How the West Was Wed Read online

  How the West Was Wed

  By

  Margaret Brownley

  How the West Was Wed

  by

  Margaret Brownley

  Copyright @ 2018 by Margaret Brownley

  For Lee Duran,

  who followed a long and noble line of female news reporters.

  Let us not try to comprehend women or eternity;

  but if we are determined to ponder on one or the other,

  and still retain our reason, then let us give eternity our preference.

  San Antonio Light, February 26, 1883

  Chapter 1

  If what some say is true and the average length of an editor’s life is but twenty-five years, then prompt payment for your newspaper will be greatly appreciated. —Two-Time Gazette

  Two-Time, Texas 1884

  Josie Johnson stared out the window overlooking Main Street and tried not to worry. But how could she not?

  All morning long merchants, housewives, ranchers, farmers, and train workers had stopped at the Lone Star Press office across the street to purchase her competitor’s newspaper. Meanwhile, her own stack of newspapers languished out in front of her office—untouched.When Brandon Wade had arrived in town and announced his plans to launch a second newspaper, Josie welcomed the competition. As publisher of the Two-Time Gazette, she was convinced her readers would remain faithful to her and the newspaper she’d purchased a year earlier.

  “Oh, they remained faithful, all right,” she muttered to herself. “Faithful as a two-timing husband!” Last week she’d sold no more than a few dozen copies off the racks, and this week didn’t look any more promising. Worse, new subscriptions and renewals had dwindled to zero. And just that morning the last of her paper boys had announced he’d jumped ship and now worked for Mr. Wade.

  She was still glaring at the turncoat readers across the street when Mr. Wade himself emerged from the building. “Speak of the devil!” she harrumphed.

  Dressed in tan trousers and brown frock coat, he looked his usual tall and self-assured self. He doffed his Stetson at a passerby and flashed a smile at Mrs. Kingman waiting to cross the street. The poor woman was so flustered she almost stepped in front of a passing horse and wagon.

  Josie scoffed. Mrs. Kingman wasn’t the only one taken in by his good looks and charms. The general female population had talked of little else since his arrival in town less than two months ago. All the women talked about was “Mr. Wade this” and “Mr. Wade that” until Josie thought she would scream.

  Staring at him now, she was sorely tempted to walk out the door and give him a piece of her mind. How dare he steal away her newsboys!

  He stepped off the boardwalk and started across the street toward her building. Not wanting to be caught spying, Josie quickly moved away from the window and to her desk.

  Seated, she had a full view of Main Street and the fast-approaching figure. It looked as though . . .

  “Oh, dear heaven!”

  It appeared Mr. Wade was about to pay her a visit. Now why would he go and do a thing like that, she wondered. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps to brag about the overnight success of his newspaper?

  Reaching for her fountain pen, she dipped the nib into the bottle of ink and busied herself with writing in an attempt to look occupied as the door flung open and the jingling bells all but drowned out her seething breath. Rather than accord him the satisfaction of knowing how his underhanded methods had affected her, she gripped the pen until her knuckles turned white.

  “Mr. Wade,” she managed, looking up at his tall form. It felt as if his presence had sucked up all the oxygen in the room.

  She hated how her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own whenever he came into view. Today was no different. With a quick visual sweep, she noted his wide shoulders, square jaw, and strong cleft chin. His full, sensuous mouth was curved upward, and his brown hair appeared shorter than the last time she’d seen him. Now it fell to just above his collar, making him look younger than his thirty-some years. Today, as always, his eyes drew her in, locking her in their velvet-brown depths.

  He touched the brim of his hat with the tip of a finger. “Good morning, Mrs. Johnson,” he said in his smooth baritone. “You look hard at work.” He closed the door behind him with a backward thrust of his foot. “Writing your next editorial, no doubt.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” She returned the pen to the penholder and forced herself to breathe. “What can I do for you?” she asked, more out of habit than politeness. She had no intention of giving him so much as the time of day.

  “I’m here because of what I can do for you.” He flashed a crooked smile, and much to her annoyance her pulse quickened. Heat rose up her neck, and her cheeks flared. Hoping he wouldn’t notice, she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and patted her bun.

  “And what might that be, Mr. Wade?”

  He glanced at the unsold newspapers stacked neatly against the wall. “My experience as a publisher has taught me that nothing whet’s the public’s curiosity more than scandal. And scandal translates into sales. Newspaper sales. But that would mean that you and I would have to engage in a torrid love affair, and I doubt that would meet with your approval.”

  He gave her an appraising look, and she stiffened as her heart took a perilous leap. “I should say not!”

  The very idea. She was a respectable Christian woman still in widow’s weeds. To suggest she would dishonor her husband’s memory in such a way went beyond the pale. The man clearly had no scruples.

  “Putting scandal aside,” he continued innocently, as if no shocking suggestion had crossed his lips, “the next best thing that sells papers is controversy.”

