Just Her Type (2 page)

She swatted at his hand when he tapped her nose. “Out here, ladies are treated with respect.”

“I'm willing to treat you with respect. All I want is a job.”

“I don't need your help.” She went to the press.

Luke looked around the shop. Bundles of clean newsprint were set by a much smaller pile of printed papers by the half-wall. Cans of powdered ink sat on trays holding type. By the back door, a desk was covered with handwritten papers and a page set in type.

“I've never been in such a tiny print shop,” he mused aloud. “How many issues do you print?”

“Fifty,” she said without looking at him.

He fought not to smile. Fifty papers! The
Independent
would go broke with so few readers. “How many pages?”

“Four.” She walked around the press, her fingers brushing it gently. “When this old press is working, it goes pretty well. If you'll excuse me, I'll—”

“And you press two hundred pages by yourself every week?”

“Twice that. The
Bugle
's printed twice a week, and, of course, I also do other printing work.”

“Incredible!”

“Just long hours and lots of hard work.” She pointed to the chair by the desk. “If you aren't going to leave, Mr. Bradfield, would you please get out of my way?”

He sighed as he sat. Stretching out his legs, he relaxed. Although he wished Miss Smith would offer him something to wash the dust from his mouth, he understood. Deadlines were vital at a newspaper, even at one like this.

A smile tilted his lips when he saw how she stood on tiptoe to force the cast-iron platen down on the page. She guided the pages in and out and replenished the ink as the clank of iron and type filled the room.

“Do you write it all yourself?” Luke asked.

“Most of it.” By the way she spit out each syllable, he guessed her teeth were gritted with effort.

“Amazing.”

“Only to a man used to such specialization that he's a—What kind of reporter?” Her condescension matched his.

“Investigative,” he supplied, refusing to be baited by her eyes that were now as hard as faceted sapphires. “I check into government corruption and illegal business.”

She lifted the platen. “Do that out here, Mr. Bradfield, and you'll be shipped back east in a pine box. People like to do things their way, whether it's legal or not.”

“Because the press is afraid to interfere?”

Pointing to the desk, she retorted, “Read the editorial on page three of last Saturday's paper.”

He picked up the page and smiled as he saw
Bentonville Bugle
in ornate script. Perhaps there was a fanciful side to this lady, after all. His smile faded as he opened the folded sheet and began to read. He did not hurry as he savored the flow of language. The suggestion that the cattle barons band together to stop rustlers seemed reasonable, and he could not understand why it required an editorial until he reached the last paragraph.

Why haven't these rational measures been instituted by those who have the power to halt the faceless bandits? Those who could halt them have no interest in doing so. Why? To put smaller cattlemen out of business or to force homesteaders off their land? Or are there more immediate profits to be made? It behooves those who lament to find out if those rustlers are on someone's payroll and if the missing cattle have been rebranded. Only when those who point a finger take a share of the blame will there be peace on the high ranges
.

Slowly he lowered the paper. “I assume you wrote this, Miss Smith.”

“Call me Mackenzie. Everyone does.” She glanced over her shoulder, and fatigue edged her expressive eyes. “I write all the editorials.”

“This is good.” He rose and crossed the room to where she was withdrawing the bed of type. “You aren't afraid of what sounds like a potentially potent subject.”

“‘Potentially potent?' You've got a gift for understatement, Mr. Bradfield.”

“Call me Luke. Everyone does.” He grinned. “At least, people who aren't furious at me.”

“And what do those folks call you?”

“Nothing a lady should hear.” When she did not answer, as she lifted aside the metal tympan where the paper was held, he added, “Let me help you with that.”

“I can manage.”

He smiled as he drew her hands from the ink-covered bed. He folded them between his. Her fingers curled into fists, tickling his palms. Her skin was soft and supple, like the strand of hair slipping along her throat. When she pulled away, he resisted reaching for her hands again. It was not going to be easy working with this woman whose luscious voice made him think of investigating the warm contours of her lips.

