Just Her Type (7 page)

Luke stopped. “What other dangers?”

“Weather, lack of grass and water, things like that.”

“Those are conditions, not dangers. There must be something to the stories I've been hearing at Stub's saloon about rivalry between the cattlemen and the sheepmen.”

When she stepped away, he brought her back against him. “Luke …”

“Just let me look at you,” he whispered. “That's been my only pleasure since I started slaving for you.”

“I work as hard as you do.”

“No one could deny that, but we aren't working now, Madam Editor. You're a lovely woman alone on the far side of a barn with a man who enjoys looking at the sapphire skies reflected in your eyes each morning.”

The image of seeing him closer each dawn erupted into her head. His head on her pillow, her hair covering his bare shoulders, and his mouth only a wish away from hers.
No! I must not be thinking like this
.

“Luke, we ought to be returning …” His fingertip stroked her lips. As gentle as the breeze, it sent a fierce yearning through her.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” He reached for the ribbons beneath her chin. When he let the bonnet fall to the ground, a quiver ran along her, a quiver of anticipation and of a longing she had tried to forget.

With a soft groan, he seized her, bringing her mouth to his. Her hands rose to his shoulders. When she touched him, his kiss deepened. Savoring the pure pleasure, she answered with her own desire. As his lips skimmed her face, he kissed the curve of her jaw before letting his lips spiral along the responsive skin of her throat. Unable to control the rapture weakening her knees, she clung to him.

He whispered, “Tell me what's chasing you into my arms.” His hand under her chin brought her eyes up. “You're scared. Of what?”

“Is this why you kissed me?”

His voice deepened into a growl. “If you think I kissed you only to seduce the truth from you, you're wrong. I can think of nothing I'd rather do than lean you back in the grass and make love with you until the sun rises.”

Her eyes widened. “You presume too much from a few kisses.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“Why not? I can't tell you what's frightening me because there's nothing to tell.” Her voice cracked, and she had to fight not to blurt out the truth.

For a long minute, he said nothing. Then he put his arm around her. “All right, sweetheart. We'll pretend everything is perfect, but, just remember, if you need me, I'm here. We newspaper people stick together, right?”

“Right,” she agreed, surprised at the solace of the single word. She leaned her head against his shoulder as the terror rose like a phantom from the ebony shadows. She hoped it would not strike tonight. She needed time to figure out a way to best it.

FIVE

“Mrs. McCraven?”

Mackenzie glanced up from where she was laying out pages for the next edition. Few people in Bentonville called her by her married name.

She smiled at the man who stood by the half-wall. Looping the top of his ivory cane over his wrist, Jamison Rutherford returned her smile. His teeth were bright in his weathered face. Though his hair was gray, a black mustache emphasized his smile which, unlike his rivals', glowed in his eyes as well as on his lips. He pulled off his gloves.

“Mr. Rutherford, please come in.”

He stepped over the pages she had spread across the floor. She motioned for him to be seated in the extra chair. Wishing Luke were here to see that all the cattle ranchers were not thieves pretending to be gentlemen, she sat.

“I see you enjoyed the postcard I sent you,” he said in his high-pitched voice.

“I admit I've dreamed of visiting Paris.”

“You'd enjoy it. Maybe someday.”

Embarrassment burned inside her. He knew as well as she did that traveling about the world was only a dream for her. Every part of her life was enmeshed with the
Bugle
and Bentonville.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Rutherford?”

“I want to put an advertisement in the paper.”

“Let me get a notepad.” She withdrew a piece of paper from the scraps on her desk and found a pencil. “Go ahead.”

“This is for page one.”

“You know the
Bugle
does not print advertisements on the front page.”

“Most papers do.”

“I realize that, but this is my policy. Only news.”

“You may consider this newsworthy.” When she said nothing, he began to dictate, “For information leading to the arrest of the rustlers who stole one hundred head of cattle from the Lazy Bar R Ranch last night, a reward of ten thousand dollars is offered.”

