his feet hit the floor.
It sounded as if someone was rummaging around downstairs. If the not-so-stealthy intruder did any harm to his printing press...
Swiftly crossing the room, Everett paused only long enough to pull on a pair of pants and retrieve the iron poker that rested against the cold fireplace.
Just because he didn’t own a gun didn’t mean he couldn’t defend himself.
Without bothering with a lamp, Everett stole down the stairs, carefully avoiding the fourth tread that had an annoying tendency to creak. His ears strained for some sign of just where his trespasser might be lurking.
He moved to the larger front room first, the room that housed his printing press and served as his office. A faint light filtered in from the large window that faced the street. His gaze went immediately to the bulky shadow that was his printing press. Most of the type was already laboriously set for this week’s paper. He would have no compunction whatsoever in trouncing anyone who dared tamper with his work.
Everett’s brow furrowed. All was quiet now, but he’d been certain the noise had come from down here. And everything seemed as he’d left it when he locked the doors and headed upstairs earlier.
Tightening his grip on the poker, he eased farther into the room. Taking a deep breath, he sprang around the corner of the press, his makeshift weapon raised. “Ha!”
But no thug crouched behind the machine’s shadowy bulk.
Feeling foolish, he lowered his arm. Had he misjudged the direction the disturbance had come from? Everett turned to his desk, a sour smile tugging at his lips. If the intruder was after a cash box, he would be sadly disappointed.
Nothing.
He moved into the back room where he stored his blank paper and other supplies, but again, nothing.
Everett rubbed his neck, slowly exiting the room. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing, after all.
Scriiittch.
He swung back around. It sounded as if something heavy were being dragged across the floor. He approached the far wall cautiously, then heard it again.
The noise was coming from the other side. Someone was in the adjoining building.
He frowned. The supposedly vacant adjoining building.
He’d never been inside, but understood the building didn’t house anything more valuable than cobwebs and a jumble of rubbish and cast-off furnishings. What possible reason could someone have for rattling around in there in the middle of the night?
Everett shrugged and moved back toward the stairs. Other than the annoyance of having his sleep disturbed, it wasn’t any of his concern.
Then he stilled. Except that there might be a story in it. Something more newsworthy than births, deaths and barn raisings for a change. Since he was already awake, it couldn’t hurt to check things out. His pulse accelerated at the idea of a real story, a chance to resume his role as reporter rather than mere transcriber and typesetter. It had been quite a while...
Everett hurried upstairs, donned a shirt and shoes, then padded lightly down again.
He still carried the poker. Not that he intended to use it unless he had need to defend himself.
He was a reporter, after all, not a confounded hero.
Stepping onto the plank sidewalk, Everett paused a moment to listen. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and was answered by a second mutt. Four blocks away he could see light seeping from the windows of the livery. An ash-colored moth lazily circled the nearby streetlamp.
Other than that, everything was quiet. Enough light filtered down from the streetlamps and gauze-covered half moon that he could see the building next door easily.
He moved forward, studying the front of the run-down establishment. The boards that had barred the door were now lying on the sidewalk against the building, and the door itself gaped open.
He peered in, but it was too shadowy to make out anything but irregular shapes. However, he did notice a yellowish light emanating from the back room—the area where the sounds had come from.
Was it a squatter? Or a misguided thief?
Everett hesitated, listening to the scrapes and muffled grunts, torn between his reporter’s instinct to find out the truth of the matter and the niggling voice that told him he’d be wise to arm himself with more than a poker before proceeding.
Besides, what if it was Gus Ferguson, the building’s owner? Gus was a crotchety old hermit who kept to himself, except for the occasional trip to town to get supplies and indulge in a bit of drinking and poker playing. In the nine months Everett had resided in Turnabout, he’d never seen Gus look twice at the place, much less go inside. Why would the man choose this unlikely time to come here? Unless he’d decided to stop in after tonight’s poker game.
Perhaps it would be best if he just quietly slipped away and forgot the whole thing.
Everett winced at the sound of falling crates. The sound of a woman crying out, however, had him through the door as if shot from a pistol. And was that a dog yapping?
He swallowed a yelp as he bumped his knee against the edge of a sagging counter. He kept going, though, albeit with somewhat impaired agility.
Charging into the back room, the first thing he spied was the rubble of storage shelves that had given way, dumping splintered lumber and unidentifiable contents in a dusty heap.
A grumbled humph drew his attention to a woman sitting on the floor, trying to pull her foot free of the mess.
“I’m okay, Kip. But as for this worm-ridden, rickety pile of junk, the only thing it’s good for is kindling.”
Everett recognized the voice before he got a good look at her face—it had a distinctive lilt to it and boasted a slight accent that he couldn’t quite place, but was unmistakable.
Daisy Johnson. What in the world was the peddler’s daughter doing here? She and her father had left town two weeks ago.
Miss Johnson looked up and recognized him at the same time. “Mr. Fulton. What’re you doing in here?”
“Apparently rescuing a damsel in distress.” Still concerned about her predicament, Everett crossed to her in long strides.
The dog seemed to take exception to his approach and assumed a stiff-legged, curled-lip stance in front of Miss Johnson.
“It’s okay, Kip,” she said, giving the dog a reassuring pat. Then she turned a frown on him. “I’m not a damsel. And I’m not in distress. My ankle just got caught under this mess, is all.”
Did she even know what distress meant? “Let me give you a hand with that.” Not bothering to wait for an answer, he heaved up on the piece her foot was trapped beneath, allowing her to free herself, all the while keeping a wary eye on the dog. And the dog returned his look, stare for stare.
Once she’d shifted her leg away from danger, he set the offending shelving back down. Then he knelt beside her, doing his best to ignore the dust