“I'm not here just to send articles to the
Independent,
” he said before she turned away again. “I'm here to learn, Mackenzie.”

“I suppose you're accustomed to a linotype machine,” she retorted with sudden frigidity.

“I'm not accustomed to any machine. I write my article, give it to my editor, and read it in the morning edition.”

She shot him a superior smile. “Then it's about time you learned, but not in those clothes. That fancy suit probably cost more than my press. Why don't you go out back and wash the ink off your hands and change?”

“I'm afraid I didn't bring any clothes for working on a press.”

“Then you'd best find something.” She shoved the heavy tray onto a wheeled table he knew was called a turtle. “Don't worry. I'm stronger than I look.”

“You've got a talent for understatement, too. That tray must be heavy.”

“It is.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Mr. Brad—Luke, I still have the other page to set up. If you'll get out of my way, I should be done soon.”

When she bent to her work, he cursed. Carter had been crazy to tell him to treat Mackenzie Smith with the respect due an editor. Of course, Carter had had no idea that the Mackenzie Smith running
The Bentonville Bugle
would be a lovely woman with beguiling eyes.

Picking up his satchel, Luke walked toward the door she had pointed to with the ball of chamois she was using to spread powdered ink on the press. Outside, a bare yard was surrounded by a picket fence in need of paint. He saw a well near a small barn and put his bag next to it. Lifting the heavy lid, he drew a bucket of water.

He grinned. Authentic roughness was what he had come west for, and he had found it. He doubted if water was pumped into the newspaper office. Probably it had no gaslights. The idea of electricity here was preposterous. He hoped, at the very least, there was a telegraph office. Wiring his stories would be the only way to get them back to Albany in less than a week.

“How did you get in here?”

Luke turned. A boy by the gate had a schoolbook strapped to a slate flung over his shoulder. From under a shock of unruly brown hair, dark eyes regarded him with curiosity.

“Through there.” Luke pointed at the print shop.

“What're you doing here?”

He tilted the bucket into the nearby trough. “I'm going to be working on the
Bugle
. Who are you?”

The lad straightened, bringing his eyes level with Luke's chest. “I'm Douglas McCraven.”

He offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Douglas McCraven. I'm Luke Bradfield.”

“That's a funny suit.”

“Douglas!”

Luke turned as the boy did. Mackenzie stood at the back door and motioned for the boy to come inside. When Douglas passed her, she whispered something and patted him on the backside. The boy glanced at him and giggled. The pounding of Douglas's footsteps, going up stairs Luke had not noticed, ended as Mackenzie came out.

When she offered him a bar of soap, Luke wet it under the pump. The harsh lather ate at his skin. He winced and dropped it as he dunked his hands in the icy water. “Is that kid a friend of yours?”

“My son.”

He looked at her. Then he recalled the boy had called himself McCraven. He did not want to be caught accepting a lie. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She tossed him a stained towel. “Supper's in half an hour, if you want to join us.”

“Mackenzie?” he called as she walked toward the shop. When she looked back at him, he asked, “Where's Douglas's father?”

“Dead.” Going into the house, she left him to stare after her in shock.

TWO

Mackenzie stirred the beef soup. Behind her, Douglas's pencil scratched as he did his lessons. He must be ciphering. The sound did not match his enthusiasm when Miss Howland had the students write an essay.

She chuckled. Douglas had inherited his grandfather's ability to tell humorous tales. It was not a skill she had. She had considered asking Douglas to help with the
Bugle
, but writing two columns a week was too much to ask of a nine-year-old.

Perhaps Luke Bradfield …

She scowled. Why had he shown up
today
? She already had enough trouble without a greenhorn in her shop. If her newsprint had not arrived on this train, she would be printing the next
Bugle
on scraps. And the one after that—There might not be an issue after that.

She rubbed her lower back. Maybe that would not be so bad. After the last fire, she had thought Pa would close down. Instead he had ordered a replacement press and had had the ingenious idea of putting it on wheels so they could whisk it away if there was another fire.