Her pencil faltered. “Did you say the reward is ten thousand dollars?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“Men will turn in their own mothers for that kind of money, Mr. Rutherford.”

He smiled and rolled his cane between his fingers. “Exactly. Now will you print it?”

“Yes, but not on page one.”

“Mrs. McCraven, if it's a matter of money, I'll pay extra. I want everyone to see this.”

She folded the paper and put it in her apron pocket. “You don't need to worry about anyone missing it. Once the word is out that you're offering that amount of money, you won't need the
Bugle
. Page two, column two, next to the masthead, the usual rates.”

“You're a hard woman to deal with. It's too bad I'm not a few years younger, Mrs. McCraven. I might make you an offer of marriage instead of just business.” He pulled on his gloves and tapped his hat into place. “Perhaps, when this trouble is cleared up, you will allow me to play host to you and your son. I understand that Douglas wants to learn more about working the ranges.”

Despite herself, she frowned. She had no intention of letting Douglas become a low-paid, overworked cowpuncher. “Douglas will be taking over the paper, Mr. Rutherford.”

“Does that mean you won't pay me a visit?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.” He tightened his hand around the cane. “If that reward doesn't get me those rustlers, I'm not sure what else I can do.”

Mackenzie dampened her lips. Mr. Rutherford treated her with respect. If she was too outspoken, she might lose that. Even so, she said, “Mr. Rutherford, if you could convince Aaron O'Grady and Forsythe Connolly to work with you—”

“I've spoken with both of them.” His black eyes drilled her. “Connolly can't see past the tip of his nose, and if
you
can't convince O'Grady to see reason, how can I? Those two fools think they are better off losing a few calves here and there than to be obligated in any way to each other.”

“Even if you capture these rustlers, there will be others who learn how to rebrand a calf.”

He nodded. “You have an excellent grasp of the problem, Mrs. McCraven. I look forward to discussing this again soon.”

Mackenzie smiled. If she was able to convince even one of the Terrible Trio to listen, there might be hope for establishing a truce. The rustlers would be halted along with her need to write about them. That would put an end to the threat to Douglas. “Anytime when the
Bugle
allows me a few free hours.”

“Wonderful. I …”

When she saw his brows knit together, she followed his gaze to where Luke was closing the door. A softness oozed through her. During the night, her dreams had been filled with memories of the delight she had found in his arms.

Knowing this was not the time to think of how she yearned for his kisses, she said, “Jamison Rutherford, I'd like you to meet Luke Bradfield. He's working at the
Bugle.
”

“Good to meet you,” the cattle baron said as he extended his hand. “I'd heard Mrs. McCraven had a new assistant. In Bentonville to stay, Bradfield?”

“No, sir,” Luke answered, surprising her with his courtesy. “Just a temporary assignment.”

“Mr. Bradfield is doing a series of articles for
The Albany Independent,
” she explained.

“If you'd be interested in visiting the Lazy Bar R, I'll be delighted to show you about personally.” Tipping his hat in Mackenzie's direction, he strolled out of the office and toward the center of town.

“So that's the third of your Terrible Trio.” Stepping over the pages, he grimaced when they fluttered beneath his feet.

She settled them back into place. “Luke, careful what you say.”

He knelt and pointed to her editorial. “You've written this, but ask
me
to be careful?”

“The readers expect controversy in my editorials. Give the public what they want, right?” Before he could answer, she continued. “Will you go to the station and arrange for the newsprint to be brought over here? The station master can help you.”

“I thought I'd help with the setup.”

Although she understood his contempt for the errands she sent him on, she could not let his kisses change anything. He needed to learn all aspects of running the
Bugle
. “Getting the newsprint is important. Without it, we can't publish.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Mackenzie, I think—”

“Will you go so I can finish here? When you come back, we can start setting the type.”

