole. “I would like you to try out for a part.”

“Oh, no,” Cole protested instantly. “I don't sing in public. I told you that when I tried out for the choir, remember?”

“Yes, you do,” Jess contradicted. “You sang in the
Messiah
at Christmas, remember?”

Oh, Lord yes, he remembered. He remembered the thrill of standing close enough to Jess to brush her arm, hearing her voice blend with his and later kissing her until his brain softened into molasses and making love to her as if there would never be a tomorrow.

“Yeah, I remember. But singing with a choir isn't like standing up on a stage, alone, and singing in front of a real audience. Alone,” he repeated.

“There are three parts for male singers,” Ellie said.

“You could do that, Cole,” Jess said with an encouraging smile.

“And,” Ellie went on, “there are two female lead roles. Jessamine?” She sent Jess an expectant look.

“Oh, no, I—I am really busy at the
Sentinel
with, um, the Fourth of July celebration. Oh, and the Ladies' Hat Competition and—”

“Ladies' Hat Competition?” Cole interrupted. “What the heck is that?”

“You wouldn't be interested,” Jess said in a patient voice. “It's a ladies' matter.”

“Maybe not, but my newspaper would be interested. News is news, remember?”

“Stop it, you two,” Ellie interrupted. “Humor me. I would very much like your help in two ways. First, to announce tryouts in your newspaper, and second, I would like both of you to show up and—” she paused and looked from Cole to Jessamine “—try out.”

* * *

Half the population of Smoke River showed up at the music hall for the operetta tryouts. Uncle Charlie brought three overflowing trays of oatmeal and cinnamon cookies, and when director Ellie Johnson suggested that the rotund Chinese man audition for the part of Ricardo the Magician, Charlie bowed low.