Printer in Petticoats (7 page)

“I hate winter,” she gasped.

“I've always liked it.” He slid his arm around her waist and urged her forward. “Rain makes the corn grow and flowers bloom in the spring. Anything ungrammatical in that?”

She laughed, and he expelled a sigh of relief. Maybe she wasn't so prickly on rehearsal nights. Or maybe she was just too cold to talk back. Whatever it was, he liked it when she was quiet.

Actually, he liked it when she talked back, too.

After their vocal warm-ups, the director stopped them and made a surprising announcement. “Ladies, on choir rehearsal nights, please dispense with your corsets. You cannot breathe properly when you are all trussed up in whalebone.”

Cole had a hard time keeping his mind off Jessamine's body with no corset.

The director rehearsed them rigorously for an hour, let them take a break, then pushed them even harder. Halfway through the last chorus, something intangible swept through the singers, as if a single bolt of lightning had struck them all simultaneously. The sounds they made were suddenly tinged with magic, and in the middle of the chorale they were singing, they looked at each other in wonder.

Ellie Johnson's usually impassive expression melted into dazed surprise, and on impulse Cole turned slightly so he could see Jessamine's face.

Her mouth was rounded into a soft, rosy O, and her green eyes were wide-open and bright with unshed tears. A fist slammed into his chest.

His throat closed up so tight he couldn't sing if his life depended on it, but it didn't matter. The swell of the music swept them all up into one of those rare moments when everything came together in perfection.

Mercy, it was almost like an orgasm.

His gaze met Jessamine's, and he stopped breathing. Suddenly he wanted to hold her. Touch her.
He wanted to make love to her
.

His own eyes stung. Whoa, what was happening?

When the chorale ended, the director stood transfixed, and no one spoke for a long minute.

“That,” Ellie said at last, “does not happen very often. We are attaining something magnificent in this music. Something important.”

She dismissed the choir members early. People were unusually quiet as they pulled on coats and gloves and bid each other good-night. Cole was still shaken by what had hit him. He caught Jessamine at the door and waylaid her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Walk you home?” he said quietly. She nodded and wound her blue knit scarf over her ears and around her chin.

When they stepped outside, she gave a little cry. “Look! It's snowing!”

Sure enough, powdery flakes were sifting down, dusting the street, the trees, even her hair with white lace. Sounds were muffled. It was magical, an enchantment of gauzy flakes.

Even their footsteps were softened by the silence. He'd seen snow before. He'd ridden in it, walked in it, but it had never looked this beautiful before. It made him feel humble, even reverent, right down to his boot tops.

They didn't speak, and when her foot slipped on the slick boardwalk, he caught her around the waist and they moved on in step together. When they reached the
Sentinel
office, Cole withdrew his arm.

Jessamine gestured toward the snow-dusted pines beyond the main street. “It's beautiful, isn't it?” she murmured.

“It is.” But he wasn't looking at the trees. He was looking straight into her eyes. “Beautiful.”

“Good night, Cole.”

“'Night, Jessamine.”

Jess studied his oddly strained visage a long moment, then turned toward the front door of her office. She should remind him about the candidates' debate on Monday, but she couldn't make herself speak such mundane words. It would only remind him, remind them both, that they were on opposite sides.

He couldn't know how desperate she felt about the survival of the
Sentinel
, how much she resented his coming here to Smoke River and threatening her livelihood. The
Sentinel
was her whole reason for being.

She was so afraid of failing, of finding out she didn't have the intelligence or the skill or the grit to be a true journalist. Most of the time she felt like a failure, especially since Cole Sanders had arrived in Smoke River. He obviously knew what he was doing as a newspaperman. She did not.

She had worked hard to learn things from Miles, and she had to work even harder now that she was on her own. Failure shadowed every word she put down on her yellow notepad, every article she wrote. With each issue of her newspaper she shuddered with apprehension lest someone march into her office and fire a gun into her chest, as someone had done to Miles.

Tonight she wanted to forget, just for a moment. Forget her fears and the barrier that lay between Cole Sanders and herself.

Suddenly she heard his voice behind her. “Jess?”

She swung back toward him and a soft, slushy snowball landed on her cheek.

