the long legs on the fourth step of the ladder and studied instead the man’s muscular shoulders and the tanned forearms that showed where he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’d give a cookie to know what he’s doing over there.”
“Want one of mine? Baked ’em myself. Brown sugar with raisins.”
Eli boarded with widowed Ilsa Rowell. Jess paid her son, Billy, twenty-five cents each week to deliver the Sentinel to the town subscribers, but even with Eli paying for his room and meals, Jess knew Ilsa was having a hard time. The MacAllister boy, Teddy, took the newspaper out to the ranchers in the valley on his horse; she was happy to pay Ilsa’s son to do the town deliveries.
“Whyn’tcha go on over and ask him what he’s doin’, Jess?”
She jerked her eyes back to the article she was composing. “Don’t be silly. A good reporter learns by watching what’s going on.”
“And askin’ questions,” he reminded her.
Aha! Now the man was climbing down off his ladder, and it looked as though he had a paint bucket in his hand. He walked backward into the street, and Jess got a good look at his handiwork.
“Oh, my goodness. The Lake County Lark? What kind of cockamamy name is Lark for a newspaper?”
“Sounds kinda ladyfied, don’t it?”
“It does indeed, Eli. I think we won’t worry about the Lark. It sounds too poetic for a newspaper out here in the West. And look! There’s his name underneath. Coleridge Sanders. Coleridge! No doubt he fancies himself a writer of elegant prose.”
Eli crunched into his apple and Jess bent to finish the opening of her story about the new music academy in town. Maybe she’d also write an editorial about her rival newspaper in Smoke River.
Jessamine waited impatiently beside the press as Eli swabbed the oily-smelling ink over the type and cranked out a proof copy. She snatched it off the press and with relish ran her gaze over her editorial.
New Editor Raises Questions
What red-blooded man would call his newspaper the Lark?
Is it because this editor, Mr. Sanders, intends to peck away like a bird at his competition, your long-established and well-regarded Sentinel?
Or is it because the man is just playing at the profession of journalism and has no intention of taking seriously the concerns of the Smoke River population?
Or could it be that the new editor, bearing the highfalutin name of Coleridge, an English Romantic poet, is just that—a romantic dreamer who lacks the manly strength to cope with the rough and ready Oregon West?
Jessamine Lassiter
Editor, Smoke River Sentinel
The following afternoon another issue of the Lark was slipped under Jessamine’s door.
Whoa, Nelly!
Is the editor of the Smoke River Sentinel questioning the masculinity of a rival newspaper editor based on his choice of Lark for a name and his parents’ choice of Coleridge as his given name?
While this is not libelous, it is of questionable judgment for a supposedly unbiased journalist. This editor refuses to cast aspersions on the femaleness of Miss Lassiter. However, he does question the lady’s good manners. In such a personal attack I perceive a tendency toward biased news reporting. I would expect better of a good journalist.
And I also expect an apology.
Coleridge Sanders
Editor, Lake County Lark
That very afternoon Eli Holst marched across the street and handed Cole a copy of the latest edition of the Sentinel.
“Read the editorial page first,” Eli hinted with a grin.
Mea Culpa...
To the editor of the Lake County Lark: I sincerely apologize for any inappropriate personal remarks made in the previous issue of this newspaper regarding Mr. Sanders’s masculinity.
Jessamine Lassiter
Editor, the Sentinel
Cole settled into the chair at the corner table in the restaurant, stretched his long legs out to one side and picked up the menu. Rita bustled over, her notepad and pencil ready.
He had opened his mouth to order steak and fried potatoes when he spied someone in the opposite corner, hidden behind a copy of his afternoon edition of the Lark.
Well, well, well. Jessamine Lassiter. He recognized her dark green skirt bunched up under the table. Mighty flattering to find her reading his newspaper at supper.
Before he could stop himself he was on his feet and striding over to her table. He reached out his hand and pressed down the page of newsprint she held in front of her face until her eyes appeared.
“Interesting reading?” he inquired.
“Very interesting,” she said, her voice cool. But her cheeks pinked and thick dark lashes fluttered down over her gray-green eyes.
Cole signaled Rita and reseated himself at the table next to Jessamine’s. “Like I said, Rita, I’ll have steak and fried potatoes.”
The waitress flipped over her notepad and turned toward Jessamine. “And for you, Miss Jessamine?”
“She’s having a big helping of humble pie tonight,” Cole drawled. It might be the last time he’d get the best of his sharp-tongued competitor, so he figured he’d better strike while he could.
Miss Lassiter gave him a look so frosty it sent a shiver up the back of his neck, and then she raised the newspaper to hide her face.
“Chicken,” came her voice from behind the page.
“Roasted or fried?” Rita asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“It was a comment, not a supper choice,” Jessamine said. “On second thought, I’m no longer hungry.”
Cole was on his feet before she could move, and once again he pressed down the newspaper she held aloft. “Truce, okay? You should eat supper.”
“What concern is that of yours, may I ask?”
“None. Just thought it would clear the air.”
She leaned forward and pinned him with a look. “Nothing will ever ‘clear the air’ between us, Mr. Sanders.”
Cole sat down and leaned back in his chair. “How come? A war doesn’t last forever. Even Bluebellies and Confederate soldiers have buried the hatchet.” Ostentatiously he shook out his copy of her latest Sentinel edition and propped it in front of his face.
They both read in silence until Rita returned
