Just Her Type (3 page)

She heard Luke ask, “What are you doing, Douglas?”

“Ciphering,” grumbled her son. “I hate it.”

Mackenzie spooned out three bowls of soup and carried two to the table. “You'll have to finish that later, Douglas.”

“Aw, Ma, I'm almost done. If I finish now, I'll have time to play baseball after supper.”

“Now, Douglas—”

When Luke interrupted, she was so shocked that she nearly dropped the third bowl of soup. “He can be done by the time you get coffee on the table.”

“I don't have any coffee made.”

He smiled. “Then he'll have even more time, won't he?”

As he leaned toward Douglas and began explaining a short-cut, she heard Douglas laugh. That he could sound cheerful while ciphering was amazing. So amazing it was worth being ordered about … this time. She never had been able to lessen the agony for Douglas. Even knowing that he would need to know how to add and subtract to manage the
Bugle
had not helped. He wanted to be a cowboy.

She closed her eyes and whispered the prayer she had spoken so often, “Please, God, not a cowboy.” She wanted more for her son than a thankless, dangerous life on the high ranges.

After putting the coffeepot on, Mackenzie peered over Douglas's shoulder. She smiled when Luke gave suggestions without answers. Douglas laughed again, this time in triumph. She reached out to put her hands on his shoulders to congratulate him.

Luke stood, catching her hands on his arms. She gasped and backed away so hastily she almost bumped into the wall.

“Steady there,” Luke said, chuckling. “You sure are jumpy. But if you crack your head against the wall, you'll pass out. That wouldn't be a very good beginning to our partnership.”

“I wasn't under the impression we were partners.”

Grinning, he stuck one hand in his trousers' pocket while the other rested on the wall. He eclipsed the rest of the room as he moved closer. She wanted to put out her hands, but doubted if he would be stopped that easily. He seemed to do as he wished. She rested her head back against the wall as his breath wafted through her hair. Even though he did not touch her, her skin tingled. She saw his amusement. He knew how much he unsettled her.

“That's right,” he murmured. “We aren't partners. You are the boss lady. I'm just the lowly devil.”

The glint in his eyes suggested he could be exactly that. She frowned. Luke Bradfield was a man—and an exasperating one.

“If you'd get out of my way,” she said, “I'll finish serving supper.”

“Allow me.” He chuckled as he reached for the towel she had used to lift the hot ladle.

She took the cloth. “Nonsense. Sit while I get the coffee. Douglas, do you want some?”

“Just milk.” He folded the page and put it in his schoolbook. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Bradfield.”

“You're welcome. Why don't you call me Luke?”

Douglas tossed his books on the sofa. “I think he's going to be all right, Ma. Don't you?”

Mackenzie flushed when she realized Luke was grinning as widely as her son. When had they become allies? As she reached for the coffeepot, Luke caught her hand.

Holding her gaze, he asked, “Do you think I'm going to be all right, too, Mackenzie?”

She jerked her hand away, glad to let outrage engulf her pleasure at his touch. “Don't waste your Eastern wiles on us. We aren't impressed by such pranks.”

He lowered his voice. “What impresses you?”

“Hard, honest work.” She pushed past him. “Sit, so we can eat. I'm too hungry to argue.”

At his chuckle, her back stiffened. She had not thought Luke's behavior could be more intolerable.

She placed a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. When Luke stirred a generous portion of the milk into it, she remained silent. He would have to drink his coffee black when he came to work tomorrow. Mr. Iturbide traded milk and eggs for his newspaper, but the homesteader did not come to town until afternoon.

Sitting beside Douglas, she listened while he quizzed Luke about his trip.

“I came through Chicago,” said Luke, sipping the coffee. “You make a good cup, Mackenzie.”

“Practice. I've spent years working long past midnight with only coffee to keep us going.”

“Everything's delicious. You wouldn't be interested in coming back east to cook for me, would you?”

“Don't judge my cooking by this. Douglas can tell you that I prefer to cook simple things.”

Her son piped up, “Don't forget. You promised me a cake for my birthday.”

“Chocolate with mint frosting.” She teased his hair. “How can I forget when you remind me at least once a day?”