“Leave your lamp on tonight.”

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to heave a snowball right back at him, to forget everything but the lovely, silent night and the delicious fleeting camaraderie between them. It made her hungry for something she couldn't put into words.

All at once she found that her eyes were stinging.

Chapter Nine

T
he debate between Sheriff Jericho Silver and his opponent, Conway Arbuckle, drew townspeople, ranchers, sheepmen and farmers from as far north as Gillette Springs. They thronged the church meeting hall, arguing at the tops of their lungs. Even the women's voices were raised.

The hall echoed with accusations and recriminations until Federal Marshal Matt Johnson, seated at a long table, gaveled the crowd into quiet.

Jessamine sat on one end of the oak table, Cole on the other, watching as the marshal rose to open the proceedings. Opponents Silver and Arbuckle sat across the room at opposite ends of another table.

“Listen up,” Matt called. “We're all here for a peaceable debate between the two candidates for district judge. Both the editor of the
Smoke River
Sentinel
, Miss Jessamine Lassiter, and the
Lake County Lark
editor, Mr. Cole Sanders, have submitted questions for Mr. Silver and Mr. Arbuckle. I will read the question aloud, and then each candidate will have two minutes to respond.”

The marshal ostentatiously produced an egg timer filled with sand and set it on the table before him. Jess choked back a laugh. Next, he unfolded a scrap of paper with the first question scrawled on it.

“Mr. Arbuckle, would you tell those assembled here what you feel your qualifications are for the office of district judge?”

Conway Arbuckle, in a natty gray pin-striped suit and an emerald bow tie, stood up, stuck his thumbs in his vest pockets and cleared his throat.

“First, I am a legitimate, I repeat,
legitimate
attorney-at-law. Second, I am a college graduate. My education was obtained at, ahem, Hahvard College.”

Jess eyed Cole and they both began scribbling furiously on their notepads. What was he writing? She'd give a cookie to peek over his shoulder, but she wasn't close enough. Instead she studied his right hand, now flicking his pencil back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.

Oh, good, he was nervous. She hoped he was afraid of what she might write about Arbuckle in the Wednesday edition of the
Sentinel
. She liked making Cole nervous. She especially liked it when she licked her lips and his breath hitched in. It made her feel powerful, but at the same time shaky inside, not calm and ice-minded as a newspaper editor should be. It made her feel vulnerable somehow, as if...as if what Cole thought of her mattered.

But of course what Cole Sanders thought about her mattered no more than a puff of dandelion fuzz.

Of course
.

“Thirdly,” Arbuckle droned on, his voice rising into speech-making mode, “I support law and order. As judge I intend to prosecute lawbreakers to the full extent of my God-given authority.”

He settled back into his chair with a self-satisfied smirk.

The marshal gaveled the buzzing crowd into silence, then turned to Jericho. “Sheriff Silver?”

Jericho Silver shoved to his feet. His jeans were clean, his leather vest well-worn and his boots still bore spurs that chinked when he moved. He respectfully removed his well-worn black Stetson and faced the crowd.

“I have to admit I am not an attorney. I have taken the qualifying exam, but I won't know the results until Christmas. I also have to say that I've never been to college. But I have studied the set of law books my wife, Maddie, gave me when we were married.”

Cole sent her an enigmatic smile and flipped to a new page in his notebook.

“As for dealing with lawbreakers,” the sheriff continued, “I figure every man, or woman, is assumed innocent until proved guilty. And in my view, punishment should be fair and swift.”

Murmurs went around the room. Good for him, Jess thought. She admired Sheriff Silver. When Miles was killed, Jericho Silver had tracked the murderer for four days and brought him back for trial. He also kept a sharp eye out for her during those first few months after she'd taken over the newspaper. Even now she knew she could count on Jericho Silver to deter harassment from an out-of-sorts subscriber.

Cole Sanders was backing the wrong candidate, plain and simple.

“Next question,” Matt said. “What is your family background, Mr. Arbuckle?”

Arbuckle leaped to his feet. “My great-grandparents were among the first settlers in this great country. They established substantial tobacco plantations in Virginia. My mother was a Phelan, Irish Catholic, ya know. My daddy, well, let's just say the Arbuckle name, and the brew you all drink every morning speaks for itself.”

