Josie slipped her reporter’s notebook into her purse and took the picture from her. “Oh, Haley, what a wonderful drawing.” The face was a bit too pointy and the eyes too large, but otherwise Haley had drawn what looked to be a likeness of herself, albeit older.

  “Papa said Mama had blond hair and blue eyes just like me,” Haley explained.

  “She’s beautiful.” Josie handed the picture back. “You’re beautiful, and I’m sure she’d be very proud of you.”

  “Do you think your husband would be proud of you?” Haley asked.

  The question made Josie laugh. “I hadn’t thought about it quite like that. Now that I have, I think he’d be pleased that I’m doing something that I’ve always wanted to do.”

  Haley thought about that for a moment. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a teacher, and I won’t make my pupils do dumb things like draw humans that look like houses.”

  She looked so indignant, Josie had a hard time trying not to laugh, but she didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings. “I’m surprised that you don’t want to be an artist,” she said. The girl definitely had talent.

  A wistful look stole over Haley’s expression. “I can’t be an artist. Only men can be artists.”

  Josie drew back. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “We studied all the great artists in school, and they were all men.”

  “That might have been true in the past, but today women are doing all sorts of interesting things. “

  Haley looked interested. “Are they artists?”

  “My sister’s an artist of sorts. She makes hats. And I heard that there’s a woman photographer in Dallas. I think that qualifies as being an artist too.”

  “Have you ever heard of a woman who draws pictures?”

  “No,” Josie admitted. “But I have a feeling that we’re going to hear about one in the future.”

  Haley tilted her head. “Do you think that will be me?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Haley glanced at Josie’s locket. “Would you like me to draw a larger picture of your husband so you don’t have to squint to look at it?”

  Josie laughed. “I would like that a lot,” she said. “That way I can frame it and put it on the wall.”

  Haley looked pleased. “I’ve gotta go,” she said. “See you later.” With that she turned and ran along the boardwalk, the ribbons on her bonnet trailing behind her.

  Watching her go, Josie felt a warm glow inside. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t even know Haley’s last name. Or who her father was. Whenever they were together, it seemed like there were so many other things to talk about.

  Josie started along the boardwalk, smiling to herself. Next time she’d remember to ask all the right questions of her new little friend. She was particularly curious about the child’s father. Anyone able to raise such a delightful child without a wife had to be pretty special.

  ***

  During the following week, the feud between the town’s two newspapers was all anyone talked about.

  “This is better than your pa’s feud with Farrell,” T-Bone said when Josie stopped by the butcher shop to pick up advertisement copy for the next issue. The butcher had decided to run ads in both papers.

  Later, when Lily Matthews stopped by the office to place an ad for a husband, she squealed with delight. “I can’t wait to see what you and Mr. Wade will fight about this week.”

  Josie read Lily’s handwritten copy with pursed lips. Lily had described her pickle-barrel figure as “dainty.”

  After she left, Hank shook his head. “A man would be wise to reinforce the floors before he takes her as his bride,” he muttered.

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door flung open. It was Mrs. Foster, and she looked fit to be tied. Not everyone approved of the editorial flames being tossed back and forth, and Mrs. Foster was among the most vocal.

  Parking herself in front of Josie’s desk, she shook like a wet dog. “This is a disgrace,” she said, stabbing at the newspaper in her hand with a pointed finger. “Calling that nice Mr. Wade such awful names is absolutely scandalous.”

  “Do you wish to cancel your subscription?” Josie asked.

  Mrs. Foster lifted her pointed chin and scowled. “Certainly not!” She left the office in a huff, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Mrs. Foster’s departure was followed by Josie’s father, who minced no words in expressing his disapproval.

  “I did not raise you to stoop to such . . . such demagoguery!” he thundered.

  “Papa, please. Your heart!” It had been nearly four years since her father’s heart scare, but that didn’t keep the family from worrying, especially since he expressed any contrary opinions with all the subtleties of a raging bull.

  “The only thing hurting my heart is you and your total disregard for what your mother and I taught you. And it certainly wasn’t to pollute the town with such garbage!”

  Josie sighed. Why couldn’t her father see how much good the clash of editorials was doing—had already done to the town? People were reading newspapers like never before. More important, it was making them think about things that mattered.

  “Unfortunately, the garbage, as you call, it is what people want to read,” she said.

  “Just because people want to read it is no reason for you to provide it!”

  “Papa, I tried it the other way and almost went out of business.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, what you’re doing is no better than what Madam Bubbles does. You just found a different way to prostitute yourself.” Papa swung his bulky shape around and stormed out of the office.

  Stunned by her father’s harsh words, Josie sat frozen at her desk.

  Hank limped over and patted her on the shoulder. “Your father didn’t mean that.”

  Elbows on her desk, Josie dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, yes, I’m afraid he did.”

  Chapter 12

  Mrs. Beulah Patterson left instructions in her will that under no circumstances should it be said that she died of old age. She was 101.—Two-Time Gazette

  That Monday night in early June, the fire alarm rang at a little after nine. Mama lowered her knitting and Papa placed a bookmarker in his book. Josie dropped the ledger she was working on and rushed to the front parlor window.

