Lorraine Page 4

  Prudence fanned herself with her hand. “Who guessed having fun could be such hard work?”

  Lorraine dropped onto a chair. “I can’t ever remember laughing so much. If dancing with one another entertained us to this extent, I can hardly wait for tomorrow night when there are men as partners.”

  Rachel sat beside her. “What are you wearing for the dance?”

  A forlorn expression crossed Prudence’s face. “The only good dress I have is the blue one I wear to church. Before long, people will call it my uniform.”

  “Not so.” Lorraine wished she could share her clothes with her roommate, but she didn’t want to offend her. She vowed to wear a dress in which she’d been seen several times. “I suspect many of us have a limited wardrobe. I’ll be wearing my same green faille I wore to church last Sunday.”

  Prudence’s smile held relief. “You look so great in that dress and the color darkens your green eyes and compliments your auburn hair.”

  “That’s why I chose the fabric. Mother held it up to my face in front of a mirror. We always did that to see if fabric was flattering before buying. Sometimes I like a color—like your yellow, Rachel—but then the mirror proves it makes my skin an appalling shade.”

  Rachel nodded. “You’ll never go wrong with shades of green because that color is so flattering to you.”

  ***

  After the dance, Lorraine was happy to sit in their bedroom chair and slip off her shoes and stockings. “My feet will never be the same. Did you dance with that cowboy in the red shirt?” She rubbed her aching toes.

  Prudence rolled her eyes. “You, too? He stomped on my feet several times. His name is Slim but his boots are wide and huge.” She sat on the bed and removed her stockings. “I saw you dance with Mr. Pettigrew.”

  Lorraine changed position to work on her other foot. “That man makes me so angry. I wanted to smack that superior expression off his face.”

  Prudence sent her an assessing glance. “I saw him fall. I couldn’t help wondering if you tripped him?”

  Lorraine twirled her ivory stockings over her head. “No, but I can’t say I’m sorry he slipped and fell.”

  “Why, Lorraine Stuart, that’s not like you.”

  Immediately she regretted her comment. “I realize that was petty but I am angry with him at the same time I find him fascinating. He refused my help writing up the dance.”

  “You weren’t surprised, were you?”

  Lorraine’s temper refused to abate. “Then, after he fell, I heard Ophelia describing the dresses while he wrote down what she said. Honestly, I wanted to strangle him.”

  Prudence stood with hands on her hips. “Stop stewing and do something to prove how well L. S. Trueharte writes.”

  Crossing her arms across her chest, Lorraine said, “I’ll do that very thing. We’ll see how Grant Pettigrew reacts when he publishes a story by L. S. Trueharte and learns the author’s identity. I can hardly wait.” How long would it take?

  ***

  Several weeks later, Grant sat with Doctor Riley Gaston and Sheriff Adam Penders in the jail’s back room. The jail was filled with criminals who’d tried to rob Tarnation’s bank and had killed a group of soldiers for the gold they were transporting. In addition, two among the prisoners were survivors of the men who’d tried to hold up Zane’s freight wagons. The air was filled with complaints, shouts, and threats.

  The small room where Grant sat with his friends had at one time been intended for the sheriff’s sleeping quarters.

  Grant shook his head. “Don’t know how you can tolerate being trapped with this din every day.”

  Riley’s eyes were full of mischief. “Looks to me as if you’d have taught them to sing the same tune by now.”

  “They’re not much quieter at night.” Adam set down his coffee mug. “They’re driving me crazy. Keeps me in a bad mood all the time.”

  A yell from the cells had Grant shaking his head. “Can’t say I envy you this job.”

  “I swear if the soldiers hadn’t wired they’d be here tomorrow night, I would have started shooting anyone who complained.”

  Grant straightened in his chair. “You mean they’re finally coming to get the killers?”

  Gesturing with his tin cup, Adam said, “Finally is right. I don’t see any reason for their delay in the first place. I’ll be glad to get rid of that lot.”

