Just Her Type
A Novel
For Oreste P. D’Arconte
Rusty, thanks for the support
of the Attleboro Sun-Chronicle
over the years.
And thanks for telling me about turtles!
ONE
“Bentonville. Next stop Bentonville, Wyoming Territory.”
Luke Bradfield tipped his hat back and shifted on the uncomfortable train seat. Finally! He had started to think Bentonville was always going to be just beyond the sunset.
Standing, he stretched muscles that were tired from days of sitting. He reached for his satchel and peered out the window. Mountains rose in the distance, and the sun was setting right over them. He grinned. Maybe he had traveled to the sunset.
The train jerked to a stop. After all the stops between Albany, New York, and here, he barely noticed the clank of the cars. When the door was thrown open by the conductor, Luke took a deep breath of the dry air that swirled through the car. The Wild West. Here he was, ready to find out what made it wild.
Luke paused as he was about to step off the train. Carter had warned him Bentonville was a one-horse town. Luke had laughed, thinking his newspaper editor was joking. Now he wondered if the joke was on him. Bentonville looked too small to support even one horse, although Luke saw a dozen in the midday sun.
At least, none of Bentonville’s buildings was tumbling down. Most of the ten or so storefronts had been stripped of paint by constant sun and wind, but they seemed in good repair. Windows glared back at the Big Horn Mountains, where the uncompromising landscape with its sharp outcrops of rock was softened slightly by the stands of birch and pine.
Grumbling, Luke jumped down to the wooden platform. Dust billowed. The shine vanished from his shoes, and dirt outlined every fiber of his wool trousers and plaid coat. He cursed. When he heard laughter, he turned to see condescending grins at the far corner of the platform.
Cowpokes. The name came instantly. The two men wore denim trousers and cotton shirts that were gray with grime. Their pistols were strapped on with casual indifference. Shouldn’t such colorful characters, who peppered every newspaper report from the west, be working their herds?
One, a redhead, swaggered toward him. “Lost, stranger? Chicago’s that way.” He hooked a thumb and chortled.
Luke knew the man would not be fooled by his smile. “I am looking for The Bentonville Bugle. I assume it’s on the main street here.”
“The Bugle? You came out here for a copy of Mackenzie’s rag? If—” The cowboy whirled and sprinted toward a private car which had been attached to the train in Cheyenne. The garishly painted car, with each window edged in gilt, was being disconnected on a siding.
Curiosity teased Luke. Fear had tightened the cowboy’s face. Who inspired such terror? Wiping his shoes on the backs of his trousers, he watched as the cowboy assisted a slender woman down. She was pretty in a cheap way, but the man behind her, in a dark suit, a silk top hat covering his graying hair, looked like a wealthy businessman. The cowpokes were falling over each other kowtowing to him.
When the man offered his arm to the young woman, Luke smiled at her high-pitched giggles. He never had understood how any intelligent man could not see through the posturings of a whore. Or maybe the man was not so smart. Luke had to find out. He crossed the platform, cutting off the rich man. They nearly bumped. One of the cowboys leaped forward. The rich man raised a hand which sparkled with gold, and the cowpokes froze.
“Excuse their enthusiasm, sir,” the rich man said, his voice betraying his working-class origins. “It’s their responsibility to keep undesirables away. They sometimes overreact.”
Luke smiled again. “No problem, Mr.…?”
“Connolly. Forsythe Connolly.” He did not introduce the simpering blonde on his arm, but Luke did not expect him to. “Are you staying long in Bentonville, Mr.…?”
“I’m not sure.” Ignoring the obvious attempt to gain his name, Luke watched Connolly frown. “Could you point out the office of The Bentonville Bugle?”
Connolly’s eyes slitted under bushy eyebrows. “The Bugle?”
“The local newspaper. It’s run by Mackenzie Smith.”
When the woman snickered, Connolly glowered at her. “Last building on the left,” he said. “You’ll see the sign out front.” He waited for Luke to do more than nod his thanks, then growled, “Come on, Gloria.”
Luke watched with amusement as the foursome paraded toward the street. Seeing the frustration on the cowpokes’ faces, he’d wanted to laugh, but decided he had better be cautious until he found out how Connolly controlled his people … and why.
Hefting his leather satchel, he strolled along the lopsided boardwalk. When he saw others walking in the street, he did the same.
Passing a large building topped by a sign proclaiming Benton House in large, green letters, he peered at the menu painted by the door. The hotel served three meals as well as offering rooms for a dollar a day. Things were not cheap out here.
The saloon across the street from the general store was doing a much better business. Gaudy music and laughter burst from the double doors. Reluctantly he walked past. Business first. His new employer was sure to understand his professional interest in visiting the saloon later.
