Chapter 11

  Cattle rustler Mr. Levingston sent a dispatch from the Huntsville prison, which he says has been greatly improved since his last visit. He contemplates staying ten years, if not longer.

  —Two-Time Gazette

  Moments later, Josie left the carpentry shop and rode straight home to break the news to her mother. Mr. Woodman had agreed to make a new lid for the hope chest. It would be plain without any carvings, but at least the wooden sides with grandfather’s handiwork could still be salvaged.

  Mama took the news hard. With a cluck of dismay, her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

  “I’m so sorry, Mama. Hank and I both searched for the piece. I’m afraid it might have been used as firewood.” Josie explained what Mr. Woodman planned to do.

  “The ship . . .” Mama whispered.

  Josie grimaced. That ship had signified new beginnings. Not only for her grandparents but also for the brides who had carved their initials into the fine-grained wood. “I know, Mama. I know. Will you ever forgive me?”

  Her mother inhaled deeply, and her expression softened. “I don’t blame you, pet. It was an accident. I’m just grateful that you weren’t more seriously injured when your wagon overturned.”

  Josie left the house with a heavy heart and headed for her office. Mama was being kind, as usual, but it only made Josie feel worse. Papa’s rants were less guilt inducing than Mama’s serene acceptance. Her mother might not blame her, but Josie blamed herself.

  Moments later she reined in her horse and blinked. A long line stretched from the front of the Gazette office all the way to the end of the block. It wasn’t until she saw people leaving with newspapers tucked beneath their arms that she dared believe her eyes.

  The Two-Time Gazette was selling like hotcakes!

  She’d hoped her handbills announcing Miss Bubbles’ reward would solicit interest, but never had she imagined anything like this—especially that Miss Bubbles’ advertisement would be an answer to prayer.

  Spirits soaring, she quickly dismounted and tied Maizie to the hitching post. Rushing up the steps to the boardwalk, she greeted her customers with a smile. She could hardly contain her excitement as she stepped into the office.

  “Good morning, Hank.”

  He looked up from his desk with a wide smile. “’Morning, Josie.”

  “I hoped the generous reward would sell papers, but I had no idea it would sell this many.”

  His grin widened. “Yeah, well your editorial didn’t hurt, either. It’s got beople puzzing like a bunch of crazed bees.”

  Josie felt a warm glow inside. “Really?” She was right. People really did appreciate good journalism. It was just a matter of getting the Gazette back into readers’ hands. Miss Bubbles’ reward had done that in spades.

  She glanced across the street at her competitor’s office. Take that, Brand— She corrected herself. Mr. Wade.

  “It’s time we did something about the elderly people who can no longer take care of themselves,” she said. “People like Mr. Pendergrass deserve better than being locked up in an insane asylum.”

  A puzzled frown crossed Hank’s face. “Oh, that’s not what’s got everyone talking. It’s the editorial you wrote calling Mr. Wade despicable.”

  Her breath caught in her lungs. “What are you talking about? I called him no such thing.” At least not in print.

  Hank looked confused. “Sure, you did. I printed it just exactly as you wrote it.” Shuffling the papers on his desk, he pulled one out and showed her. It was the editorial that Mr. Wade had typed himself.

  She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand and groaned. “Oh, no!” She could have sworn she’d tossed that awful piece in the wastebasket where it belonged. “I didn’t write that. Mr. Wade did.”

  Hank’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Wade called himself those awful names?” He scoffed. “Sounds like I’m not the only one with a hole in my head.”

  Before she could explain, the door flew open and a male voice called, “Can we have more papers out here?”

  Standing, Hank shrugged and picked up a stack tied with twine. “At the rate we’re pelling sapers, we’re gonna have to go back to press.”

  Josie’s gaze traveled through the open door. Across the street, Mr. Wade leaned against a post, arms crossed, watching the line in front of her office. His face was lost in shadow, but she could pretty much guess at his smug expression.

  “I’ll be back,” she called to Hank.

  She stepped outside and, ignoring the line of people still waiting to make a purchase, marched down the boardwalk steps to the street, careful to sidestep a pile of fresh manure. Wade moved away from the post. He waited for traffic to clear before meeting her halfway.

  Standing in the middle of Main Street, he doffed his hat. “Mrs. Johnson. I see our little plan worked.”

  Eyes flashing, she planted her hands at her waist. “Your plan. It was never mine.”

  He shrugged. “I hate taking all the credit, but if you insist.”

  A farmer in a horse and wagon raised his fist. “If you two don’t stop holdin’ up traffic, I’ll—”

  Josie cut him off with a raised voice. “I never meant for that awful piece to be printed. It was a mistake.”

  A look of amusement crossed Wade’s face. “If that’s true, you have to admit it was a most fortuitous mistake. You’re now back in business. Just wait till you see how I plan to respond to the awful things you said about me.”

  “Awful things you said about yourself, you mean.”

  “Granted. But you have to admit, you thought them. You were just too much of a lady to put them on paper, so I saved you the trouble.”