“You forgot last year.”

Luke saw her wince. Curiosity needled him. Mackenzie seemed too devoted to her son to forget his birthday.

“When's your birthday, Douglas?” he asked.

“In a couple of more weeks.”

“And you'll be …?”

“Ten,” he said proudly.

Mackenzie laughed, tautly. “Two whole hands old. I plan to make you the best cake you've ever had.”

Douglas smiled and reached for more bread. “She's really a very, very good cook, Luke.”

“I expect I'll become a good judge of that while I'm staying here.”

Mackenzie lowered her spoon. “Staying here? In Bentonville, you mean.”

“I mean here.”

“You can't stay with us.”

“Why not?”

“Where would you sleep? We've only got this room and my bedroom.”

“Where does Douglas sleep?”

Douglas pointed toward the ceiling. “Up in the loft.”

“Fine.” Luke patted him on the shoulder. “We'll be bunkmates. Is that the right word?”

Mackenzie gripped the table. “You need to find somewhere else to stay.”

“The hotel costs a dollar a day. My paper can't afford that.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“I did. Carter told me Mackenzie would find a place for me to sleep. So, Mackenzie, where shall I sleep?”

“Not up there with Douglas. There isn't room.”

Folding his arms on the table, he leaned toward her. “That leaves your bedroom.”

“Luke, watch what you are saying!” She glanced at her son.

“I'm your apprentice.” He smiled, but with a coldness that sank through her. “My dear Mackenzie, it's your responsibility to see that I have a place to rest after my long day of lessons at the feet of my master.” He tilted a single eyebrow. “Or should I say mistress?”

“Don't be absurd. There's no place for you here with us.”

“What about the sofa?”

A knock spared her from having to answer. Rising, she motioned for Douglas to finish his supper. Then she would send him out to play baseball with his friends. She wanted him out of the house, so she did not have to worry about every word she spoke.

When she opened the door to the stairs, she smiled at the man on the narrow landing. A tin star glistened on his chamois shirt. She smiled when he tipped his battered Stetson before leaning it against his hip, where he wore a Colt pistol.

“Sheriff,” she asked, “what brings you over here?”

“Would you believe it was the fine smell of your cooking?” he asked, his brown eyes crinkling.

She laughed. “Come in and join us.”

“I don't want to bother you at supper.”

“Nonsense. We have … company already.”

Luke rose and offered his hand. Hoping no one had noticed his astonishment when he saw the lawman was black, he said, “Name's Luke Bradfield.”

“Horace Roosevelt.” He shook Luke's hand, but looked at Mackenzie.

“Luke's here to write for his newspaper back east,” she said quietly. “I'm sure he'll want to talk to you.”

Luke smiled. “If you can give me a couple of hours, Sheriff, I'd appreciate it. You Western lawmen are legend back east.”

Douglas interjected, “You can tell him about the time you caught those cattle rustlers out on Rutherford's spread.”

“Rutherford?” asked Luke.

“Rutherford owns a big ranch south of town,” Mackenzie said as she offered the sheriff some supper.

Sheriff Roosevelt grinned. “Can't stay. Connolly's back, and some of his boys have come into town to enjoy the bonuses he gave out. Before the party begins, I've got to round up some help to keep the peace. How 'bout you, Bradfield?”

“I'm proof that the pen is mightier than the sword,” Luke replied as he watched Mackenzie. She remained calm, picking up Douglas's bowl. Women back home would have been horrified by such news. Things
were
different in Bentonville.

“I don't think there will be much trouble.” The sheriff set the brown felt hat low over his brow. “We'll keep an eye on you, Mackenzie.”

“Don't worry about us. Worry about the saloon.”

With a laugh, he went down the steps.

Mackenzie closed the door, but the sheriff's friendly shout to the boys playing behind the newspaper building slipped through. She went into her bedroom. She needed to calm herself. Two years ago, the saloon had been destroyed during Connolly's boys' celebration and so had the
Bugle
. An accident. She shivered. Accidents happened when liquor and fools mixed.

