live by a code here in Wildwood Valley,” he continued. “Any lady who is a lady stays at home in the evening. She doesn’t come into town after dark unless it’s to attend a dance or a social, and even then she doesn’t go about alone.”
His voice dropped even lower. “And she certainly does not work, alone, late at night, smelling of whiskey and—” he sniffed the air “—some flowery-smelling perfume, even if she owns the whole building! Now, go—”
“I wasn’t alone!” Jessamyn blurted. “Jeremiah was here, helping—”
“Of course he was, you damn fool. Jeremiah’s a good man. He wasn’t going to leave you to your own devices here at night, all by yourself. He did what any deputy worth half his salt would do—he stood guard over a rattlepated woman who doesn’t know which end of the horse to mount.”
Stung, Jessamyn raised her chin and straightened her spine. “This ‘rattlepated woman,’ as you so quaintly put it, is now the owner and publisher of the Wildwood Times. As such, I expect to work late, and alone, many nights. That’s what printing a newspaper requires—hard days gathering information and long nights writing stories and setting type. As a taxpaying citizen—” she bit her tongue at the exaggeration “—I expect support, not criticism. So, if you have nothing constructive to offer, Sheriff Kearney, I will bid you good-night.”
Ben sighed. Arguing wasn’t going to solve the problem. Someone as stubborn as Thad Whittaker’s daughter would have to be shown. God almighty, he’d give his right arm if she’d just climb back on the morning stage and go back to Boston where she belonged.
Ben took a step forward and studied her. To think Jeremiah had wasted an entire evening with this prickly, overstarched Northerner. He must be ready to chew nails by now. His deputy had hit the truth for sure; women were definitely troublous creatures.
He shook his head. “Troublous” didn’t half describe Jessamyn Whittaker. He’d have to find Jeremiah and buy him a drink at the Red Fox. Inflicting this bullheaded Yankee lady on anyone, even for a few hours, was sure to raise a thirst.
“Miss Whittaker, pack up your things,” Ben ordered softly. “I’ll see you home.”
“Thank you, but I’d prefer—”
“Now,” he added in a rough whisper. He snagged the Child’s bottle off the floor, set it on the cabinet against the wall. Folding up the handles of the wicker picnic basket, he lifted it from the desk and bent to blow out the lamp.
“Best take off your apron and get your shawl.” He puffed once, and the room was enveloped in inky blackness.
Oh, my, Jessamyn thought. She’d gone too far. She needed the sheriff’s help, not just to operate the newspaper, but to find her father’s murderer. Much as she disliked Ben Kearney, she couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him. Not yet, anyway. Not until he’d arrested her father’s killer.
In the dark she untied her apron with fumbling fingers, felt around on the desk chair for her blue paisley shawl.
Without a word, Ben moved to her side. He made no sound, but she sensed him draw near in the pitch-black room, felt the warmth radiate from his body. She breathed in his scent, heavy with horses and tobacco smoke. The faint smell of mint lingered on his breath.
Jessamyn choked back a nervous hiccup. She must smell of—what was it he’d said?—stump whiskey and flowery perfume? Without thinking, she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers closed over his bare forearm.
He swore under his breath. His voice was so raw Jessamyn jumped.
“I—I’m sorry,” she blurted. “It’s so dark in here I can’t see.”
“Wait a minute, then. Your eyes will adjust.”
My eyes, Jessamyn thought, will never adjust to the picture presented by an angry Ben Kearney. How could a man be so fine-looking and so unnerving at the same time?
“Maybe you’re thinking you’d be better off back in Boston,” he said close to her ear.
“I was not!”
His hand touched her elbow. “The floorboards are uneven. Don’t stumble.”
“I won’t,” she breathed. Acutely aware of his warm fingers on her skin, she took a tentative step forward. Pulling her shawl tight about her shoulders, Jessamyn let him guide her to the doorway.
“And, Miss Whittaker,” he murmured at the threshold, “I trust you won’t come here alone at night again?”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she lied.
The door opened on a street bathed in silvery moonlight. Jessamyn stalked out onto the boardwalk and gazed down the street at the painted sign above Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon. Laughter drifted on the warm night air, punctuated by the metallic sounds of the piano and a man’s clear tenor singing an Irish ballad. Ladies who weren’t ladies—soiled doves, the sheriff called them—were probably drinking spirits and dancing with the ranch hands.
Jessamyn sighed. Ladies who were ladies weren’t supposed to have that kind of fun.
She studied the spill of golden light through the saloon’s swinging entrance door. She’d risked everything, coming out West. She’d left her position at the Boston Herald, abandoned her comfortable, refined life in the East.
Had it been worth it?
The answer came in an instant. Yes! Every single, frightening, fascinating moment of her first day—and night—in Wildwood Valley had been worth it. After what she had experienced so far, she thought with a little catch of excitement in her chest, just being alive in this rough, dusty town was going to be exhilarating. And fun.
Tomorrow she’d ignore the sheriff and his silly warnings and put her next plan into action. She could hardly wait.
“Jes’ like yer pa,” Cora sniffed as she bustled out the news office door. “Rather fuss over that newspaper than eat proper.”
Nodding her agreement, Jessamyn bit into the ham sandwich the housekeeper had brought over for her lunch. She massaged her stiff neck muscles and continued her study of the morgue of old Wildwood Times editions her father had meticulously collected. Just a few more issues to skim and she’d be caught up.
So far, she’d found nothing extraordinary. Ohio Ratifies 14th Constitutional Amendment. Nebraska Admitted to Union. Impeachment Resolution Again Introduced in Washington.
In Douglas County Frieder’s Mercantile’s shipment from Chicago was again delayed by a blizzard. Rancher Silas Appleby reported twenty head of cattle missing; Klamath River Indians were suspected. Lizzie Bartel, the doctor’s wife, delivered her second set of twins in five years, on Valentine’s Day. Coos Bay wagon road was surveyed as a possible railroad route to the coast..
Jessamyn shook her head. Still nothing out of the ordinary for an Oregon frontier town—except perhaps having two sets of twins in one family.