  Riley stared at Grant. “What’s wrong? You’re wriggling as if you don’t know which way to run.”

  With one hand, Grant rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s about the truth. I want to go to the fort and write up the trial but don’t see how I can be gone that long with a paper to run.”

  Riley took another sip of his coffee. “Why don’t you do what Zane did? Get that woman you’ve been courting and are sweet on to work at the office while you’re gone.”

  Adam tilted his chair on two legs. “Say, that’s a great idea. You’d have someone in the office plus you’d have staked your claim on the lady.”

  “Sounds like a good solution.” Grant stood and reached for his hat. “In the meantime, I’ve a lot of work to do before I can leave. See you two later.”

  He left the jail and rushed to the newspaper building. In his office, he hung up his jacket and hat then donned his apron and sleeve protectors. As he set to work, he pondered.

  How did he feel about Miss Stuart? Each of the women Lydia had brought with her was beautiful. Each appeared charming and kind. Why did he find Lorraine Stuart more interesting than the other women—despite her annoying idea about writing?

  Could he visualize himself married to her? Yes, he could. He didn’t know if his attraction for her would change and deepen to something more, but he wanted the chance to find out if she was the one for him.

  ***

  Sunday afternoon, Lorraine and Prudence sat alone in the parlor. The other women were either out with a prospective beau or resting in their room.

  Although Lorraine and Grant Pettigrew had been strolling, gone on another picnic, and had spent time in Lydia’s garden, he had not committed himself as yet. She wondered why he hadn’t been in church this morning.

  Still smarting at his refusal to acknowledge a woman could write well, she sat in an arm chair and studied an old copy of the Tarnation Gazette. “Mr. Pettigrew wrote a thorough story of the foiled bank robbery. Knowing the same robbers killed those soldiers is frightening.”

  Prudence chuckled and peered over Lorraine’s shoulder. “How many times are you going to reread that old copy? I’d think you wanted to forget that gunfight.” She plopped on the couch across from Lorraine.

  Lorraine laid a hand at her throat. “I keep recalling Mr. Pettigrew darting here and there while scribbling in his notebook. He acted as though he was shielded from the bullets flying around him. It’s a wonder he wasn’t shot.”

  “That was scary at the time, but his part is funny now that the event is past. I’m surprised more townsmen weren’t wounded. As far as I know, only Michael Buchanan was hit.”

  Lorraine sighed. “Wasn’t Michael’s dash for his store heroic? He wanted to rescue Josephine from that man who’d attacked her. Good thing Mrs. Horowitz was in the mercantile and is a quick thinker who’s good at wielding a cast-iron skillet. I’m glad that part is included in the news story.”

  “Mr. Pettigrew is a good newspaperman, but I wish he knew how good you are, too. I just finished your latest story in Frank Leslie’s Magazine. You wrote so convincingly I could picture the gunmen.”

  Warmth radiated through Lorraine. She folded the newspaper and stacked it with others she’d saved. “You’re kind to say so. I ordered extra copies of the magazine edition that contains my story. I intend to share with the ladies who come to Rachel’s office for tea.”

  “I had an idea for a story you could write. Were you aware Mr. Kozlov has finally sent for his fiancée? She’s on her way now.”

  Lorraine nodded, considering angles for the story. “That’s a good idea. I’m glad
they’ll be together after waiting apart for years. But, I have an idea for a series.”

  Prudence wriggled to settle herself. “Oh, tell me.”

  “You remember me talking about the four guards who work for Zane Evans at the freight office? Rachel confided that probably each had been on the wrong side of the law before working for Zane.”

  “And now?”

  “Oh, they’re all reformed. I want to do a series about each guard’s wife, tell what living with a gunmen and/or robber was like. I won’t use their names, of course, but I think people would love to read their stories.”

  “I certainly would.” Prudence’s enthusiastic expression dimmed to one of doubt. “Are you sure they’ll talk to you?”