  “I assure you that the words you wrote are mild compared to what is going through my head. But I refuse to be a party to such childish games.” She turned and stalked away, dodging the hotel omnibus.

  “You’ll be sorry,” he called after her.

  ***

  On Saturday Josie arrived at the office to find yet another line stretched along the boardwalk. Never had she witnessed such a demand for her paper. She only wished that it was her editorial, and not Mr. Wade’s, that had gotten folks abuzz.

  Hank had run off so many extra copies that they ran out of paper. She’d telegraphed her distributor for more, but it wouldn’t arrive on the train until Tuesday.

  Oddly enough, this morning no men stood in line, only women. Odder still, some were dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meeting best.

  At the head of the line was Josie’s former schoolteacher, Miss Read. She had been forced to retire a few years ago to take care of her ailing father and now tutored. She had never married, but that was only because her fiancé died during the War Between the States.

  Josie hugged her. “I’m sorry, I believe we’re all out of newspapers.”

  “Oh, I’m not here for a newspaper,” Miss Read said. “I’m here about this.” Her hat’s white feathers quivered as she dug into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping.

  Josie blinked. It was Hank’s advertisement for a wife. “You’re here because of that?”

  “That’s why I’m here too,” the second woman in line said, glaring at her nearest competitor. The stuffed blackbird on her hat quivered with each shake of the woman’s head.

  “Me too,” admitted a third person, the only woman in view sporting a sensible bonnet.

  Josie was dumbfounded. Her gaze stretched the length of the line. There had to be at least fifty women there. Times were a-changing, but was this how husbands were found these days? Was this how the West was wed?

  Miss Read lowered her voice. “I figured if he’s as dull as he claims, he’ll find me interesting.” The former schoolmarm then did something totally out of character: she blushed, giving Josie a glimpse of the girl she must have been before fate changed the course of her life.

  Josie squeezed Miss Read’s hand. “Any man who takes the time to get to know you would find you interesting.”

  Miss Read had been a strict teacher, but she’d expected the best from her students and had generally gotten it. Josie owed her own writing skills to Miss Read, and for that she would always be grateful.

  “Good luck,” she whispered for her former teacher’s ears only. The woman deserved to find happiness. Hank did, too, but whether the two were right for each other was anyone’s guess.

  Josie stepped inside and found Hank interviewing a birdlike woman who looked old enough to be his mother.

  “I’m a great cook,” the woman was saying without modesty. “You won’t find better. Nor would you find a lovelier house than the one I keep.”

  “Nothing like a hovely louse,” Hank said politely, though the look he cast in Josie’s direction was an obvious plea for help.

  The woman stood. “Harrumph! I have you know, there are no louses in my house. Hovely or otherwise!” With that she stormed out of the office.

  Covering her mouth to stifle a laugh, Josie sat at her desk. Hank hadn’t known what he was getting himself into, that’s for sure.

  The interviews continued all morning. Some women cast one look at Hank and left without a word. One took offense at him calling her “oppressive” instead of “impressive.” At the end, Hank had five prospects who looked promising, one of which was her old schoolteacher.

  “Whatever happened to meeting someone at a barn dance?” Josie asked. That was where she’d met Ralph. Interviews were for jobs, not for striking up love relationships.

  Hank shrugged. “Did you see anyone here likely to attend a dance, except as a chaperone?” he asked.

  He had a point. Even Hank stayed away from any social gatherings that might bring attention to his injured foot.

  “I just feel bad for all the women you’ll have to turn down.”

  Hank knitted his eyebrows. “What about me? I got durned town plenty. Some women took one look at me and didn’t even bother following through with an interview.”

  “Maybe you should have been more explicit regarding age,” she said. Half the women who had showed up were either too young or too old.

  She gazed at him thoughtfully as an idea began to form in her head. What if . . . A thrill of excitement coursed through her. Never before had the Gazette acted as a matrimonial service, but if a single advertisement created this much interest, what would several ads do?

  “The handbills I distributed through town sold papers, but readers responded to your ad.”

  Hank nodded in agreement. “Yeah, but they’re talking about your editorial.”

  She sighed. “Wade’s editorial, you mean.” The success of that week’s paper would be a tough act to follow, but she was never one to rest on her laurels, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “What do you think about selling ads to people wishing to wed?” She’d heard about the many marriage brokers that had sprung up in recent years, but most were based nationally and required long-distance courtships. Hers would be local and would be a boon to people like Hank who didn’t feel comfortable in social settings.

  She began a mental note of the single people she knew who might be interested. “If we sell enough ads, that will make up for the advertisers we’ve lost.”

  Hank pursed his lips. “Do you think it will work?”

  She glanced around the office. Not a single copy of that week’s newspaper remained. “What I think is that we’re back in business.”

  She then did something that no self-respecting widow would do: she picked up the hem of her skirt and before Hank’s startled eyes danced a little jig. Brandon Wade had his way of gaining readers and she had hers. Oh, yes, indeed she did!

