Dorothy Clark - His Precious Inheritance

His left brow rose. “An admirable point of view, Miss Gordon.” He came around the desk, gestured toward the door. “If you will come with me, I will show you to your desk so you are not delayed in your work.”

Was he gibing her for having an opinion? She swallowed the desire to ask him if he would have addressed a man thus, lifted her chin and preceded him out of the door then waited for his direction.

“This way, please.”

She followed him down the entrance room, through a door with a No Admittance sign and into a wide hallway. The odor of printer ink, much stronger in the smaller space, mingled with another somewhat rancid chemical smell.

“That is the...er...‘necessary.’” Mr. Thornberg waved a hand toward a door opposite the one through which they had entered, then turned to the right and motioned to a door in the end wall. “Those chemicals you smell are from the photography room. It’s located inside the printing room—Clicker’s domain, which one enters at his peril.”

His lips slanted in a wry grin that was utterly charming and impossible to withstand. She tried, but her traitorous lips curved in response.

He pivoted and strode toward the room then stopped at the base of a wide stairwell on his right. “We’ll go upstairs.” He moved to the far edge and waited.

A muted clicking came from the printing room. She shot a sidelong look toward the door, wishing he would take her in there to see how the printing was done. Perhaps if she were a man, he would have. Was that why he had warned her away? Because she was a woman? Her father had no such problem in assigning her man’s work on the farm. Her face tightened. She took hold of the railing, lifted her hems with her left hand and started to climb, the whisper of the short train of her long skirt against the polished wood accompanied by the taunting clicking sound. Mr. Thornberg fell into step beside her. Her stomach tensed at his closeness. She forced herself to maintain a dignified pace instead of bolting ahead to put space between them.

“The stairway divides at the landing. The steps on the right go to the composing room. We’ll take the left side that goes to the editorial room.”

She nodded, crossed the landing to the left side and began to climb the second flight of stairs. Sunlight poured in a window on their right, making the polished oak treads glow. She stepped off the stairs onto the oak floor, turned toward the room and stared. “It’s—it’s huge.”

“I built for the future. This town will grow and I expect to need the space for more reporters when the paper increases in circulation.”

More reporters. Her heart skipped. Oh, God, please, let me be— She squelched the spontaneous prayer. Even after years of knowing it was simply a waste of time, the urge to pray rose from her heart during unguarded moments. She glanced at the morning sunlight pouring in the four large windows in the long side wall. “It’s wonderfully bright in here.”

“Yes. I wanted to capture all the natural light I could. There’s little enough on stormy, rainy days or in the winter when it turns dark early. But I had chandeliers hung over each desk to take care of that problem—or for when there’s an emergency of some sort and we have to work nights to get the story written and printed.”

“That sounds challenging.” She glanced up at the chandeliers hanging by loops of chain from the ceiling and took a step to the side. Not all men were cruel like her father and brothers, but being alone with one still unnerved her. It was a situation she tried to avoid. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“I’ve tried. But I’m sure there will come some point in the future when I’ll discover something else was needed.”

She stole a surprised glance at him through her lowered lashes. Where was the supercilious male attitude that had been so apparent?

He moved forward, gestured to the right, then to the left. “That is Boyd Willard’s desk—he’s my reporter. This is mine.”

His? Didn’t he have an office?

“This area is empty at the moment.” His lips slanted in another of those charming grins. “It will hold the desks for those reporters of the future.”

“I’m sure it will, Mr. Thornberg.” She wasn’t sure why she uttered the reassuring words, or even if she meant them for him or for herself. It just seemed that somehow her dream of one day being a journalist blended with his dream of one day having a thriving newspaper. His patronizing attitude toward women in the workplace was a little daunting as far as her dream went, but biting her tongue when a retort sprang to her lips and working hard should change that. Her writing ability would speak for itself.

“Yes. Well... Through this doorway is the composing room.” He motioned her ahead of him.

She stepped into the adjoining room, swept her gaze over three of the largest tables she had ever seen. On the opposite wall, between the windows, three hangers with serrated-edged cutters held wide, thick rolls of white paper. Supplies too numerous to take in and give name to filled floor-to-ceiling shelves that framed two windows on the back wall. She longed to go and peek in the boxes and small wood crates, to open the stoppered bottles and jars and find out what treasures they held. “This is where you design and lay out the pages the way you wish them to appear in the newspaper?” She moved forward to the center table and ran her hand over the smooth surface, imagining the process.

“Yes.”

A small box filled with pieces of paper with writing on them sat at the end of the table. “What are these?”

“Fillers.”

She looked up at him.

“They hold snippets of information, usually historical in nature—recipes, gardening hints, that sort of thing.” He stepped to her side, reached into the basket and pulled out a few of the pieces. “As you can see, they are different widths and lengths.” He glanced at her, then looked down at the papers he’d spread on the table. “Stories or articles or advertisements don’t always fill a column or allotted block, and you don’t want empty space on a newspaper page, so you choose one of these of the right length that will match the width of the column and use it to ‘fill’ that area.”

“I see.” She stared down at the filler pieces, touched the one touting “Indian Pudding.” Her pulse quickened. “Who writes these?”

“There was an ample supply of them when I bought the paper, but they’re running low. I’ve only enough for a few weeks left. I’ll see about making more soon.” He swept the pieces together and tossed them back in the box. “I’ll show you to your desk.”

Her desk. Her stomach flopped. She pressed her hand against it and followed him back into the editorial room.

“I put this table here for your use. I presumed you will need a place to sort through all of those letters.”

She followed the sweep of Mr. Thornberg’s hand and eyed the burlap bag with letters spilling out of it lying on its side on the table. “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

He nodded and moved on, stopped.

Sunlight pouring in the last of four windows in the outside wall shone on the polished wood of a low hooped-back chair with a red pad and a beautiful desk with six drawers. But it was the box on top that made her pulse race. Did it contain a typewriter?

“I placed your desk here close to the shelves of our research materials on the back wall, where it would be handy for you.”

Another thoughtful gesture. She tugged her gaze from the box and looked at the shelves, stared in amazement at the treasure trove of rich leather-backed books.

“There is a dictionary and thesaurus, of course, along with other research books. Volumes of literature and poetry...books on history and the sciences...legal books...a Bible and concordance, of course...maps... There are also office and writing supplies. And now typewriter supplies, as well. You’ll not need them to start, however.”