Jess heard Cole mutter something under his breath. It sounded like “Big shot.”

When Arbuckle sat down, Jericho stood up and looked directly at the audience members.

“I don't know who my parents were,” he said evenly. “Either my mother or father may have been Indian, but I don't know that for sure. I guess you'd have to call me an orphan. I came to Smoke River when I ran away from the orphanage in Portland. Must have been about ten or maybe eleven years old. I've never really known when my birthday was.”

“Huh!” Arbuckle scoffed. “The man's nuthin' but a half-breed!”

“Very likely,” Jericho said in a quiet voice. “That doesn't make me any less an American than anybody else.”

At that, the onlookers cheered, and Marshal Johnson gaveled for silence. Jessamine peeked over at Cole, who sat stroking his chin. He wasn't smiling.

“Next question,” the marshal announced. “What does the word
justice
mean to you? Arbuckle?”

Instantly Arbuckle was on his feet, his arms waving. “Justice is the great American tradition of making sure the punishment fits the...er...crime. And making sure red-blooded Americans get their fair share of everything they're entitled to.”

Jessamine shot another look at Cole and began a new page of notes.

“Mr. Silver?”

The sheriff took a minute to collect his thoughts and then rose. “Justice is what every man, rich or poor, white or Indian or Negro or Chinese or Mexican or anything else, is entitled to under the American Constitution.”

More cheers. Cole pinned Jessamine with narrowed eyes so dark a blue they looked like muddy ink. Her stomach gave an unexpected lurch. Something in her opponent's gaze sent her pulse skittering. Why, he looked mad enough to— “Well, shoot, folks,” Arbuckle yelled. “That definition's pretty broad, isn't it? That means
anybody
could—”

The marshal's gavel cut him off. With a lifted eyebrow in Jess's direction, Cole ripped a page out of his notepad and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

“Next question,” the marshal announced. “How would you describe your constituency, the people of Lake County? Mr. Arbuckle?”

“Glad to, glad to.” Arbuckle rose and puffed out his chest. “I'd say my constituency consists of the good people of Lake County, and that includes the fair communities of Gillette Springs and Smoke River folks. We're all upright, God-fearing, clean-living folks. Which makes our fair neck of the great state of Oregon one of the best, most industrious, most hardworking, most law-abiding places it's my privilege to serve.”

“Ye're not servin' it yet,” someone yelled. Jessamine lowered her head to hide a smile. When she looked up, Cole was staring at her. It made her so nervous she couldn't think.

The marshal gaveled for quiet. “Mr. Silver?”

Jess sat with her pencil poised as the sheriff slowly stood up and turned sideways to include those seated in back of him. “I think people in Lake County are like people everywhere, no better, no worse. I would hope to serve them all equally and fairly.”

Arbuckle grew red in the face. “Selling these good folks kinda short, aren't you, Sheriff?”

“Shaddup, Arbuckle!” This echoed from the far corner of the packed room. Jessamine peered in that direction, but she couldn't identify the shouter. She exchanged another look with Cole, who shrugged and pocketed a second sheet of notepaper.

My!
He seemed to be taking lots and lots of notes. She scanned the few pages she'd filled in her own notepad, praying her memory could fill in any gaps. She couldn't ever remember feeling so flat-footed when it came to note-taking. Was her mind wandering? Worse, was she exposing herself as a fraud in the business of journalism?

“Last question,” the marshal announced. “Let's say that while we're all sitting here tonight the Smoke River Bank is robbed. What would you do? Arbuckle—?”

The man was on his feet before Matt finished speaking.

“First I'd alert the marshal. That'd be you, Marshal Johnson. Then I'd make sure they got up a good posse, and then I'd be the first one to join it.”

“Bull hockey,” a man shouted.

Arbuckle turned red. “Whaddya mean by that, mister? That's exactly what I'd do, and don't you forget it!”

“Sheriff Silver?” the marshal queried in a calm voice.

