LITMIR.BIZ

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mister. You met Jessamine Lassiter?”

      “Jessamine, huh? Works at the Sentinel office?”

      “Owns the Sentinel.” The barkeep moved away, sloshed liquor into a shot glass and slid it down to Cole. “Name’s Tom O’Reilly, Mr. Sanders. I’d welcome you to town, but I figure you ain’t gonna be here long.”

      “Care to bet on that? I just finished painting the name on my newspaper office. Paint isn’t even dry yet.”

      Tom moved out from behind the bar, tramped over to the batwing doors and peered out. “Lake County Lark, is it? Kinda fancy for a small town like this.”

      “Maybe.” Cole sipped his whiskey.

      “Gotta hand it to you, Mr. Sanders. Takes nerve to run a newspaper out West.”

      “Not as much nerve as running a newspaper in Kansas. An abolitionist newspaper.” He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.

      A tall gent, nattily dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and what looked like a new bowler hat, pushed through the doors and approached the bar. He nodded at O’Reilly. “The usual, Tom.”

      “Sure thing, Mr. Arbuckle. You met the new editor of the Lake County Lark?”

      Arbuckle swiveled toward Cole and slapped his hat onto the bar. “Did you say newspaper editor?”

      Cole nodded. “Cole Sanders,” he volunteered.

      “Conway Arbuckle. Next Lake County district judge. Election’s in November. Can I count on your support?”

      “Well, I—”

      “The Sentinel’s backing my opponent, Jericho Silver.”

      “Yeah?”

      “Yeah. It’s really no contest, the way I see it. Me, I’ve got a law degree, whereas I’d swear that half-breed sheriff never got past grade school. He’s figuring on ‘reading law’ to pass the bar exam. His wife got him a set of law books for a wedding present, see, but then she turned around and had twins last summer. Not gonna help him study law, I’m thinking.”

      “You married, Mr. Arbuckle?”

      “Me? Nah. Never met a woman I couldn’t live without, know what I mean?”

      Cole signaled for another shot. No, he did not know. He’d lost the only woman he couldn’t live without, but he was still breathing in and out, so he guessed he was still alive. Some days it didn’t feel like it, though.

      He sucked in a deep breath. “On second thought, Tom, forget the refill. Gotta get back to the office. I’m training a new typesetter.”

      Arbuckle frowned. “What about endorsing my candidacy, Sanders?”

      Cole studied the man. Looked respectable, even with the shiny bald head under his new hat. Sounded halfway educated. Besides, a friendly rivalry between the two newspapers in town would boost his circulation. “Sure. Stop by the office tomorrow morning for an interview.”

      On the way down the street, he strolled past the Sentinel office to admire his paint job from her vantage point. Jessamine, huh? Pretty name. Starchy girl. But at least she wasn’t likely to burn down his press because he backed an unpopular cause.

      * * *

      At the sound of Eli’s scratchy voice, Jessamine dropped her gaze to the lined notepad on her desk and drew in a lungful of hot-metal-scented air.

      “You gonna hurry up and finish that editorial so’s I kin git to work on it?” Eli queried.

      She snatched the stub of her pencil from between her teeth and crossed out her last sentence. “In a minute, Eli.”

      “Guess I’ll eat my lunch, then.” He perched on his typesetting stool and unfolded a red gingham napkin to reveal four fat cookies and a shiny red apple.

      “Whatcha starin’ at out the window?”

      “That man across the street. He’s up on a ladder doing something suspicious.”

      “Like what?” Eli rasped.

      Jess pulled her attention away from the long legs on the fourth step of the ladder and studied instead the man’s muscular shoulders and the tanned forearms that showed where he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’d give a cookie to know what he’s doing over there.”

      “Want one of mine? Baked ’em myself. Brown sugar with raisins.”

      Eli boarded with widowed Ilsa Rowell. Jess paid her son, Billy, twenty-five cents each week to deliver the Sentinel to the town subscribers, but even with Eli paying for his room and meals, Jess knew Ilsa was having a hard time. The MacAllister boy, Teddy, took the newspaper out to the ranchers in the valley on his horse; she was happy to pay Ilsa’s son to do the town deliveries.

      “Whyn’tcha go on over and ask him what he’s doin’, Jess?”

      She jerked her eyes back to the article she was composing. “Don’t be silly. A good reporter learns by watching what’s going on.”

      “And askin’ questions,” he reminded her.

      Aha! Now the man was climbing down off his ladder, and it looked as though he had a paint bucket in his hand. He walked backward into the street, and Jess got a good look at his handiwork.

      “Oh, my goodness. The Lake County Lark? What kind of cockamamy name is Lark for a newspaper?”

      “Sounds kinda ladyfied, don’t it?”

      “It does indeed, Eli. I think we won’t worry about the Lark. It sounds too poetic for a newspaper out here in the West. And look! There’s his name underneath. Coleridge Sanders. Coleridge! No doubt he fancies himself a writer of elegant prose.”

      Eli crunched into his apple and Jess bent to finish the opening of her story about the new music academy in town. Maybe she’d also write an editorial about her rival newspaper in Smoke River.

       Chapter Three

      Jessamine waited impatiently beside the press as Eli swabbed the oily-smelling ink over the type and cranked out a proof copy. She snatched it off the press and with relish ran her gaze over her editorial.

      New Editor Raises Questions

      What red-blooded man would call his newspaper the Lark?

      Is it because this editor, Mr. Sanders, intends to peck away like a bird at his competition, your long-established and well-regarded Sentinel?

      Or is it because the man is just playing at the profession of journalism and has no intention of taking seriously the concerns of the Smoke River population?

      Or could it be that the new editor, bearing the highfalutin name of Coleridge, an English Romantic poet, is just that—a romantic dreamer who lacks the manly strength to cope with the rough and ready Oregon West?

      Jessamine Lassiter

      Editor, Smoke River Sentinel

      The following afternoon another issue of the Lark was slipped under Jessamine’s door.

      Whoa, Nelly!

      Is the editor of the Smoke River Sentinel questioning the masculinity of a rival newspaper editor based on his choice of Lark for a name and his parents’ choice of Coleridge as his given name?

      While this is not libelous, it is of questionable judgment for a supposedly unbiased journalist. This editor refuses to cast aspersions on the femaleness of Miss Lassiter. However, he does question the lady’s good manners. In such a personal attack I perceive a tendency toward biased news reporting. I would expect better of a good journalist.

      And I also expect an apology.

      Coleridge Sanders

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