  Glaring at him, she fought to find her voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “What I’m talking about goes to the very heart and soul of this town. As you know, there’s been discussion about changing the name from Two-Time to Corrigan City after the founder. How do you stand on the issue?”

  “I believe that was your idea, Mr. Wade, and as I clearly stated in last week’s editorial, I do not approve. First of all, the town hardly qualifies as a city.” Although if the population continued to increase, as it had in recent years, that was likely to change. “Second, the man who founded the town sold fraudulent land grants for his own gain. Why should we honor such a man by renaming the town after him?”

  “Excellent points.” Tossing his hat on a nearby chair, Wade sat himself down at the small corner table in front of her Remington type-writing machine. He rubbed his hands together like a man on the verge of a lucrative business deal.

  She shot to her feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Ignoring her for a moment, he rolled a clean sheet of paper onto the carriage and began pecking away with two fingers. “I’m writing your next editorial for you.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder. “No need to thank me. It’s the least I can do for stealing the last of your newsboys.”

  Josie’s mouth dropped open. Of all the nerve . . . “I don’t need help with my editorials. And I certainly—”

  “Ah, but you do,” he interrupted. At the ding, he slapped the typewriter lever, sending the carriage flying back and advancing the paper. “That insipid piece you wrote opposing the name change hardly did the subject justice.”

  Insipid? He’d called her writing insipid? “I got my point across,” she said, her deceptive calm hiding how much his criticism stung. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must ask you to leave. I have work to do.”

  “Give me a minute. This won’t take long. Let’s see.” Peck, peck, peck. “How does this sound?” He read as he typed. “‘That ignoble, despica
ble, contemptible, employee-stealing scoundrel who pretends to edit that worthless rag known as the Lone Star Press has once again shared his lunacies regarding the renaming of this fine town.’”

  Had she not been so incensed she might have burst out laughing. She couldn’t imagine anyone writing such loathsome things about himself or his paper. Either the man had a strange sense of humor or was woefully deranged.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “While I agree completely with what you wrote and couldn’t have stated it better myself, I will not subject my readers to such low-flung language.” Why, her poor husband would turn over in his grave if he knew his widow had resorted to such tactics.

  “Oh, but you will, Mrs. Johnson,” Wade said as he continued typing. “That is if you wish your newspaper to survive. Lacking a juicy scandal, nothing sells papers like editorial combat between two newspaper adversaries. That’s the controversy I mentioned earlier.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you care if my newspaper survives? It would be to your advantage if it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, but what fun would that be? Anyone can be successful without competition.”

  His fingers paused. “How do you spell abominable?”

  She glared at his back. “W-A-D-E.”

  At that, he glanced over his shoulder, his face lit with approval. “That’s the way. I knew you had it in you.” He turned back to the type-writing machine and continued punching keys, his fingers pecking away like two chickens digging for worms.

  “Readers will have to purchase both our papers to see how the battle plays out,” he continued with obvious relish. “Better yet, those who normally don’t purchase newspapers will do so out of curiosity. What better way to increase circulation? The more readers, the more demand for advertisements. You must admit it’s a brilliant plan.”

  Josie’s hands curled into balls by her side. She had always dreamed of owning her own newspaper and wasn’t about to let this egotistical man or his large-city ways influence her or her newspaper. The integrity of journalism was at stake, not to mention her reputation as a serious businesswoman.

  “I refuse to play your games,” she sputtered. “So don’t expect to see your name in my paper.”

  Fingers paused, he gave her a wounded look. “It grieves me to hear you say that,” he said. “If something happens to me, are you saying you won’t even run my obituary?”

  “Oh, yes, that I would gladly print,” she said with a toss of her head. “Under ‘Town Improvements’!”

  He surprised her by laughing. A warm, merry sound that almost made her forget they were at loggerheads.

  Pressing her hands together, she added, “I will not resort to sensationalism to sell newspapers, and that’s final.”

  He glanced at her again. “My dear lady, you must know that a new day has dawned. People no longer wish to read bland facts with their morning cup of Arbuckle’s. They want the news to be served in a fun and entertaining way.”

  She frowned. What right did he should come into her office and tell her what her readers might or might not want? The fact that there might be some truth to what he said irritated her all the more. “My job is to report the news honestly and fairly. I also print important reader milestones and will continue doing so.”

  He held his hands over the lettered keys. “And what will happen on the weeks you have no misfortunes such as deaths and marriages to report?”

  She glared at him. “My job as editor is also to educate and inform,” she said, her voice dripping frost. “In the latest edition, you’ll find an article on why Texas needs barbed wire.”

  The devil’s headband, as it was called, had led to violence and bloodshed in some parts of the state. She hoped her editorial would help prevent similar occurrences from happening locally.

  Wade ripped his paper from the carriage and placed it on the table with a pat of his hand. “A noble endeavor, indeed. But if you don’t get papers into readers’ hands, no one will ever read it.” He rose and reached for his hat. “Run that in next week’s issue and you’ll sell more papers than you ever dreamed of.”

