How the West Was Wed Page 3

  Miss Langley was interrupted by the appearance of a pupil, thus sparing Brandon what he supposed would be a tour of the reproductive system.

  “What is it, Anthony?”

  The boy looked like he was about to be sick. Apparently Haley wasn’t the only one in trouble. “My pa’s here like you said.”

  “Oh, yes, tell him to come in.” She dismissed Brandon with a wave of her hand. “I trust that I can expect Haley will change her ways.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Brandon said brusquely.

  He’d talk to her all right. Before day’s end he would make sure she never thought about skipping school again.

  With another glance at his daughter’s art work, he turned and stalked away, pausing to cast a sympathetic look at the dark-haired man who had just walked into the classroom with his son. If a girl was this hard to raise, he shuddered to think of the difficulty in raising a boy.

  Stepping outside and into the hot Texas sun, he couldn’t decide what bothered him more: Haley’s truancy or how the likeness of Mrs. Johnson had appealed to his masculine senses.

  ***

  Late that afternoon, jingling bells made Josie look up from her desk. Her visitor was her sister Meg. Cradling month-old baby Carolyn in one arm, Meg held two-year old Davey by the hand.

  Carolyn was a poor sleeper, and Meg looked exhausted. Dark shadows skirted her blue eyes, and even the fashionable hat couldn’t hide her hastily pinned-up hair, which lacked its usual shine. She also looked flushed.

  “Whew!” Meg said with a sigh. “If it’s this hot in March, I dread to think what it will be like in July.”

  “What a nice surprise,” Josie said, rising out of her chair and walking around her desk.

  Dressed in knee pants, the boy’s chubby face lit up upon spotting Josie, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Aun’ Cozy,” he squealed with delight.

  Stooping, Josie held her arms wide and afforded her young nephew a big smile. “How about giving your Aunt Cozy a big hug?”

  Davey pulled from his mother’s grasp and ran to Josie. He had his mother’s blond hair and blue-green eyes and had inherited his father’s dimpled smile. Josie picked him up and hugged him close before whirling him about. He smelled of peppermint candy.

  They were both giggling by the time she set him down. Releasing him, she smiled at the sleeping infant in Meg’s arms.

  “She’s beautiful,” she whispered. The baby’s skin looked as pink and soft as a rose petal.

  Josie’s nephews and niece warmed the cockles of her heart, but the love she felt for them wasn’t without pain. Six years of marriage had failed to produce a child of her own, and the empty feeling never went away. She’d hope that the newspaper would be enough to fill the hole inside, but whenever she saw her sisters’ children, the maternal need returned, knocking her off balance with its intensity.

  “Where’s Hank?” Meg asked. Hank Chambers was Josie’s only employee. He set the type, ran the press, and acted as her sounding board.

  “Picking up supplies,” Josie said. “So, what brings you to town?” This wasn’t Meg’s normal shopping day.

  Meg glanced at her son, whose attention was riveted upon the large orange tomcat snoozing in a yellow ribbon of sunlight. “Don’t bother Mr. Whiskers,” she cautioned before turning back to Josie. “I just wanted to make sure you’re . . . okay?”

  Surprised by the question, Josie frowned. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that . . . there’s been talk.” Meg glanced at the stacks of unsold newspapers. “You’re not upset about what Mr. Wade wrote about you in the Lone Star Press, are you?”

  Josie gaped at her. “You read Mr. Wade’s newspaper?”

  Meg blinked. “Why, yes. I mean . . . Everyone reads it.”

  Sighing, Josie pressed her hand against her forehead. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Oh, Josie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter.” Josie looked away. She would not ask what the article said about her. Absolutely not. Not after Wade had tricked her into trying to purchase a copy. Not after— “So, what did he say about me?”

  “I have the paper right here.” Jostling the baby in her arms, Meg reached with her free hand into the rucksack hanging from her shoulder and pulled out a newspaper. “Page two,” she said.

  Josie took the paper from her and unfolded it. The four-page newspaper was well organized and printed on good-quality paper. Like the Gazette, the pages were eight by eighteen inches, five columns to a page. The number of former clients now advertising in the Lone Star Press was even higher than Josie had thought and took up nearly two-thirds of the paper.

  Stomach clenched, she turned to the second page. It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for.

  “‘Mrs. Johnson, editor of the petticoat journal known as the Two-Time Gazette . . .’” Her mouth tightened. “Petticoat journal,” indeed! She continued reading. “‘. . . took issue with the arrest of Mr. Harper for loading his wagon on a Sunday, and I’m in full accord. He was trying to feed his family by fulfilling a rush order and deserves reprieve. What a pity that Mrs. Johnson is too much of a lady to express the appropriate outrage such unfair justice deserves. Her bland use of the English language is more suitable for Sunday school than news and hardly did the story justice. But since she raised a valid point, I’m sure she will have no objection to my taking up the cause.’”

  And take it up he did. In lingo strong enough to raise the dead.

  Gritting her teeth, she flung the offending newspaper into the wastepaper basket. It wasn’t bad enough that he stole her employees, advertisers, and readers. Now he was stealing her editorial ideas.