He rose, grumbling an oath. As he walked toward the front door, she bent to her work. She could not bear the dissatisfaction on his face.

When her arms were grasped and she was tugged to her feet, her eyes widened as they met Luke's fury. She stared at him, unsure if he would kiss or shake her.

He released her. “If you weren't so easy to look at, it'd be a lot easier to stay angry at you. Why can't you be as ugly as a bull terrier, like Carter?”

She did not answer the unanswerable. Clasping her trembling hands behind her so she did not put them on his arms, she said, “The station office closes early on Fridays. If you don't get it today, we may run out. I don't want to chance that.”

He stormed out.

She went to the window and pressed her fingers to the glass below the gold letters she had painted a week before her father's death. She watched Luke stride away along the street.

She turned away, losing herself in the work necessary to make each issue of
The Bentonville Bugle
better than the previous one. As she bent over the pages, she wondered if this haven, which had helped her survive the most horrible times of her life, would protect her heart this time.

With a tired sigh, Mackenzie dropped onto the sofa. She flexed fingers which had become cramped from hours of setting type. If Douglas had not made sandwiches for supper, she doubted she would have eaten.

Luke had not returned. At first, she had been concerned, but Zared, the telegraph operator, had stopped by with the news from the syndicate which kept the
Bugle
supplied with information from back east.

“Sure, I saw him,” Zared had said as she deciphered his scrawl. “Stopped by to send some stuff to Albany. Asked if I wanted to go to Stub's with him.”

She flinched. That Luke planned to take refuge at the saloon hurt, but she reminded herself that history was not repeating itself. She did not care what he did.

That was a lie. She did care. Very, very much. Perhaps, if she had explained, he might have stayed away from the saloon. She sighed. Requesting that would make him even more eager to go there.

She closed her eyes. She did not open them when she heard footsteps. Douglas should be in bed by now, but she was too exhausted to admonish him. When a cup of tea was pushed into her hand, she whispered her thanks.

“You're welcome.”

At the deep voice, she looked up at Luke. “I thought you were newspaperman enough to know I needed you for today's deadline.”

“You've handled it before without me. What I've been doing was more important.”

“More important than a deadline?”

“Forget the
Bugle
for a minute.” He sat beside her and took a deep drink from his cup.

Her nose wrinkled at the odors of sweat and horseflesh. His clothes were dusty. Where else had he been?

“I've been out asking a few questions,” he said as if she had spoken.

“About what?”

He smiled. Putting an arm around her shoulders, he drew her closer. “Much better.”

She rested her head against his brawny shoulder and brushed dust off his shirt. “Where have you been riding?”

“How …?” He chuckled as he sniffed his sleeve. “I do smell, don't I? I thought it was time I saw more of the countryside.”

“But why today? I needed your help. I—”

He gripped her shoulders and brought her to face him. When tea splashed from her cup, he took the cup and placed it on the table. “Forget the
Bugle
! I want to know why you've been lying to me.”

“Lying? About what?”

“About Cameron.”

Confusion narrowed her eyes. “Luke, I don't know what you are talking about. I've been honest about Cameron.”

“Everything but what happened the night he died.”

“No!” she whispered in horror. “I don't want to talk about that.”

His hands framed her face as fury tightened his mouth. “We're going to talk about this, sweetheart. Is it true that your husband was found dead with a prostitute from the saloon?”

She closed her eyes. “That's what Pa told me. Pa was the one who found him—them.”

“Why did you tell me it was an accident?” He stroked her quaking shoulders. “Sweetheart, I want to help.”

She stood and ran her fingers along the table. “It
was
an accident, Luke. Pa told me that.”

“Mackenzie, your husband was murdered.”

“Murdered?” she choked out.

“And your father lied to you.”

“No, you're wrong!”

He took her hands in his. “No, sweetheart, I'm right. Your father must have been more honest to someone. That explains why he was killed, too. The murderer couldn't afford to be identified in the
Bugle.
”