  Settling his Stetson on his head, he headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, by the way, I hope you don’t take offense at what I wrote about you in this week’s edition.” He flashed a smile that set her senses spinning and left.

  Josie fingered the gold locket at her chest containing her dear departed husband’s photograph and forced herself to breathe. She watched Wade’s retreating back through the window until he was out of sight. Never in all her born days had she known such an arrogant man. She hated the uncharitable thoughts that raced through her mind, but if looks could kill . . .

  Write about her, had he? Ha! See if she cared.

  She eyed the piles of unsold newspapers stacked around the office. Much as she hated to admit it, Wade was right about one thing: she would have to do something to gain back her readers. That is, if she intended to stay in business. The question was what?

  She swung her gaze to the window. People were still stopping to purchase Wade’s paper. Traitors, all of them!

  Tapping her fingers on her desk, she frowned. So what had he written about her? Not that she cared. What was the worst he could say? That she was a serious-minded journalist?

  If he thought she would run out and purchase one of his papers just to read what he’d written, he had another think coming. Oh, yes, indeed he did!

  Chapter 2

  Following a riot at the Cranston General Store, Sheriff Hobson marched seven women to jail clutching newly purchased dishpans. They were charged with disorderly conduct and assault with deadly dishpans. One woman said the dishpans were worth fighting for, since they were on sale for only twenty-five cents—a fourth of the normal cost. Bail was set at three dollars each. —Two-Time Gazette

  Brandon Wade was still grinning when he returned to his office. How long would it take Mrs. Johnson to break down and purchase a copy of his newspaper? An hour? Two?

  He could practically sense her indignation from clear across the street. He’d almost laughed out loud at the curiosity smoldering in the depths of those intriguing eyes of hers upon learning she was mentioned in his newspaper.

  Ah, yes. Despite the stubborn look on her face, he’d wager that before day’s end she would have read his editorial. He just wished he could see her expression when she did. Just thinking about it made him chuckle. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had so much fun.

  Nor could he remember ever having to work so hard to keep his gaze off the intriguing peaks and valleys of a woman’s feminine form. As a grieving widow, Mrs. Johnson deserved the utmost respect. Still, he’d have to be a saint to ignore her tiny waist and softly rounded hips.

  It surprised him—shocked him, really—that he found the lady’s considerable charms so intriguing. Since his wife’s death, he’d not looked at another woman in such a way. Hadn’t wanted to. Still didn’t want to. The last thing he needed in his life was a romantic complication. He had enough on his plate. More than enough.

  His decision to move to Two-Time and start a newspaper had not been by chance. He’d investigated several towns before making the commitment. Two-Time had the kind of growing population that any newspaper man would envy. It lagged behind Galveston, Dallas, and Houston in regard to electricity and the telephone, but what it lacked in modern amenities was made up for in other ways. For one thing, at least eighty percent of the population was literate, and that was no small miracle. He recalled one editor telling him that it had been necessary to teach the people in his town to read before he could start a newspaper. Even then, he had to hold public readings in the town square, charging admission.

  Two-Time was also a family town, and that satisfied a personal need as well as a professional one. Families needed goods and services—a boon to advertisers, the lifeline of any newspaper.

  He’d never meant to put the young widow out of business. No, nev
er that. Some towns smaller than this one had two and even three thriving newspapers. The Gazette, with all its faults, served a different purpose than his and appealed to a different readership—or so he’d thought.

  No one was more surprised than he at the way things turned out. People of all ages clamored for his paper, even little old ladies. When he’d heard his customers say they’d given up reading the Gazette altogether, he’d felt bad for his rival.

  Still, as far as his newspaper was concerned, he was first and foremost a businessman. He’d offered Mrs. Johnson a way to salvage the situation. His plan would benefit them both, while at the same time appeasing his conscience. There was nothing more to be done. It was up to the lady to make the next move. When she did, he would be ready.

  ***

  It was dark by the time Josie left her office. She stood in the shadows and looked up and down Main Street. The night air was cool and the full moon half hidden behind lacy clouds. It was almost April, and Texas was in the middle of a drought. Still her neighbor, Mr. McKenzie, insisted that his sacroiliac forecasted rain.

  The light was shining in Sheriff Hobson’s office, but otherwise the businesses along Main were closed, including her father’s clock and watch shop and her sister Amanda’s hat emporium.

  It was too early for the rowdies, but already fiddle music wafted from the string of saloons anchoring the town on both ends, along with a glow of shimmering lanterns.

  Feeling like a thief, she left the safety of the building and stepped off the boardwalk, pulling her woolen shawl tight around her shoulders. The last thing she wanted was to be seen sneaking up to her competitor’s office.

  Normally she wouldn’t hesitate to purchase a rival’s newspaper. It was part of an editor’s job to keep track of the competition. But the way Mr. Wade had taken over the town—had tried taking over the Gazette—made her want to stay as far away as possible from him and his newspaper. If only her curiosity hadn’t gotten the best of her.