Luke chuckled. Professional interest? He wanted to discover whether the entertainments in such saloons were fact or exaggeration. He owed it to his readers, and to himself, to investigate.
The incongruity of a small church, kitty-corner from the saloon, made him smile. Beyond it was a building with doors marked Boys and Girls. The schoolhouse. Virtue and vice mingled in Bentonville.
As he tipped his hat to a woman, he grinned. Bentonville was going to provide him with plenty of material. From the hitching rails to the buildings’ false fronts, this was the perfect cow town. Poking his nose into a few corners, he might find stories others had ignored. Then Carter would have to promote him.
At the end of the street was a rough, two-story building which would have been labeled a shack in Albany. Printers—Mackenzie Smith and Son read the sign. Smaller words touted The Bentonville Bugle. He switched his satchel into his other hand and opened the door.
Familiar scents sucked him in. The pungent aroma of ink overpowered every other odor. When he did not hear a printing press, he walked to the half-wall dividing the room. His eyes widened in astonishment.
The antiquated press had a platform nearly five feet long to hold the bed of type. Almost as tall as it was long, it had cast-iron supports shaped like an arch. A Washington Printing Press! He had seen one in Albany, gathering spiderwebs after it had been usurped by linotype machines.
Luke heard a clank, then a curse. Someone crouched behind the press. A hammer skidded across the floor toward the wall.
“All right! That should fix you!”
In disbelief, he watched a woman emerge from behind the press. His gaze swept from her caramel brown hair and blue eyes to the enticing curves beneath her simple shirtwaist and skirt that were splotched with ink. Her slender waist was accented by her stained apron, and her cheeks were bright with pink fire.
Leaning his hands on the wall, he smiled. “How do you do, miss?”
“I’d do better if this blasted press wouldn’t keep breaking down.”
Luke wondered what this pretty woman was doing working in Mackenzie Smith’s shop. His wife? Luke hoped not. She was far too beguiling to be married to a man who must be as old as Carter.
“Can I help you?” she continued.
“I’m looking for Mackenzie Smith.”
The hand she used to push a strand of hair back from her forehead was streaked with ink. “You’ve found me.”
“You? You’re Mackenzie Smith?” Luke wavered between the impulse to laugh and to curse.
Her eyes narrowed. He stared back, not surprised when her eyes did not lower. The women of this territory were a queer lot. Nearly as odd as their menfolk who had been foolish enough to grant them suffrage.
“I know who I am,” she said. “Who are you?”
Luke drew out the letter from his editor. When he placed it on her palm, he smiled. He could not imagine those delicate hands manipulating the obsolete press.
She pulled away quickly. He smiled again. Could she have sensed the pulse of warmth when his hand brushed hers? Whoever this woman was, he was going to have to get to know her better before he left Bentonville.
“Must you stare?” she asked as she unfolded the letter.
Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed at her upturned nose. “Black ink flatters you, miss.”
Turning away again, she looked at the letter. He had read it so many times on the way west that he had memorized every word.
Dear Mackenzie,
Luke Bradfield has been working as an investigative reporter on the Independent, but he is itching for more excitement. Take him on for a few months. He can work for you while he sends reports to tantalize my readers about Wyoming Territory as it becomes a state. Give him a try, but do not take his guff. He expects a strong hand. I know that you have one.
Carter Sanders
Editor, The Albany Independent
“There’s been some sort of mistake,” she said. “I don’t know a Carter Sanders.”
“Now see—”
“Although I have heard of the Independent. My father worked there years ago. This letter must have been meant for him.”
“Your father?”
“His name was also Mackenzie Smith.” Mackenzie turned and chuckled. “Pa always considered it his best joke to have a daughter named after him.”
“His name was Mackenzie Smith?”
“My father died about a year ago.” When Luke Bradfield frowned at her, her fingers tightened on the page.
“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Smith.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bradfield. I shall write a letter to Mr. Sanders, for it is clear he and Pa were friends. Will you deliver it for me?”
“I don’t intend to be traveling back soon.” He tapped the letter. “I’m working for you now, Miss Smith.”
She looked at him in amazement. Her gaze was caught by his brown eyes. A flush flowed through her, discomforting and pleasurable at the same time. His dandified clothes could not hide his muscular build. Something about him was different. It was the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her.
When he sat on the half-wall, the motion jolted her. He smiled and folded his arms over his chest. “You aren’t what I expected.”