With
The Bentonville Bugle
as his pulpit, Pa had enjoyed spouting off on any topic which distressed him. That his opinions sometimes were based on hearsay and had to be retracted never seemed to bother him. Pa would have put Luke Bradfield on the next train out.

That was not true. From Luke's insightful comments, it was clear he was an experienced newspaperman, although he wore finicky clothes. She glanced at her skirt. Ink blotched every dress she owned, except the one she saved for church on Sunday. It had not bothered her … until now.

She clenched the spoon. No Easterner, no matter how brightly his brown eyes twinkled, should unsettle her like this. Her life was filled with men. Some who were good-looking and rich, several who had told her they would be interested in replacing her late husband Cameron. Yet, not a single one had disconcerted her as Luke did.

“Ma?”

Glad to escape her uncomfortable thoughts, she asked, “What is it, Douglas?”

“Was that man being honest?”

Knowing “that man” was Luke, she turned. Douglas sat at the table, which took most of the room. A sofa huddled under the window. The door to her bedroom could not be opened if the one at the top of the stairs was ajar. Rungs, nailed to the wall, led up to the tiny loft where Douglas slept. It was nothing grand, but it was the home she loved.

“Honest about what?” she asked.

“He said he's working here.”

“I guess he is.”

Pain flashed across Douglas's freckled face. “I thought I was your assistant, Ma!”

With a smile, she patted his shoulder. A year ago, she would have hugged him. Now he would squirm away, reminding her he was not a baby. Douglas was growing up, but she did not want him to grow away from her. He was all she had.

She laughed. “He's going to be the devil.”

“The devil?”

“Printer's devil. An apprentice in a print shop.”

“Apprentice?” He remained unconvinced. “He's a man.”

“I noticed.” She wondered how she could be embarrassed by her own words. She went back to the stove and began stirring again. When Luke had stared at her candidly, she had enjoyed being feminine more than she had since … Shaking her head, she realized Douglas was waiting for her to continue. “Luke Bradfield knows less about printing than you do.”

“That's probably true,” answered a deeper voice.

She saw Luke framed by the door to the stairs. How long had he been there? Not long. Douglas would have noticed.

“Smells good,” Luke said as he walked into the room, which suddenly seemed even smaller.

She moved to let him pass, then edged forward as her skirt brushed the stove. She gasped as she almost stepped into his arms.

“Are you all right?” His grin became an invitation she had been able to ignore from other men since … Pulling away, she looked past Luke to see Douglas's dismay.

“Thank you, Luke,” she said stiffly, “but I'm fine. I didn't burn myself.”

“You jumped like a toad on a hot brick.”

Heat rushed up her cheeks. Why did he make her act like a child? She was a grown woman with a half-grown son. “Move aside so I can stir the soup before it burns!”

He laughed. “I can see you're as much of a tyrant here as in the shop.”

“It's my home and my shop.”

“Yes, Madam Editor.” He bowed, then smiled. “I guess we're going to have some trouble adjusting.”

She stirred the soup vigorously. “
You
may have trouble adjusting to us. This is our home and—”

“I know. And your business.” His smile vanished as he sat on the end of the bench beside Douglas. “Look, Mackenzie, I'm more than willing to work, but I won't be belittled the whole time I'm here.”

That sounded sensible, but any lessening of her coolness would cost her control of the situation. “How long will you be in Bentonville?”

He clasped his hands around one knee. “I'm interested in what happens when Wyoming gains its statehood.”

She refused to let him see her dismay. She had not thought he would want to stay in Bentonville the whole time. Rumor hinted statehood would be ratified in July. That was more than five weeks away. Five weeks of this man intruding on her life? A slow smile spread across her face. Luke wanted to find out all about the rough life in Bentonville, did he? She could make sure he did. Then she could watch him scurry away on the next train East.

No, Luke Bradfield did not look like the type who would flee at the first suggestion of trouble. He would want to be right in the middle of it. A shudder raced across her shoulders. That could be even worse.