Again, Jericho took his time answering. “If the bank was robbed tonight while we're all sitting here and I was serving as district judge, I'd keep right on sitting here. A district judge has no authority to contact a federal marshal or the sheriff or anybody else. And that goes for forming a posse, or joining one, for that matter. A judge has a duty to weigh evidence in a trial. He should consider the facts, not take sides.”

The audience went wild, whistling and pounding their feet on the floor. Cole tore up his notes and scattered the pieces, then bent forward, peered around Marshal Johnson and mouthed something to Jessamine.

“Let's get out of here.”

Without a word she stuffed her notepad into her skirt pocket, pushed back her chair and headed for the door.

Conway Arbuckle lumbered into Cole's path. “Well, Sanders? Whaddya think?”

Cole pushed past him. “Not much.” He caught up with Jessamine on the church steps outside.

“Jessamine. Slow down.”

She whirled to face him, her green eyes heated. “I'm too mad to slow down. How can you stomach that man's drivel?”

“Whiskey helps,” he quipped.

“Unfortunately I cannot frequent the Golden Partridge, but oh! If I weren't a lady, I would—”

“Doesn't Eli keep a bottle of something around the office?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the boardwalk to the
Sentinel
office. For the past half hour he'd tried to keep his eyes off Jessamine, tried not to notice when she caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried it into a raspberry flush.

He needed a drink.

Inside her office she unwound her scarf while Cole lit the kerosene lamp and unearthed Eli's whiskey flask, which the old man kept in a cabinet under his typesetting table. Cole popped out the cork, wiped the bottle neck on his shirt and handed it to her.

“I don't usually indulge in spirits,” she said with a laugh.

“Indulge,” he ordered. “Takes the bad taste out of your mouth.” And maybe it'd help him sleep tonight. It wasn't the debate that had his chest tight; it was the editor of his rival newspaper. Damn, all she had to do was smile at him to twist his belly into a knot.

She tipped the bottle, swallowed once and coughed until tears came into her eyes. Cole grasped it and gulped down a double mouthful.

“I hate that man!” she fumed. She upended the flask and swallowed another mouthful, choked, then handed it back to him.

He looked at her, took another hit and slowly lowered the bottle. “You hate Arbuckle worse than you hate me?”

“Of course worse than you. Cole, I don't hate you, I—”

“You sure?” He downed another gulp.

She looked at him oddly. “Of course I'm sure.”

“In that case...” Carefully he set the flask on her desk and bent to blow out the lantern.

“Cole? What are you doing?”

“You've been biting your lips all evening, and I can't stand it one more minute.” He tipped her chin up with his forefinger. “Close your eyes, Jess.”

He caught her mouth under his.

Mercy alive, what am I doing?
Women had been permanently off his list since Maryann died, so why couldn't he stop? Kissing Jessamine made him so hungry and light-headed he wondered if he was dreaming. Or crazy.
Yeah,
definitely crazy.

“Jess,” he whispered when he could breathe again.

“We're enemies,” she said in a dazed voice. “Aren't we?”

“Not hardly,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We just run two opposing newspapers, and we probably have different opinions on just about everything, but for damn sure we're not enemies.”

He kissed her again. “Opponents, maybe,” he murmured, “but not enemies.”

After a long, long time she stirred in his arms. “Is there any more whiskey?” she said in a shaky voice.

“Probably. You don't need it.”

“Oh, but I—”

“Trust me, Jess. We've both had enough.” He held her against him, his breathing ragged, then deliberately set her apart and strode out the door.

Jess stood without moving, touching her lips with her fingers and wondering what had just happened.

That night she dreamed she was walking through an ice-encrusted forest, feeling inexplicably light and happy, and warmed by a presence she could not see.

* * *

Cole bent over Jessamine's latest
Sentinel
editorial page spread out on his desk and groaned under his breath. “...A self-righteous puffed-up politician with bread crumbs for brains and a peculiarly selfish predilection for boring his listeners.”

Whew! Not libel, but close. And today she seemed to be stuck on
P
words.
Puffed up. Pretentious. Predilection.
He'd have to print some sort of rebuttal before Arbuckle went on the warpath.

He stroked his chin and began to plan the first page of his next edition. But after the other night's encounter with Jess, he discovered he couldn't put two thoughts together in a logical sequence.