plopped the boar-bristle scrub brush into the pail of soapy water and sat back on her heels. She’d scrubbed everything in sight, including the plank floor, until it was clean enough to squeak. The rough oak boards had been so caked with filth she’d scoured them twice with lye soap.
Next she planned to visit Frieder’s Mercantile to purchase the kerosene she needed to clean the iron printing press and order some other supplies as well—printer’s ink and more newsprint. She’d found her father’s storage cabinets almost empty.
Tucking a wayward strand of hair into the loose bun coiled on top of her head, she scrambled to her feet and swatted the dust off her work apron. The hem of her blue poplin skirt and the two starched petticoats underneath were gray with cobwebby dirt. Jessamyn seized the garments in both hands and switched them vigorously from side to side.
Clouds of dust puffed up from the folds of material, making her eyes water and her nose itch. If Miss Bennett could see her now, she’d have apoplexy!
She studied her red, water-puckered hands. At this moment Boston and the refinements of civilization seemed as distant as the moon. Her bed at the Dixon House hotel the previous night had been uncomfortable, the mattress so thin the metal springs had pressed into her back. Sleepless, she’d tossed and turned, thinking of Papa, of all the years he’d praised her talent for writing, remembering how bereft she’d felt between his newsy, heartfelt letters.
She also thought about the Wildwood Times. She would do anything to please her father, especially now that he was gone. Running his newspaper would keep him close to her.
Jessamyn sighed. Her back and shoulders were as stiff as her whalebone corset stays, and her knees ached from hours spent kneeling on the floor. She would much rather set type than do housework, but the place simply had to be cleaned. She couldn’t stand walking on a surface that crunched under her shoes. Grabbing her skirt, she gave it one last, vicious shake.
“Miss Whittaker?” A man’s low voice spoke behind her.
Jessamyn gave a little gasp and spun toward the sound.
Ben Kearney leaned against the door frame, one shiny black boot crossed casually over the other. “Sorry to startle you.”
With one finger he shoved his hat back on his head. “Opened my mail this morning. I received a letter from an attorney in Portland regarding your father’s will. There’s something you should know.”
Unaccountably, Jessamyn’s heart fluttered, whether because of his soft-spoken words or the steady blue-gray eyes that bored into hers, she didn’t know. She did know Sheriff Ben Kearney was a most disturbing man! Even with jingly spurs on his boots, he moved as quietly as a shadow, and his speech was terse to the point of rudeness. No “Good morning” or other social pleasantry, just a few succinct words growled from under his dark mustache.
“Well, Mr. Kearney, what is it I should know? And don’t tramp dirt in onto my clean floor, please. I spent all morning scrubbing fifteen years’ worth of pipe dottle, tobacco juice and God knows what else off those boards.”
The sheriff’s dark eyebrows arched. His mouth tightened into a thin line, then he cracked his lips and slipped out a few words.
“Thad owned a house.”
Jessamyn blinked. A house? Her father owned a house in Wildwood Valley?
“I thought my father lived here, at the shop?” She gestured toward the back of the office where she’d found a cot, the bedclothes still tumbled, and a washstand and basin next to the small wood stove.
Ben nodded. “He did. But he’d bought a house. Took the mortgage over from Mrs. Boult when her husband died. Let her live there as a kind of housekeeper so she wouldn’t have to leave. The place is yours now. Big white two-story house. Quarter mile past the livery stable.”
“Mine? But what about Mrs. Boult?”
“She’s expecting you. She knows you can’t live at the newspaper office, since you’re a lady.”
Jessamyn’s stomach flipped over. A house! A house all her own! A house Papa had bought, that Papa had—Good heavens, she hoped it wasn’t the same shambles as the Wildwood Times office! She couldn’t face another scrub bucket for at least a month.
“I’ll just sponge off my face and get my reticule.”
Ben watched her disappear in a swish of skirt ruffles. Before he’d drawn three breaths, she was back. No bustle today, he noted. Just a long, dark blue skirt that flared over her hips, topped by a high-necked cream-colored waist, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
She removed her white work apron—once starched stiff enough to stand up by itself he could tell, but now crumpled and dirt streaked—and hurriedly rolled down one blouse sleeve. She had the other sleeve down and buttoned at her narrow wrist before the door clicked shut behind them.
Ben’s gut tightened. He hadn’t exactly planned to escort Jessamyn Whittaker to call on Widow Boult, but the longer he looked at the delicately feminine creature at his side, the better he liked the idea. Besides, keeping a close watch on the Wildwood Times editor was only prudent. If she was anything like Thad Whittaker, the minute he took his eyes off her, she’d be rooting around where she had no business to be.
Except for her figure and that ruffly parasol she’d snapped open against the hot afternoon sunshine, she was the spitting image of Thad—same dark hair, same mossy green eyes. Same chattery, back-talking tongue.
Troublous. Just as Jeremiah said.
He glanced at Jessamyn’s face, shaded under the circle of black silk. Same…no, it wasn’t. True, her chin was slightly pointed, like Thad’s, but her mouth was rosy and full. God almighty, he groaned inwardly. Even if she was a Yankee, her lips looked soft enough to…
Ben stepped hard off the end of the boardwalk, his spurs ringing. Odd thing about parasols, he thought. He hadn’t seen one for years. General Denton’s wife had one, back in Dakota Territory. The sight of it always made him homesick. Now the picture Jessamyn Whittaker made under the shadow of her frilly sun umbrella drove the breath out of his lungs. A lump the size of a musket ball formed in his throat.
Damnation, but he was lonely.
But not for any Lincoln-loving Yankee!
“Miz Boult, Jessamyn Whittaker.” Ben stepped aside as Jessamyn extended her hand toward the buxom woman who filled the doorway.
Mrs. Boult folded her two hands around the younger woman’s fingers. “Howdy.” She gripped Jessamyn’s hand tight, her callused palms warm and strong. Then she peered over Jessamyn’s shoulder at the sheriff, and the warm expression in the older woman’s snapping blue eyes turned wary.
“You again!” she huffed.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Jessamyn thought his voice held a hint of laughter, but his tanned face showed no emotion.
“Get along with you, Ben,” Mrs. Boult ordered. “Miz Whittaker and I have some visitin’ to do.”
Ben tipped his black Stetson, quirked one eyebrow at Jessamyn and strode