  In the dim glow of gas streetlights, volunteer firemen could be seen racing toward town, some on foot, others on horseback.

  “Can you tell where the fire is?” Mama asked.

  Josie craned her neck. “I’m not sure. It could be on Main Street.”

  “Probably another mattress fire,” Papa said. “That chicken coop they call a hotel is nothing but a tinderbox.”

  Her father was right. The hotel had recently had a rash of fires started by guests smoking in bed. Fortunately, the flames had been put out before much damage was done. But the danger continued, and Josie had decided to do a story on it. Signs should be placed in the lobby warning guests of the danger, but unless the Gazette pressed the matter, the problem would continue to exist.

  Mama resumed her knitting, and Papa returned to his book.

  Josie took her seat again and reached for her ledger. The recent success of her paper didn’t take her out of the red, but it was a start. At least now she had enough money to pay Hank’s wages. She wasn’t sure how Friday’s paper would be received when readers discovered the editorial feud had come to an abrupt end. But promising Papa to end the war of words was the only way she could restore peace in the family.

  Still, if her matrimonial ads continued to prove successful, she would no longer need to lower the standards of her paper to stay afloat. She would soon be able to go back to using a better grade of paper. The cheap paper kept jamming in the press. Worse, it wasn’t as absorbent as the higher quality paper, and the ink tended to smear.

  After checking and rechecking her figures, she closed the ledger with a yawn. She was just about to call it a night when someone banged on the door.

  Papa set his book aside and rose. “Who could that be at this late hour?”

  It turned out to be Sheriff Hobson. Crowding into the doorway next to her father, Josie addressed him. “Scooter, what’s the matter? What happened.”

  Never had he looked so serious. “Sorry, Josie, but I thought you oughta know there’s been a fire.”

  Papa nodded. “We heard the alarm.”

  Grimacing, Scooter hung his thumbs from his belt. “We tried saving it, but there was nothing we could do.”

  Fearing the worse, Josie felt a prickle of gooseflesh race down her arms. “What . . . What did you try saving, Scooter?”

  His mustache twitched. “The Gazette.”

  ***

  The fire brigade was still passing buckets and tossing water on the smoldering flames when Josie arrived. Papa’s wagon had barely rolled to a stop before she leaped to the ground.

  Even knowing that her office and everything in it had gone up in flames, she was still ill prepared for the destruction that awaited her. A gaping hole like a missing tooth stretched between the adobe buildings on either side of her property. Nothing was left of the structure except an acrid smell, a few stubborn sparks, and curling smoke that looked like a pit of snakes. Her printing press rose from the ashes like an enormous black bird about to take flight.

  Something occurred to her. “Mr. Whiskers!” she cried, glancing around in a panic. “Did anyone see my cat?”

  Scooter looked up from where he was studying a pile of smoldering ashes. “Not that I know of.”

  Her knees threatened to buckle. “Oh, no!”

  She called to the group of spectators talking in hushed whispers. “Please, did anyone see my cat?” The shaking of heads added to her dismay, and she felt like was going to be sick.

  Mr. Wade broke away from the crowd and moved to her side. He looked like he’d dressed in a hurry. His shirt was half buttoned and his hair mussed.

  “Mrs. Johnson, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  She shifted her gaze to his. He looked and sounded sincere, shocked even. “There’s nothing,” she whispered.

  He glanced around in uncertainty, and she sensed his frustration. He was obviously a man used to being decisive and in command. “I’ll look for your cat,” he said.

  She drew in her breath. “Thank you.”

  She felt his reluctance in leaving her, but there really was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. Some onlookers walked over to murmur words of sympathy. Others offered to help. There were also those who didn’t seem to know what to say and so left in stoic silence. In some odd way, she felt like she was experiencing Ralph’s death all over again.

  Gripped with shock and disbelief, she could barely move. Everything she owned, every penny she had, every ounce of energy she’d possessed had gone into that paper.

  For once Papa was speechless, his face grim as death. Even though she’d told her father that her mudslinging days were over, their relationship remained strained. Still, it was clear by his stunned expression that he’d never wanted it to end in this way. Normally one to take charge in every situation, his uncharacteristic quietude was almost as alarming as the pile of ashes at her feet.

  Mama pulled Josie into her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, my dear child. I am so sorry.”

  Josie tried to speak, but the words rattled in her throat like gravel. There was no way to release the pain that felt like a brick in her chest. Words failed; tears refused to flow. Josie was at a loss as to what to do.

  I don’t know what to say,” Mama said.

  Josie closed her eyes. There was nothing anyone could say. Not one blasted thing.

  ***

  Unable to sleep that night, Josie rose long before dawn and hurriedly dressed. She left the house on tiptoe so as not to wake Mama or Papa and drove her horse and wagon to town through the deserted streets. Stars shone brightly in the still dark sky, and cold air nipped at her cheeks.