  Meg watched her with a worried expression. “He didn’t really say anything bad. I mean he did agree with you. And there are worst things to be called than a lady.”

  Her sister’s defense of the man didn’t help matters. “If I were a man, he wouldn’t dare call my writing bland,” Josie said with a toss of her head.

  “I’m sure no one else thinks your writing is lacking in any way,” Meg said.

  Meg was wrong about that. Josie had dealt with more than her share of criticism since taking over the paper. Women were considered too “delicate” to write about politics and national affairs. Some critics even expressed concern about her setting foot in such unsavory places as the mayor’s office and barbershop in search of news.

  “It’s obvious Mr. Wade disapproves of women editors,” Josie said.

  Baby Caroline stirred, and Meg gently rocked her. “He’s not the only one. You know Papa was against your buying the business. He said it was unseemly for a woman to delve into men’s affairs.”

  Josie scoffed. Anything that happened in the community was of equal importance to men and women alike, and that included politics.

  “Papa’s against women working period,” Josie said. No one knew that better than Meg, who still handled the clock shop’s bookkeeping chores even though she was now the mother of two. Papa let her get away with it only because he loathed paperwork. Fortunately, she could do most of the work at home.

  Meg’s gaze fell on the stack of last week’s Gazettes. Josie could well imagine what was going through her sister’s mind. The newspaper she’d worked so hard to produce was good for nothing at this late date but wrapping fish and lining bird cages.

  “What are you going to do?” Meg asked, eyes rounded with concern.

  Elbow on her crossed arm, Josie tapped her chin with her forefinger. For some reason, the memory of fighting off that band of hostile Indians with little more than a shotgun and a prayer came to mind.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.” She wasn’t about to lose everything she’d worked so hard to achieve to that thieving newcomer across the street. Not in this life time!

  ***

  Following his meeting with Haley’s teacher, Brandon rode his horse to the boardinghouse with a heavy heart. Nothing made a man feel worse than failing as a father. And fail he had.

  Guilt surged through him like a tidal wave. He’d been so busy getting his newspaper up and running, he’d hardly spent any time lately with Haley. For days, he’d said little more to her than a few words. By the time he arrived at the boarding house at night, she was usually sound asleep.

  He told himself it was only for a short time and what he was doing would benefit Haley in the long run. The way things were going, he would soon be able to hire more employees to take the work load off him and free up his time.

  Meanwhile he paid Mrs. Greer, owner of the boardinghouse, extra to watch Haley in his absence. The proprietress saw that his daughter had proper meals and went to bed at a reasonable hour, but tended to be flighty and forgetful. More than once Brandon had smelled alcohol and tobacco on the woman’s breath. She was hardly the kind of caretaker he wanted for his daughter.

  Maybe it was selfish of him not to have made more of an effort in finding a wife. Haley needed a mother. At nine, she was already curious about things that a woman would be better able to handle.

  The truth was he didn’t think it fair to ask someone to marry him just to mother his child. He was a product of a loveless marriage and knew from experience the negative impact that had on a childhood. He wasn’t even sure if he could love another woman. Just thinking about remarriage made him feel disloyal to his deceased wife.

  The boardinghouse reeked of cooked cabbage when Brandon walked in. The proprietress was British, which meant everything got boiled to death.

  Altogether there were five boarders, including him and Haley. The two-story house was located two blocks away from his work. Haley could walk the short distance through the alley an
d pop in to see him whenever she wanted. The boardinghouse was also conveniently located to the one-room schoolhouse.

  He found Haley upstairs in her room, which was little more than an alcove off his, separated by a freestanding wooden screen. She lay face down on her bed, peering at an open book. Angry voices from the house next door drifted through the open window.

  She turned her head when he walked in, and a worried frown creased her forehead. He was so incensed he’d forgotten to knock as was his usual habit.

  “We need to talk,” he said without apology.

  Haley sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “What about?”

  Battling the windblown curtains, he closed the window against the raging argument outside. By the sound of things, Mr. Bennett’s goat had once again eaten the wash from Mrs. Campbell’s clothesline.

  He faced his daughter. “I spoke to your teacher. She said you’ve been skipping school.”

  Haley folded her arms and pushed out her bottom lip. “I hate school. It’s dumb.”

  He pulled a chair away from the desk and sat. “Not going to school is dumb.”

  “I don’t need school. I know how to read and write and do numbers.”

  “Those are just the basic skills. Now you must learn how to put them to use. There’s also much to learn about history and science.”

  Haley scrunched up her nose. “Miss Langley makes us do stupid stuff. Like drawing human bodies that look like houses.”

  He couldn’t argue with her there. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his lap and folded his hands between his knees. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Even you?”

  “Yeah, even me.” He’d never wanted to bury a wife or raise a child alone. Nor had he wanted to start over in a whole new town. But it was either that or continue working for a paper he no longer believed in. A paper that had become too political for his blood. The last straw came when the editor announced his paper would support a candidate for president accused of accepting a bribe from Union Pacific. The charges had never been proven, but they were too serious to dismiss without proper investigation.