His sarcasm was like a slap in the face. “I really have no idea what you expected. If you’ll excuse me …”
“Excuse you?” He grasped her arm, which was covered with a fake sleeve to protect her blouse. “This conversation isn’t over. I am here to work for you and—”
“It will have to wait. I’m on deadline, sir.”
“Deadline? What do your readers care if the—What do you call your paper?”
“The Bentonville Bugle,” she retorted, “as the sign out front says.”
“What do they care if The Bentonville Bugle is a few minutes late?”
She pulled out of his grip. “Mr. Bradfield, my readers expect the Bugle to be out at midday on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Some of them ride miles to get their copy. If you will excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
“And that’s that?”
Glancing back at him, she asked, “What do you mean?”
He dropped his satchel on her side of the half-wall. Unbuttoning his coat, he slipped it off and draped it over the swinging door. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “Let’s get to work.”
“No.” She was not going to let some fast-talking Easterner take over her shop. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mr. Bradfield, and I appreciate your efforts.”
“Is that so?” He took another step toward her. “I like the idea of a boss who appreciates me, and I appreciate having such a pretty boss.”
She did not move, and amazement flickered through his eyes. “Even if I could afford to pay your wages, which I’m sure I can’t, I don’t need you.”
When he continued toward her, Mackenzie resisted the temptation to back away. Without that absurd plaid coat, his shoulders appeared even wider. His hair was as black as the strong emotions in his eyes.
“Miss smith, my wages are being paid by the Independent. I am here to find true Western flavor. What can be more genuinely authentic than a one-man”—he grinned as his gaze raked down her—“or one-woman printing shop? Can’t you imagine Eastern ladies delighting over Miss Mackenzie Smith struggling to maintain the freedom of the press while she wears black ink?”
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.
She heard Luke ask, “What are you doing, Douglas?”
“Ciphering,” grumbled her son. “I hate it.”
Mackenzie spooned out three bowls of soup and carried two to the table. “You’ll have to finish that later, Douglas.”
“Aw, Ma, I’m almost done. If I finish now, I’ll have time to play baseball after supper.”
“Now, Douglas—”
When Luke interrupted, she was so shocked that she nearly dropped the third bowl of soup. “He can be done by the time you get coffee on the table.”
“I don’t have any coffee made.”
He smiled. “Then he’ll have even more time, won’t he?”
As he leaned toward Douglas and began explaining a short-cut, she heard Douglas laugh. That he could sound cheerful while ciphering was amazing. So amazing it was worth being ordered about … this time. She never had been able to lessen the agony for Douglas. Even knowing that he would need to know how to add and subtract to manage the Bugle had not helped. He wanted to be a cowboy.
She closed her eyes and whispered the prayer she had spoken so often, “Please, God, not a cowboy.” She wanted more for her son than a thankless, dangerous life on the high ranges.
After putting the coffeepot on, Mackenzie peered over Douglas’s shoulder. She smiled when Luke gave suggestions without answers. Douglas laughed again, this time in triumph. She reached out to put her hands on his shoulders to congratulate him.
Luke stood, catching her hands on his arms. She gasped and backed away so hastily she almost bumped into the wall.
“Steady there,” Luke said, chuckling. “You sure are jumpy. But if you crack your head against the wall, you’ll pass out. That wouldn’t be a very good beginning to our partnership.”
“I wasn’t under the impression we were partners.”
Grinning, he stuck one hand in his trousers’ pocket while the other rested on the wall. He eclipsed the rest of the room as he moved closer. She wanted to put out her hands, but doubted if he would be stopped that easily. He seemed to do as he wished. She rested her head back against the wall as his breath wafted through her hair. Even though he did not touch her, her skin tingled. She saw his amusement. He knew how much he unsettled her.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “We aren’t partners. You are the boss lady. I’m just the lowly devil.”
The glint in his eyes suggested he could be exactly that. She frowned. Luke Bradfield was a man—and an exasperating one.
“If you’d get out of my way,” she said, “I’ll finish serving supper.”
“Allow me.” He chuckled as he reached for the towel she had used to lift the hot ladle.
She took the cloth. “Nonsense. Sit while I get the coffee. Douglas, do you want some?”
“Just milk.” He folded the page and put it in his schoolbook. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Bradfield.”
“You’re welcome. Why don’t you call me Luke?”
Douglas tossed his books on the sofa. “I think he’s going to be all right, Ma. Don’t you?”
Mackenzie flushed when she realized Luke was grinning as widely as her son. When had they become allies? As she reached for the coffeepot, Luke caught her hand.
Holding her gaze, he asked, “Do you think I’m going to be all right, too, Mackenzie?”
She jerked her hand away, glad to let outrage engulf her pleasure at his touch. “Don’t waste your Eastern wiles on us. We aren’t impressed by such pranks.”