  “I got acquainted with them while we created that cactus garden for the freight office and I’ve traded seeds with three of them. They’re nice women, but they’re shy when away from their homes.”

  Prudence’s smile lit her face. “I’ve noticed that since you and Rachel have been meeting with them, they mix in town more. Didamia Marshall is a lovely woman, but her size makes her formidable.”

  “She is that, regardless of her size, but she’s kind even when she speaks her mind. Mary Margaret McCartney is the funny one. Lupe Martinez and Ruby Cooper are hesitant to join in for fear of being snubbed. Zillah Hill has no trouble associating with the townspeople.”

  “I hate that all but Zillah fear being insulted but I understand some folks in town are not very accepting.”

  Lorraine rolled her eyes. “Like Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Hubbard, and Mrs. McGinnis? Those women make me angry. They’ve been rude to Angeline.”

  “Angeline flabbergasted them when she visited Mrs. Jackson when she was ill even after the Jacksons had been so unkind. I hope they learned a lesson.”

  Lorraine rolled her eyes. “Nice thought, I doubt they have, though.”

  The buzz of the doorbell sent Lorraine hurrying to answer. When she opened the door, Mr. Pettigrew was there.

  He pushed inside. “Miss Stuart, you’re the person I wanted to see. Actually, I need to speak with you. Soldiers are arriving later today to take those killers to the fort for trial.”

  She ushered him to the parlor. “About time they came. It’s been a long time since the men were captured.”

  “And the sheriff is eager to get rid of that lot. The thing is, I’d like to go along and cover the trial. Since you expressed an interest in the newspaper, I wondered if you would consent to keep the office open during business hours while I’m gone.”

  Lorraine tried to curb the enthusiasm racing through her. “For what purpose? Would I be expected to set type or cover local news?”

  Mr. Pettigrew—she thought of him as Grant—waved aside her question. “As I’ve said, I write the news. However, I could pay you a small salary to be there in case someone wants to place an advertisement or give you information about an upcoming event.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

  Her lips formed a thin line as she considered his offer. Should she admit his offer was insulting? Drat, she wasn’t going to miss this chance. She’d find some way to impress him.

  “I could do that for you.”

  He exhaled with a whoosh, as if he’d been holding his breath while waiting for her decision. “Fine, fine. Can you come with me and let me show you the office and give you a key?”

  She held up her forefinger. “If you give me a minute to check with Lydia, I’ll be ready.”

  His face brightened. “I’ll wait here, shall I?”

  She gestured to the parlor couch. “Have a seat.” She rushed to Lydia’s office and explained to her.

  Lydia’s eyes sparkled. “Give him a chance. He might learn you’re indispensable.”

  “That man is still adamant that only he can write an article. I hope to change his mind.”

  “You can in time but please don’t expect him to transform overnight. By now I’m sure you’ve figured out that Grant Pettigrew is slow to accept change of any sort.”

  Back in the parlor, Grant stood as she returned. “That was quick. I thought women took half an hour just to fetch a purse.” He opened the door for her.

  “But surely you don’t believe all women are alike, do you, Mr. Pettigrew?”

  “Of course not, Miss Stuart. I was speaking from heresay. My experience with the women is quite limited. My mother, for instance, won’t go anywhere without her purse.”

  She took his arm and they walked down the steps. “I won’t need my purse, will I? I already have a copy of this week’s paper, so I don’t suppose I’ll need to buy anything.”

  With his free hand, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Lovely day in spite of the heat.”

  “What have you done to date when you need to be away from the office?”

  “Locked up, not good business practice. I don’t need to tell you how important advertising is to any newspaper. I hope if I confide in you, our conversation will remain just between us.”

  She looked up at him. “Of course. I’ve never betrayed a confidence.”