  ***

  The following Tuesday she walked into her office and found Brandon pecking away on her type-writing machine. Once again, she was reminded of the unfinished business with lot eleven. She’d been so busy forging ahead with her idea of selling matrimonial ads, she’d plumb forgotten about the deed tucked into the drawer of her desk.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  For answer he ripped a sheet of paper from the carriage and handed it to her. “A rebuttal to my editorial against establishing an old-folks home.”

  “You’re against it?” she asked, more than a little shocked. Surely someone with his intelligence would see the need for such a place. “Why?”

  He stood and faced her. “As I wrote for this week’s paper, such homes are a disgrace. The residents are called inmates and forced to wear uniforms. Old people are often abused and fed food unfit even for hogs. Shall I go on?”

  Unfortunately, every word he said was true. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” she shot back.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no? And who’s going to see that it’s not? The state?”

  “Not the state,” she said heatedly. The state couldn’t oversee a children’s game of checkers. “There are people out there, caring people. People like Mr. and Mrs. Wendell who run the county poor farm.”

  “Granted. But as I’m sure you know, people like that are rare.”

  “So, what is your answer?” she asked with a toss of her head. “Let people like Mr. Pendergrass continue to roam the streets?”

  “We need to get groups and organizations to accept responsibility. If the suffragists were as concerned about the care of aging folks as they are about voting, we might get somewhere.”

  “And if women had the vote, they might be able to clean up our state-run institutions,” she argued back.

  “Ah, good point,” he conceded, “and one worth battling out in print at some future date.” He reached for his hat. “Don’t worry. The rebuttal I wrote for you points to all the reasons you think me wrong.”

  “I doubt that you thought of everything,” she said.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say I thought of most.”

  She tossed the paper back at him, and it fluttered to the floor. “As I told you, running your column was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.”

  “Now, that’s a real pity.” He walked to the door. “Good day . . .” He turned and his gaze fell upon the locket clutched in her hands. “. . . Mrs. Johnson.”

  She watched him leave with seething breath. How dare he waltz into her office like he owned the place? Who did he think he was?

  Chewing on a nail, she stared at the sheet of paper on the floor, then paced back and forth a moment before finally giving in to her curiosity. Snatching up the page, she read it word for word. Except for the insulting comments directed at himself and the Lone Star Press, he’d captured her sentiments exactly. It was as if he’d peered into her head and written down every opinion she had on the subject.

  Still, how could he take such liberties with her thoughts?

  The idea for a caring facility for the aging was close to her heart. Partly because of Mr. Pendergrass and others like him. But that wasn’t the only reason. Her grandfather had suffered from dementia and had to be put in a state-run institution. One night he’d wandered away and died of exposure. The man who had brought his bride to America to start a new life didn’t deserve to die like that. No one did. Grandpapa’s death had delivered a terrible blow to the family, which had believed he was getting the best of care.

  Pushing the painful memories away, she debated what to do. Her impulse was to tear Brandon’s editorial into shreds. On the other hand, he did make a strong case for her side. However, running it in the paper would send a message that she approved of his type of journalism, and she most certainly did not!

  Then, too, there was Papa, who had voiced strong disapproval regarding last week’s editorial. Even her explanation that it had been a mistake didn’t appease him.

  No, she would not—absolutely, not—run that column.

  But no sooner had she made up her mind than the sight of Mr. Pendergrass walking past her office in his usual state of undress give her pause. She was just about to rush outside and cover him with a blanket kept for such an occasion when the sheriff beat her to it.

  She shook her head. Something definitely had to be done about the problem. So far, her editorials on the subject had failed to reap results.

  She sat at her desk and reached for her pen. As usual, Brandon hadn’t minced words, and the fact that his insults were directed only at himself didn’t soften the impact.

  She crossed off “heartless” and after much thought replaced it with “insensitive.” Not for one moment did she believe Brandon Wade was malicious or unkind.

  The word “muckraker” made her hesitate, but she decided to keep it. If she played too nicely, both papers would lose readers.

  “Vituperative pen,” though, had to go, and she finally settled for “misguided pen.”

  She finished editing just as Hank returned from the train depot. Huffing and puffing, he carted in crates of paper and other supplies.

  “Train was late again,” he complained with a swipe of his forehead. “And it’s botter than hazes.”

  “It’s hot in here too,” she said. The wooden building didn’t keep out the heat like adobe bricks. Still, that only partially explained the flush of her cheeks. Something about Brandon Wade always made her blood boil, and today was no different. She’d been so rattled that once again she’d forgotten to hand over the deed to lot eleven. Oh, he made her so mad!

  While Hank stacked reams of paper neatly on the shelves, she tried to calm down by rereading what she’d written. Satisfied, she wrote the number thirty—the standard journalistic signoff—at the bottom of the page and waited for Hank to finish before handing him the article.

  He read it with raised eyebrows, his tongue rolling inside his cheek. “I have to say, things sure are getting interesting around here.”

  ***

  “Mrs. Johnson! Mrs. Johnson!”

  Josie had just stepped out of the general store when she heard her name. She turned and, shading her eyes against the sun, waited for Haley to catch up to her.

  “I wanted to show you the picture I drew of my mother,” Haley said, sounding breathless from running. She held up a charcoal likeness.