  Surprised to find the area still ablaze with the light of a dozen lanterns, she set the brake and jumped to the ground. Moths hurled themselves against the glass lanterns with flapping wings. From the distance came a dog’s mournful howl, reflecting the sorrowful echoes of Josie’s heart.

  Despite the early hour, Scooter was already on site, setting up his camera. He insisted that the camera often saw things that escaped the human eye and that that made it a valuable crime-solving tool.

  He poked the toe of his boot into the still smoking wasteland before choosing a spot for his tripod. His expression was as bleak as the destruction at his feet.

  Hank was there also, scattering debris with a long stick, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh, Hank.” She threw her arms around his slender shoulders. In the yellow light he looked pale, and the scar on his forehead stood out in an angry red slash.

  They hugged briefly before she drew away. “How did you know?” One of the things she’d most dreaded was having to tell Hank that his “home” was gone.

  “My landlord is a member of the bire frigade,” he said. “Thought I’d see if anything could be salvaged.” He said more, but his words became so tangled she couldn’t understand him.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Whiskers . . .” Her voice died away and she shuddered.

  Hank drew in his breath and said nothing, but the expression on his face spoke volumes.

  They stood side by side in silence, each with their own thoughts, as the sky gradually turned silver, then pink. At last, the sun rose, casting long fingers of yellow light over the blackened area. The bright rays were greeted with the crow of a rooster and a chorus of barking dogs

  Hank left to get coffee at the hotel. When he returned, he thrust a tin cup into her hand and handed another one to the sheriff.

  Scooter blew on the steaming brew. “Maybe you should go home, Josie. Nothin’ you can do here.”

  Ignoring his suggestion, she sipped her coffee. It was bitter and strong, but she appreciated the warmth. Despite the sun, she couldn’t stop shaking. The acrid smell of ashes and smoke filled her nostrils and burned her eyes.

  “Do you know how the fire started?” she asked, her prickly throat turning her voice hoarse.

  Scooter stooped to indicate the place where the window had been located. “This seems to be where the fire was the hottest. That’s a good indication it started here. Did you leave a candle or lantern burning? I’m thinkin’ maybe your cat tipped it over or something.”

  Josie thought back to the day before. “Hank and I left together, and everything

  was turned off.”

  “She’s right,” Hank said, speaking slowly.

  Scooter straightened, the sun glinting off his badge. “Well, then.” Holding his coffee cup in one hand, he rubbed his whiskered chin with the other and scraped the toe of his boot into the dirt. “I’m not done with my investigation. But if what you say is true, it sure does look like arson.”

  “What?” Josie exclaimed, spilling her coffee.

  Hank looked equally shocked; his eyebrows arched like crescent moons over rounded eyes.

  Gooseflesh ran up her arms. The fire was bad enough, but to think that someone had purposely started it was more than she could bear. “But who?”

  Scooter shrugged. “Make any enemies recently?”

  “Enemies? No, none.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a disturbing thought came to mind. Was it only a coincidence that the fire had occurred following the Gazette’s latest success? She shot a glance across the street at the office of the Lone Star Press, and her stomach knotted.

  Almost as soon as the thought occurred to her, Brandon—Mr. Wade—rode up on his horse, sitting tall and straight in his saddle. Unlike last night, today he looked ever so much in command. Josie watched him with mixed feelings. She didn’t want to think him capable of such a dastardly deed, but once the idea occurred to her, she couldn’t shake it. She knew for a fact that last Friday’s Gazette had outsold his newspaper by a wide margin, but that was because the matrimonial ads gave her the edge.

  Still . . . He was the most annoying man she’d ever met, but that didn’t mean he was capable of arson. He was the one who had come up with the feud idea. Why would he do that if he wanted her to fail?

  Unless he wanted to hide his real motive, which was to put her out of business for good. Who else had a motivation for burning down her building?

  The thought sent cold chills racing down her back. Oh, dear heaven.

  After dismounting and wrapping the reins around a post, he crossed the street with long, hurried strides.

  Feeling herself tense, she moistened her lips and curled her hands by her side.

  “Did you get any sleep?” he asked before reaching her. He looked and sounded genuinely concerned.

  She eyed him warily. “Not much.”

  His probing gaze seemed to pierce through her. “I meant what I said. If there’s anything I can do.”

  She drew in her breath. “Scoot— The sheriff believes it was arson.”

  He pulled back. “Arson!” As if seeking confirmation, he glanced at Scooter fiddling with his camera before turning back to her. “Who would do such a thing?”

  She searched his face. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Me too,” Hank said, examining a piece of charred wood. Josie recognized it as the nameplate she’d given him last Christmas.

  Ducking behind his camera, Scooter’s head vanished beneath a black cloth. “Whoever it is, I’ll find him. Don’t you worry none about that.”

  “I’m sure you will, Sheriff.” Wade’s gaze locked with hers. “Meanwhile, my offer still holds. If there’s anything I can do, just name it. “

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He apparently heard something in her voice because he repeated his offer. “And feel free to use my printer. Let me know when you need it, and I’ll make sure it’s available.”

  Hank tossed his ruined nameplate down, and ashes scattered as it hit the ground. “That’s mighty neighborly of you.”