  He glanced around before speaking quietly, “I’m barely staying ahead financially, and that’s not counting setting up the press, office furniture, and so on. I have savings, but I’d hoped to make a go of the Gazette without draining my account more than I already have. The town will grow and income will increase. Right now, I’m hanging on by a thread.”

  “What if I could sell advertisements for you? Would that be all right?”

  His frown let her know what he thought of the idea. “I suppose so, but I don’t see how you can accomplish what I haven’t been able to.”

  Really? She’d bet she could surprise him. “As the owner, you might not be comfortable asking people to place an advertisement, but as your employee, I can.”

  He appeared to mull that over. “Perhaps that’s true. You’re welcome to attempt selling space—as long as you use good judgment and don’t harass people.”

  They arrived at the Tarnation Gazette building. Grady unlocked the door then stepped aside for her to enter.

  He gestured to the interior. “Welcome to my little world.”

  She assessed the arrangement. The office was not large, about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long. Near the front, a counter ran three-fourths of the way across the room. The press and typesetting equipment were in the center of the building. Supplies were stored on shelves along one wall, except for paper, which was stacked on a low table.

  “This is an efficient arrangement. Are advertisements sold at the counter or do you solicit them at businesses?” She ran her fingers along the painted surface, noting the smooth finish.

  Grant pulled a card from under the counter. “Here are the rates. Folks come in and place what they choose. Occasionally, I’ll see someone at dinner or in his business and he’ll give me a sheet of paper arranged approximately as he wants something to appear.”

  She scanned the information. “Seems straightforward. What’s your run each week?”

  Surprise showed in his expression. “Ah, you’re familiar with our terminology. I print a hundred copies. Not all sell each week, but I’ve been pleased at the response all over the county. Many subscribers have them stuffed into their mail pigeonhole at the mercantile.”

  “I believe you said you receive national news via wire. Will I need to pick up your telegrams?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “That would be helpful but please don’t make an effort to set type on your own.”

  She held up her hands in surrender. “I know nothing of that part of journalism.”

  “Too bad I’ve already run a story about the cactus garden at the freight office. That would be something you might write up while you’re here.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Flowers and society things? I understand that’s all you think women can write.” Her voice sounded sharper to her ears than she’d intended.

  “I meant no offense, Miss Stuart. You’re obviously intelligent and capable. I hope
you understand that even paying you while I’m gone will stretch my resources. No matter whether or not I wanted to, I could never pay a second person and remain in business.”

  Her pique lessened. “I appreciate your trusting me. Do you know when the soldiers and their prisoners are leaving town?”

  “Early tomorrow. As soon as I received permission to accompany them, I came to request your help.”

  She was his first thought to help. At last he’d said something that appeased her. “Will you be in danger from the criminals?”

  “The soldiers are bringing a prison cart to transport the robbers. They’ll be locked up in chains inside the cart for the trip.”

  “That’s good. Is there anything else you need to show me?”

  “My office is at the back through that door. There’s a sink in there as well as a desk. You probably noticed I have a bell on the front door so I hear when someone enters while I’m at my desk. There’s a back door and the . . . um, the outhouse is behind the building.”

  His embarrassment at his mention of the necessary was endearing.

  “I’ll be here from eight until six, is that correct?”

  “You can begin at nine, close an hour for lunch, and then leave at five.” He pulled a placard from under the counter. “I put this in the window while I’m out. There’s another here for times when I . . . um, step out to the outhouse in back. I always lock the door whenever I leave, even if it’s only for a couple of minutes.”

  “How long do you expect to be away at the trial?”

  “I anticipate this will require a week. I worked all last night and this morning and have an edition ready to release on Friday. Please don’t let anyone see a copy until then. They’re stacked over here.”

  “What a great idea. Your advertisers will be happy and so will your readers.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, which she’d realized he did when in thought. “Perhaps. I’m not pleased with the edition, but I was limited by time. It’s sort of cobbled together with leftover news.”

  “Still, readers will have a new edition.”