He lowered his voice. “What impresses you?”
“Hard, honest work.” She pushed past him. “Sit, so we can eat. I’m too hungry to argue.”
At his chuckle, her back stiffened. She had not thought Luke’s behavior could be more intolerable.
She placed a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. When Luke stirred a generous portion of the milk into it, she remained silent. He would have to drink his coffee black when he came to work tomorrow. Mr. Iturbide traded milk and eggs for his newspaper, but the homesteader did not come to town until afternoon.
Sitting beside Douglas, she listened while he quizzed Luke about his trip.
“I came through Chicago,” said Luke, sipping the coffee. “You make a good cup, Mackenzie.”
“Practice. I’ve spent years working long past midnight with only coffee to keep us going.”
“Everything’s delicious. You wouldn’t be interested in coming back east to cook for me, would you?”
“Don’t judge my cooking by this. Douglas can tell you that I prefer to cook simple things.”
Her son piped up, “Don’t forget. You promised me a cake for my birthday.”
“Chocolate with mint frosting.” She teased his hair. “How can I forget when you remind me at least once a day?”
“You forgot last year.”
Luke saw her wince. Curiosity needled him. Mackenzie seemed too devoted to her son to forget his birthday.
“When’s your birthday, Douglas?” he asked.
“In a couple of more weeks.”
“And you’ll be …?”
“Ten,” he said proudly.
Mackenzie laughed, tautly. “Two whole hands old. I plan to make you the best cake you’ve ever had.”
Douglas smiled and reached for more bread. “She’s really a very, very good cook, Luke.”
“I expect I’ll become a good judge of that while I’m staying here.”
Mackenzie lowered her spoon. “Staying here? In Bentonville, you mean.”
“I mean here.”
“You can’t stay with us.”
“Why not?”
“Where would you sleep? We’ve only got this room and my bedroom.”
“Where does Douglas sleep?”
Douglas pointed toward the ceiling. “Up in the loft.”
“Fine.” Luke patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll be bunkmates. Is that the right word?”
Mackenzie gripped the table. “You need to find somewhere else to stay.”
“The hotel costs a dollar a day. My paper can’t afford that.”
“You should have thought of that.”
“I did. Carter told me Mackenzie would find a place for me to sleep. So, Mackenzie, where shall I sleep?”
“Not up there with Douglas. There isn’t room.”
Folding his arms on the table, he leaned toward her. “That leaves your bedroom.”
“Luke, watch what you are saying!” She glanced at her son.
“I’m your apprentice.” He smiled, but with a coldness that sank through her. “My dear Mackenzie, it’s your responsibility to see that I have a place to rest after my long day of lessons at the feet of my master.” He tilted a single eyebrow. “Or should I say mistress?”
“Don’t be absurd. There’s no place for you here with us.”
“What about the sofa?”
A knock spared her from having to answer. Rising, she motioned for Douglas to finish his supper. Then she would send him out to play baseball with his friends. She wanted him out of the house, so she did not have to worry about every word she spoke.
When she opened the door to the stairs, she smiled at the man on the narrow landing. A tin star glistened on his chamois shirt. She smiled when he tipped his battered Stetson before leaning it against his hip, where he wore a Colt pistol.
“Sheriff,” she asked, “what brings you over here?”
“Would you believe it was the fine smell of your cooking?” he asked, his brown eyes crinkling.
She laughed. “Come in and join us.”
“I don’t want to bother you at supper.”
“Nonsense. We have … company already.”
Luke rose and offered his hand. Hoping no one had noticed his astonishment when he saw the lawman was black, he said, “Name’s Luke Bradfield.”
“Horace Roosevelt.” He shook Luke’s hand, but looked at Mackenzie.
“Luke’s here to write for his newspaper back east,” she said quietly. “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.”
Luke smiled. “If you can give me a couple of hours, Sheriff, I’d appreciate it. You Western lawmen are legend back east.”
Douglas interjected, “You can tell him about the time you caught those cattle rustlers out on Rutherford’s spread.”
“Rutherford?” asked Luke.
“Rutherford owns a big ranch south of town,” Mackenzie said as she offered the sheriff some supper.
Sheriff Roosevelt grinned. “Can’t stay. Connolly’s back, and some of his boys have come into town to enjoy the bonuses he gave out. Before the party begins, I’ve got to round up some help to keep the peace. How ’bout you, Bradfield?”
“I’m proof that the pen is mightier than the sword,” Luke replied as he watched Mackenzie. She remained calm, picking up Douglas’s bowl. Women back home would have been horrified by such news. Things were different in Bentonville.