Just Her Type (6 page)

“Yes.”

His lips straightened. “And sleeping with you?”

“Aaron, you should know better. He's sleeping on the settee just as you did last year when you got snowed in here in town.”

“Your father was here then.”

“And Douglas is here now.”

“Mackenzie, I didn't mean to suggest—”

She put her hands on her waist. “Maybe not, but you did.” If Aaron suspected how often thoughts of Luke intruded on her days—and nights—there
would
be even more trouble.

“Mackenzie, I—” He glowered at several men who were listening to their conversation, then he spat an order for them to be on their way.

“Why are you so on edge, Aaron?”

He frowned. “How long is Bradfield staying?”

“A few weeks.”

“Weeks?” he gasped in disbelief. “Just be careful, darlin'. That man's a temptation to trouble for you.”

“He's not interested in anything except getting stories for his paper.” The lie came more easily than she had expected. Maybe because she had been repeating it to herself so often.

“And you?”

“Aaron, I've heard all I want of this. I need to finish my work for Mr. Rutherford.”

Swearing, he slapped his hat against his denims. “Why do you do work for that dog?”

“My print shop takes everyone's business.”

He caught her arm as she walked toward the door. “Don't let me hear that Eastern laddie is sleeping with my girl.”

“I'm not your girl, Aaron.”

“No?” With a laugh, he kissed her resoundingly.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and glared at him.

“I don't taste that bad.” He laughed louder.

“Whatever you have been drinking does.”

“Just Stub's whiskey.” Instantly, he was contrite. “Darlin', I forgot. Please, let me—”

Mackenzie shook her head. “I've got to get to work.”

She left Aaron standing on the porch. She had thought after three years, the agony would go away, but it came back with each mention of Stub's saloon or the road edging Aaron's spread or … Closing her eyes, she took a slow breath.

Walking to the press, she began to work. The clank of the platen against the tympan and the type was comforting.

“So can I stay?”

Her hands froze over the type. Only slowly did the words intrude into her grief. Raising the platen and locking it into place, she asked, “What do you mean?”

Crooking his thumb toward the street, Luke grinned. “Will your knight in shining armor allow you to host a gentleman most errant?”

“Aaron doesn't tell me what to do.” When his eyes narrowed, she added, “Do you have that all clean? Then put it away.”

He rose and stretched. It was too easy to recall his strong body moving with leonine grace in the first glow of the sunrise. She gasped when his rough skin grazed her cheek as he tilted her face beneath his. As unsure as a young girl with her first beau, she was too aware of how her hands wanted to touch him.

“Luke, you shouldn't—”

“I should.” His lips pressed to hers as his arm slipped around her, cradling her against his tantalizing mouth.

When he released her, she stared up at him, astonished. Aaron had kissed her, and she could not wait to escape his lips. Now Luke had kissed her, and she had wanted the kiss to last forever.

“Luke …”

He cupped her elbows. “I don't know what O'Grady said, but, if you need help, Mackenzie, don't hesitate to ask.”

“I—I—I'm fine,” she whispered.

His hand curved along her cheek again. “All right, if you say so. I'm going to get some clean water.”

Last night she had not wanted him to touch her, but today she had to fight to keep from shouting for him to come back and hold her.
A temptation to trouble
. Although she seldom agreed with Aaron, he was right. Luke was a temptation she must ignore.

Looking up from the advertisements she was editing for the issue due out in two days, Mackenzie smiled. “Luke, you can't expect me to listen to that prattle without comment.”

“You never listen to anything without comment.” He put the broom by the stairs and yawned. They both had worked hard yesterday and today, and would again tomorrow.

“How can you say that Wyoming women should be disenfranchised?”

He sat on the half-wall and crossed his arms. “Why should the women here be allowed a right no other women in the United States have?”

“You should ask why the rest of the women haven't been given the rights we have.”

His dark eyes crinkled. “Enlighten me, Mackenzie, as long as you don't mind if I pass your comments on to the readers of the
Independent
. They should be amused by them.”

She mirrored his nonchalant pose. “All right, but not now. You need to get back to work.”

He crossed the room in a pair of steps. When he put one hand on the back of her chair and the other on her desk, his nose was only inches from hers. “Listen, Mackenzie, you've kept me so busy working for you, that I haven't done any of the work I promised Carter.”

“I'm your editor now.”

“Not by my choice.”

As she rose, she smiled coolly. “You've had your future, at least for the next few weeks, dictated to you without any consideration of your opinions. That makes you feel lousy, doesn't it?”

He chuckled. “Don't try to twist my words to prove your point. Working for you has nothing to do with women's suffrage.”

“It doesn't? You're in a situation over which you have no control. Just like the women back east.”

Putting his hand on her arm, he brought her to face him. “And your feminine wiles prove why our country is safer when women don't vote. There's enough corruption without allowing you to bring your unique charms to complicate the situation.” His voice deepened. “And you do have unique charms.”

Peeling his fingers off her arm, she drew back. She had been a fool to let him kiss her once. “Deadline is looming.”

“Mackenzie—”

“Not now! We have to get this done.”

“And after deadline?”

She turned away. Her body yearned to succumb to his thrilling touch. Work would exhaust her. Then she could fall into her bed and sleep, despite the dreams of Luke that came to her.

Mackenzie sat at her desk and watched dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Leaning her elbow on the desk, she rested her cheek against her palm. Last night had been a late one, for one of the toggles on the platen had stuck. Even with Luke's help, it had taken more than an hour to fix. Once again, despite ridiculous odds,
The Bentonville Bugle
had met its deadline.

More work needed to be finished before supper. News of the upcoming statehood must be posted everywhere in town. She also had agreed to print posters for a traveling theater group.