  Now Brandon sat back in his chair. “Sometimes you just have to make the best of things and do what you have to do.”

  “But Pa . . .”

  He toughened his stance, though he was loathe to do so. If he didn’t stand his ground, she would wrap him around her finger, as she was prone to do, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not this time. Her education was too important to mess around with.

  “There’ll be no more skipping school, and that’s final. Do I make myself clear?”

  She clamped her mouth shut and nodded.

  He frowned. It wasn’t like her to capitulate so quickly. “I mean it, Haley.”

  “I heard you.”

  He sucked in his breath. How could dealing with one nine-year-old make him feel so inept? Slapping his lap with both hands, he rose. “Okay, then.”

  He replaced the chair and noticed her sketch book laying open on the desk. She had drawn a picture of him.

  The likeness wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. His face was a little long. And did his ears really stick out that far? But she had captured the indention in his chin just right. The hair, parted at the side and dipping across his forehead as it tended to do, wasn’t bad either. His daughter had artistic talent, and she sure in heck didn’t get it from him.

  She joined him at the desk as he flipped through the sketchbook. The entire book was filled with drawings of him. That was him on his horse, Thunder. One image caught him behind his printing press. Yet another showed him in profile gazing out the window. She’d even captured him sitting in the boarding-house dining room, drinking coffee and scribbling notes to himself as was his daily habit.

  “Why did you draw all these pictures of me? Hmm? I’m sure you could find something more interesting to draw.”

  “I don’t have a photograph of you, Papa.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A photograph?”

  “I don’t have one of Mama either.”

  “Your mother was a very modest person. She didn’t like having her picture taken.”

  The brown eyes staring back at him appeared close to tears. “But I don’t know what she looked like.”

  Something tugged at his insides, and he struggled for words. “I told you what she looked like. She had blond hair, just like you. And a beautiful smile and—”

  “But I can’t see her in my head. That’s why I drew all those pictures of you. If you go away, I want to see you in my head.”

  A feeling like a rock settled in his chest. By “go away,” she meant if he died.

  Turning to face her, he rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere, muffin,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m staying right here with you.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Billy Watkins’s pa—”

  “So that’s what this is about.” They hadn’t been in Two-Time a month before the father of one of her classmates died. Brandon had had no idea it affected her so deeply. “Mr. Watkins had a bad heart. And mine is strong as an ox’s.” Or at least it had been before they started this conversation. Now it felt like mush. He drew her close. Wrapping his arms around her, he closed his eyes and held her tight. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he intended to do right by her. “Nothing’s gonna take me away from you. Nothing.”

  For several moments neither spoke, until from downstairs came the sound of the supper bell and he released her. “We better go and eat,” he said. He sure did hope that the meal tasted better than it smelled.

  Arm around her shoulder, he guided her across the room, stopping at the door.

  “One more thing: why did you draw a picture of Mrs. Johnson?”

  Haley gazed up at him, her forehead creased. “Who’s Mrs. Johnson?”

  “The lady who owns the other newspaper in town. Your teacher showed me the drawing you drew of her.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know her name. I think she’s pretty.”

  A vision of the widow’s face came to mind, and he shook it away. “Is that why you drew her picture. Because you think she’s pretty?”

  Haley nodded. “Don’t you, Papa?”

  “Well, I . . . um . . . I think that’s the bell again. Let’s go and eat.”

  Chapter 4

  Notice: Let it be known that from this day forward, all important milestones such as births, marriages and deaths will be found under the heading “Hatches, Matches and Dispatches.”

  —Two-Time Gazette

  That night, Josie waited for Hank to finish setting type and leave the office before scooping the Lone Star Press out of the wastepaper basket. Spreading the paper across her desk, she adjusted the oil lamp and read it word for word.

  After suffering through the Arizona newspapers with their misspellings, poor grammar, and what her husband, Ralph, had called creative punctuation, she prided herself on putting out a weekly that was, except for rare occasions, error free. How irritating that Mr. Wade’s newspaper was equally void of grammatical blunders.

  Even more irksome, the articles were well written and appeared accurate. That is, once she got through the hyperbole and boldly worded headlines.

  The print was bright and clear and without smudges, which made her ache with envy. Her small Army press could not compete with the perfecting press used by Mr. Wade. Her old printer was on its last legs and required much in the way of coaxing and well-aimed strikes of a hammer to get it going. In contrast, Wade’s press printed both sides of the paper with one pass through the machine. Not only did this save time but prevented the possibility of paper wrinkling during initial print runs and creating dreaded logjams.

  Her plan of purchasing a new press would now have to wait until she could figure out how to lure back her readers. Replacing the leaky roof over her office was also out of the question. As for the single window . . . It was so warped that it would no longer close all the way and had to be boarded up during blue northers.

  Putting off necessary repairs was the least of it; she would also have to cut expenses. But where?

  Some newspapers used patent pages, which cost five dollars a week. They were cheaper, since most of the work was already done, eliminating the need for employees. The ready pages were already printed with the national and international news on pages one and three. Pages two and four were left blank for editors to add advertisements and local news.