Just Her Type Page 2

  “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 Stets
on 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.

  “I don’t think there will be much trouble.” The sheriff set the brown felt hat low over his brow. “We’ll keep an eye on you, Mackenzie.”

  “Don’t worry about us. Worry about the saloon.”

  With a laugh, he went down the steps.

  Mackenzie closed the door, but the sheriff’s friendly shout to the boys playing behind the newspaper building slipped through. She went into her bedroom. She needed to calm herself. Two years ago, the saloon had been destroyed during Connolly’s boys’ celebration and so had the Bugle. An accident. She shivered. Accidents happened when liquor and fools mixed.