Reaching for the poster she had been sent to copy, she saw something on top of it. Where had this slip of paper come from? Opening it, she did not dare to breathe as she read the crude note.

No rite about cattel ruselers
.

Rite and
Bugle
be burnt again
.

Rite and boy die as Pa died
.

Mackenzie crumpled the page and threw it into the trash can. Vicious laughter rang through her head. She whirled. No one. Only her own terror.

Pa would not have taken such a threat in silence. He would have expounded in great length in the
Bugle
about a man too cowardly to sign his name. She could do the same. She should … She looked out the window to see Douglas tossing a baseball and cheering. She would never risk her son.

She folded her hands and leaned her forehead on them. How could she protect him? Or was this just a cruel joke? She sighed.

“You sound as if you're expecting the end of the world.”

Glancing up, she gasped, “Luke, I thought you were playing ball with the boys.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead as he bent to scoop a dipper of water from the pail. His shirt clung damply to him, announcing each motion of his muscular torso. “Something told me you needed me more than they did.”

“Something?”

“Remember your first lesson in working on a newspaper? A good reporter uses all his senses. I used my eyes.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “I came in to tell you that Douglas hit a home run, and I find you looking as if you'd had another visit from O'Grady.”

“I'm fine.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “Is that so? I've seen happier faces at a funeral.” When she winced, he put the ladle on her desk. “What's wrong, Mackenzie?”

It took all her strength to force her stiff shoulders to shrug. “Douglas hit a home run?” She stood and picked up a handful of papers. Stacking them on another pile, she smiled. “That's great.”

“What's not great is your lying to me. Sweetheart, what's wrong?”

“You calling me that to begin with!” she snapped.

He chuckled. “Sorry. I forget you're O'Grady's girl.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Talk.”

“Whose?”

His fingertip drew a random path along her arm beneath her short, puffed sleeve. “Lots of folks. Folks who are downright anxious that you might give the newspaper to O'Grady.”

Her chin rose in defiance. “Tell them not to worry. I'm not Aaron's girl.”

“Now or in the future?”

“Why this sudden interest in my romantic life? Jealous?”

He stood and grinned at her. “I'd rather bed down with a grizzly than with you, sweetheart. At least, then I'd know where to look for claw marks.”

She opened the door to the stairs. As she put her foot on the first riser, she said, “I'm sure we can arrange a way to satisfy your perverted tastes.” His laughter followed her up the stairs, easing, for a few more seconds, the fear.

The relief did not last through supper. As Mackenzie watched her son joking with Luke, the crude note played through her head. She should—if she had an iota of sense—close the
Bugle
. The most stubborn part of her refused.

Mackenzie lost herself in habit. Making sure Douglas had his schoolwork finished, sending him to bed with a kiss, washing the dishes.

When she finished drying the dishes, she hung the towel by the stove. She drew two cups off the shelf and, taking up the coffeepot, filled them. She set them on the table where Luke had been working since she had cleared the supper dishes. “Didn't you just send the
Independent
an article?”

“I promised Carter one every other day.” He grinned. “Why don't you sit and help this coffee keep me awake?”

“Such pretty talk is sure to turn my head.”

He chuckled. “I doubt that.” As she sat across from him, he asked, “Are you ready to tell me what upset you so much this afternoon?”

Although Mackenzie longed to be honest, Luke understood too little about the folks here. To keep him from asking more questions she had no intention of answering, she tapped the page in front of him. “What are you writing about?”

“Nothing.” Lowering his cup to the table, he sighed. “I'm waiting for an idea.”

“With all the things you find fascinating here, you can't think of anything to write?”

“The
Independent
is different from the
Bugle
. Our readers don't know each other. They care about meaty issues.”

“That's a shame … for you. There's a family feeling here I wouldn't trade for your big-city anonymity.”

“And like all families, the patriarchs of Bentonville wrestle for control?”

“I wouldn't call the Terrible Trio a family.” Resting her arms on the table, she glanced past him to Cameron's picture and away. “You need to understand a few things. The cattle barons have set themselves up as feudal lords. They prey on each other, but, unlike the lords of old, they offer no protection to those who do their dirty deeds. Instead they watch while their henchmen are sent to hang. When the hanging is done, they count their profits, for gold and power are the only two gods they idolize.” She laughed as she saw he was writing. “Are you listening to me?”

He looked up. “Sorry. Inspiration struck in the middle of your diatribe.”

“Inspiration?”

“Just something you said.”

“About what?”

He blocked her view of his handwriting. “Don't you think I find everything you say engrossing?”

“No, for you were rather perturbed when we were talking about women's suffrage.” When he grimaced, she laughed.

“I won't argue about that anymore.” He scooped up the pages and tossed them on the sofa. “It's stuffy in here, Mackenzie. What do you say to a walk?”

Rising, she reached for her bonnet. This was just the excuse she needed to be certain no one was lurking out there tonight. “Going for a walk sounds wonderful, but, Luke, just out to the barn and back.”

“Are you scared of some beast?” he teased as she tied on her poke bonnet. Taking her crocheted shawl, he draped it over her shoulders.

Again she wanted to be honest about the note, but said, “I don't want to have Douglas wake and find us gone.”

He took her hand as they walked down the stairs. Although her toes knew each board, she needed his touch to remind her she was not alone. When they stepped into the refreshing night, she put her hand on his arm.

In silence, they turned their backs on the hubbub of the saloon down the street. Tufts of grass caught at her skirt, but she ignored it with the ease of years of living at the edge of the range. Moonlight etched the landscape, creating shadows against the gray. The rough edges of the mountains were smoothed by the dim light.

A lonesome sound climbed into the night, and Luke cursed. “What was that?”

“Timber wolves by the sound. The cowboys shoot as many as they can, but the sheepmen suffer more losses on top of what they lose to—to the other dangers of the range.”