She pulled a pillow off her bed and wrapped the extra quilt over her arm. As always, she avoided looking at the wide bed. Each night, it stared at her like an accusation. She had tried to help Douglas accept what she could not, because nothing lessened the pain of losing his father … and hers.

Mackenzie dropped the pillow and quilt on the sofa. Only then did she look at Luke who was pouring a second cup of coffee. She wondered when he last had enjoyed a good night's sleep. Or when she had.

“I met Connolly at the station,” Luke said. “He looks like a big spender.”

“He's one of the three cattle ranchers Douglas calls the ‘Terrible Trio,' although I think it's more accurate that Connolly and Aaron O'Grady are the ‘Diabolical Duo.'”

“So who's the third?” He sat at the table. “This Rutherford you were talking about?”

Her eyebrows arched. “You're very perceptive.”

“I have to be.”

“I'll have to remember to watch everything I say.” Slowly she sat, grimacing as she moved her aching shoulder.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just sore,” she answered, smiling at his unexpected sympathy. “From an obstinacy that convinces me I must keep putting out two issues of the
Bugle
each week, although the staff is just me and Douglas.”

“And me.”

“Maybe.” When he scowled, she hurried to add, “You are a novice. Tomorrow, after you get yourself some decent working clothes, I'll start you on the basics.”

He rested his arms on the table. “Which are?”

“Cleaning the type.”

“You're joking!”

“Did you think it went back into its slots all by itself? It has to be soaked to wash out any ink. If you work hard, you might get it done before nightfall.”

“That's absurd! I'm a reporter, not a housemaid.”

She picked up her cup. “I thought you were a newspaperman.”

As she listed the tasks ahead of them tomorrow, she saw his frustration fade. There was little glory in her work. The sooner he learned that, the better.

When Douglas came in, sweat discoloring his shirt, Mackenzie sent him back out to wash up. “And bring in a bucket of water for the morning!”

“I bet you tell him that every night,” said Luke.

“I do, but how—?”

He chuckled as he stood and stretched. She lowered her eyes before he could catch her watching his fluid motions. “I used to be a boy,” he said. “Mothers have a habit of reminding a boy to do things he'd rather forget.”

“I didn't realize we were such beastly characters.”

“Only when a boy wants to be a man.”

She did not have a chance to answer as Douglas bounced into the room to tell them good night and endure a kiss from her. He scurried up to the privacy of the loft.

As his footsteps thumped overhead, Mackenzie spread the quilt on top of the ragged blanket on the sofa. “If you're smart, you'll leave the blanket over the cushions. If you don't see the holes, you might be more comfortable.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“You don't have to be sarcastic! It's not as if I were expecting a guest.”

He held up his hands. “To be honest, the thought of sleeping on something other than a train bench is intoxicating.”

“Forgive me.” Apologizing to him was not as difficult as she had imagined. “I forget that Douglas is the only one accustomed to how grouchy I am after I've put together a stubborn issue.”

Luke plumped the thin pillow. “Have you always lived up here?”

“I grew up here. Douglas and I've lived here for the past three years or so.”

“Since his father died?”

When she glanced at a photograph hanging next to the window, Luke knew the man must be Douglas's father. Despite the stilted pose, he had the same hint of a smile as the boy.

She turned away to pick up the dirty dishes. “Yes.”

“Where did you live before that?”

“I am not the subject of one of your investigations.”

He shrugged as he sat on the sofa. When it groaned beneath him, he bit back a curse. “I'm trying to be friendly. If you don't want to talk about it, that's your business.”

“There is nothing to talk about. When Cameron died in that accident, we moved back here with Pa. After Pa died, we stayed here.”

“Cameron?” he asked as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“Cameron McCraven.”

“I didn't realize you and McCraven lived together.”

“Don't wives live with their husbands back east?”

“Husband? I thought—”

“That Cameron and I weren't married because I'm Mackenzie Smith?” She wrung a cloth over the bucket and wiped the table. “I kept my maiden name for two reasons. One is the sign outside. It was cheaper to add ‘and Son.' The second is that I never wanted to be Mackenzie McCraven.” Her face softened as she dropped the rag into the bucket. “I almost told Cameron I wouldn't marry him because of that.”