Lynna Banning - Printer In Petticoats

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 with their dinners. “Steak for you, sir.” She set the sizzling platter before Cole. “And chicken for the lady.”

Jessamine huffed out an exasperated breath. “I didn’t order—”

“Want to trade?” Cole interrupted. He lifted away her plate of fried chicken and slid his steak platter in its place.

“Well, I—”

Rita propped both hands on her ample hips. “Oh, go on, Miss Jessamine. He’s right, ya gotta eat.”

Jess wanted to crawl under the dining table and bury her head in her hands. How could she have stooped to such low journalistic ethics? How could she?

She knew better. Her father had set a better example than that. And Miles! Her brother had lost his life defending the Sentinel’s policy of responsible journalism. The least she could do to honor his memory was play by the rules.

What had she been thinking?

She stole a glance at the rugged, suntanned face at the next table. It was his fault. That man had pushed her over the edge. His newspaper made her nervous. His presence rattled her. He had self-confidence, something she dearly wished she had more of. He was unflappable. Arrogant.

And he was laughing at her.

She couldn’t stand being laughed at. Her father had laughed at her. From the time she was a baby, Ebenezer Lassiter had disparaged everything she had ever done, from making mud pies in the backyard of their Boston home to writing her first heartfelt poem to...well, just about everything she’d ever tried to do.

It was a wonder she’d grown up at all with his belittling and not withered away to a husk. If it hadn’t been for her mother and her brother, Miles, she would never have survived.

Sometimes she wondered if she had survived. Certainly she lacked confidence in everything she’d ever tried to do, and now she found herself saddled with running a newspaper, of all things. How Papa would have laughed!

But Papa was no longer here to criticize her until she dissolved in tears. She squared her shoulders. She had not wept in over a year.

* * *

The next afternoon Jess looked up from her desk to see a figure racing past the front window, then another and another. The pounding on the boardwalk outside the Sentinel office sounded like thunder before a storm.

She frowned and sank her teeth into her pencil. Where was everyone going in such a rush? Then she grabbed up her notepad and bolted for the door. Her nose for news, as Miles had described it, was twitching as if it smelled something burning on a hot stove. Whatever it was, she’d break speed records to report it before Cole Sanders heard about it.

The crowd swept her along to the railroad station, where townspeople were milling about the platform. The train from the East had just pulled in. Pooh, that wasn’t newsworthy unless someone important was on it. Governor Morse? General Custer? Maybe Jenny Lind? She elbowed her way to the front.

No one got off the train. Instead the engine rolled forward two car lengths to reveal the cattle car. Oh, for heaven’s sake, everyone in the county had cows! There was nothing newsworthy in that unless one of them had two heads.

The crowd oohed and aahed and fell back to reveal the most beautiful horse Jess had ever laid eyes on, a handsome chocolate-colored mare. The animal stepped daintily down the loading ramp and Jess caught her breath. The horse was led by That Man. Cole Sanders.

“That’s a purebred Arabian,” someone yelped.

“Damn right,” That Man said. He caressed the animal’s sleek head, then leaned forward and said something she couldn’t hear into the creature’s silky ear. She could swear the horse nodded.

“How come ya didn’t ride her out here?” an elderly man shouted.

Cole looked up. “Would you hitch a thousand-dollar horse to a freight wagon?” he yelled.

“Guess not,” the man admitted.

Was there a news story in this? Jess wondered. Maybe. Something glimmered at the edge of her mind, something about a man called Coleridge playing nursemaid to a horse.

She fished her pencil out of her skirt pocket, plopped onto a bench in the shade and began to scribble.

* * *

Cole watched the kid load newspapers into a saddlebag and ride out of town on his roan mare. He took his time saddling up Dancer, then cantered after the boy. Wasn’t hard to catch up; the kid stopped at every ranch along the road to Gillette Springs.

Finally he trotted Dancer out in front of the roan and signaled. “Hold up, son.”

The boy reined in. “Something wrong, mister?”